Episode 7: A Seat At The Table
The air in the room was a living thing—thick, viscous, suffocating—each breath a struggle against an invisible weight. Dim lamplight flickered across the walls, casting jittery shadows that seemed to lean forward, hungry for the violence they anticipated. Leala stood at the head of the long table, her shoulders locked, every muscle coiled like a spring. Her jaw was set so tight you could see the tensest line of steel along her cheek; anxiety pulsed through her veins like wildfire.
She’d heard whispers of the explosion between Heman and Griselda—a burst of rage so fierce it left scorch marks on everyone’s nerves. She didn’t know the full story, and that ignorance felt like a razor pressed to her throat. The air itself crackled with a poisonous blend of indifference and fury, as if their collective resentment had been distilled into a single, volatile drop waiting to splinter the world.
Heman and Griselda entered on uneven feet, as though the ground beneath them had turned to greased ice. Neither wanted to be here; each step was a protest—but neither could refuse Leala. Respect, fear, or some darker tie bound them here, breathing this venomous atmosphere alongside her. Their shoulders rose and fell in short, jagged spasms. Faces like iron masks, eyes hard and unyielding.
Leala’s arms moved with surgical precision as she placed each plate, each fork, each glass—every piece a silent challenge. The table was a battlefield sketched in silverware: knives poised like lances, plates aligned as though they were fortifications against chaos. In her mind, it was a clockwork device of guilt and threat; one misaligned cog, one careless glance, and the whole mechanism would shatter.
The scent of roasted meat and exotic spices swirled through the room, overlaid with the acrid tang of sweat and fear. It was as if a feast and a funeral had collided, each vying to dominate the other’s scent.
When Heman and Griselda finally slid into their seats, the tension dropped like a guillotine blade. Ghosts of a darker moment flickered behind their eyes—the moment Griselda had pressed a gun to her temple, the cold promise of finality humming in the air. Neither spoke, but the memory lay between them, a live wire.
Leala’s lips were parched, drawn into a paper-thin line. She could taste every unsaid word, bitter as gunpowder. No one dared meet another’s gaze. The only soundtrack was the metallic click of silverware nudging plates and the heavy, synchronized inhale of three terrified hearts.
Leala’s knuckles whitened around the edge of the table; her body trembled with readiness. Heman’s fingers twitched on the tabletop as though itching to grab a weapon. Griselda’s hands were hidden beneath her skirt, but Leala could picture the fists she had balled so many times before. In that hush, the countdown to disaster had already begun.
No one looked at one another. It seemed like it was either pride, shame or a mixture of both. Either way, whatever the reason was, it was evident that they were avoiding contact with one another with Leala avoiding contact because she was trying to respect the other two.
No one raised their eyes; instead, they stared at the scarred surface of the old wooden table. Heman’s fingers trembled around the tines of his fork, the metal clicking softly against the grain. Griselda sat rigid, her gaze locked on the chipped rim of her plate, as if it were a refuge from the tumult inside her. Leala moved with measured grace between chairs, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug, her head bowed in careful deference.
Flickering overhead, a single lamp cast deep shadows across the room, revealing the faded wallpaper curling at the corners and the mismatched china that had served generations. Each plate bore its own history—fine cracks, faint floral patterns long since dulled, silverware so worn the handles felt smooth under the fingertips. The air was heavy with warm spices—paprika, caraway, cumin—and the yeasty sweetness of freshly baked bread, still steam-kissed at its golden crust.
Heman’s knuckles whitened as he absently traced the ruined table’s knots, memories surfacing unbidden. Griselda’s breaths came in shallow rises and falls; she pressed her hands to her lap, tension rippling beneath her dress. Across the hush, Leala poured Welch’s Red Grape Juice with the fluidity of a dancer, tilting each glass so the ruby liquid caught the lamplight, then stepped back with acute awareness of every startled flutter of bird-like wings—they were all so fragile here.
The silence throbbed, a tangible thing twisting around their hearts. Pride tugged them one way, shame the other, leaving them suspended in an uneasy stillness. Heman swallowed as his gaze fell upon the bread—its warm steam curling upward like a fragile promise. He remembered their family’s farmhouse ovens, the communal kneading of dough, laughter echoing against sunlit walls. Then, sharper, darker recollections: the camp, the cold barracks, the ache of hunger.
“That bread reminds me of the kind we used to have back home,” he said, forcing a smile so brittle it cracked at the edges. “They learned to make it during their time at Auschwitz.” His voice shook, each word landing like a stone in the quiet.
Griselda flinched as if struck. Her hand jerked toward her mouth, and in that instant, her puffy eyes flew open, betrayed by tears she’d tried so hard to hold back. Leala paused mid-pour, her spine stiff as a knife. The mention of that place—its name—ripped at something raw and unhealed.
“I’m sorry,” Heman added, his tone immediate and aching. “I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.” The table seemed to inhale, the air shifting, as though reconsidering its weight. A subtle looseness crept into the room’s tension, like the first crack of light at dawn—but beneath it lay currents still dark, unsettled.
Heman’s foot tapped nervously beneath the table; each gentle thump echoed in the hush. Griselda’s fingers flexed and relaxed, the soft scrape of fabric against her skin the only other sound. Leala resumed her quiet ritual, placing dishes of humble stew and braised vegetables before them—hearty fare steeped in tradition, garnished with sprigs of parsley plucked from the windowsill’s mini garden.
They sat, a fragile tableau of silent grief and cautious hope, each lost in their own inner struggle. Pride and shame continued their silent duel, the fragile peace balanced on the edge of words unspoken and memories too heavy to forget.
Throughout the entire meal, an enveloping silence reigned. No miraculous events unfolded, and no grand reconciliation materialized, yet an undeniable atmosphere of peace wrapped around them like a soft, comforting blanket. The room felt both humble and profound, as though each person sat on opposite sides of a vast desert of misunderstanding. However, they were nourished by a modest spring of water that somehow managed to sustain and connect them, a flickering candle of potential friendship in the vast darkness that lay between them. Here were three distinct individuals, hailing from different corners of the globe, each bearing unique scars from the prejudices they had faced, like intricate tapestries woven with threads of sorrow and resilience. Yet, they found themselves thrust into an unexpectedly serene environment, as if cocooned in a sanctuary free from judgment.
The flavor of the meal lingered on their tongues, a harmonious blend of savory and sweet, leaving a lingering reminder of the nourishment they had just shared. Each bite was a small symbol of unity and a bridge towards understanding, a culinary symphony that played softly in the backdrop of their silence.
The wooden chairs creaked softly as the three individuals shifted in their seats, the sound echoing like whispers in a quiet chapel. The smooth surface of the table felt cool to the touch, contrasting with the warm plates of food that provided a comforting warmth to their hands, like holding onto a cherished memory.
As they cleared the table, their silence stood as a testament to their mutual respect, a quiet symphony of shared purpose. Each moved with quiet intent, performing the necessary tasks without uttering a word, their actions speaking louder than any conversation could. Together, they worked in concert to complete the simple goal of cleaning up after the meal, their movements a delicate dance of cooperation.
Gathered in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of spices and camaraderie, Leala broke the silence with a gentle, yet powerful declaration, “This is how healing starts.” Heman and Griselda exchanged a look of understanding and appreciation, their eyes reflecting the flickering light of hope. It was clear—they were not yet friends, but it was equally clear that they were fellow travelers on a journey of faith. Together, they were setting out on a path that, one day, promised to lead them to a brighter place.
In this moment, the silence was a gentle ocean, its waves lapping at the shores of their hearts and minds, soothing and cleansing. And in that peaceful space, they found the courage to take a step towards one another, guided by the shared desire for healing and understanding, their hearts like compasses pointing towards a horizon of unity.
