Eleven
“I’M GETTING MORE,” Helen says. “Do you want anything else?”
She’s standing over me holding a heavy-duty paper dinner plate. Not fifteen minutes earlier, she had sat next to me with that same plate laden with slices of spiral-cut ham, a heaping serving of hash-brown casserole, a generous serving of broccoli casserole, two deviled eggs, and two homemade rolls.
“No, thanks,” I say. “Are you still hungry?”
She looks down at me, her eyebrows narrowing. She places one hand on her hip and c***s her head to one side. “You got a problem with that?” she says, her voice lowered to a slightly threatening alto.
I look at her. Helen always had a healthy appetite that contributed to her full-figured hourglass shape. Twenty years later, her figure is still perfect.
Today, the curve-hugging
