A Dinner With 42

Grace flipped open her mail box and pulled out and odd assortment of business letters, advertisements, and letters from charities. Shutting the little door she turned her steps back up the paved driveway and began sorting through the envelopes. Mostly they were for her parents but an indigo blue one caught her attention and separating it out, she saw it was addressed to her. There was no return address. Curiously she tore it open and removed and ornately engraved envelope. Tucking the other parcels under her arm she opened it and began reading the following:

Miss Grace,

You are cordially invited to join us for a celebration luncheon. See you there!

There was no signature, no time, and no place. Entirely befuddled she closed it back up and took the other mail out from under her arm. In her surprise she nearly dropped it. Her family’s mail had somehow turned into a trim black clasp purse.

“Hey Mom!” She began running toward the house to show her Mom but midstride she froze. She was not on her driveway nor even near her house. She was in a huge room with a large dinning table taking up most of the center. At the table sat a group of 42 men she had never seen. Shrinking back she looked from one face to another for an explanation.

A man in a curly white wig rose from the head of the table, “Welcome Madam. You will be sitting there,” pointing with a finger nearly hidden under a sleeve of ruffles, “Next to Mr. Harrison.”

A man midway down the table stood up and pulled out and empty chair next to him. His white beard made him look a little grandfatherly and though his suit coat was unexplainably long in the back he was more sensibly dressed than Mr. Wig, and Ruffles.

Shyly glancing at the men closest to her she slid into the offered chair and only then noticed that she was wearing a dress. A long, expensive feeling dress whose material she could not name.

Mr. Harrison assumed his seat on her right and the gentleman on her left reached out a polite hand. “I am Mr. Cleveland.” His brown mustache had a humorous way of wiggling when he talked.

The man at the head of the table spoke again, “Now that our guest had arrived, shall we begin?”

A chorus of agreement followed. From across the table a partial blonde asked an entering waiter, “Are the chops courtesy of Mr. Arthur?” A ripple of laughter spread around the table but Grace tried to hide more in her chair. She was completely lost.

They were expecting her? She was being served dinner with them? How did she get here? Who were they?

“You are quite Madam.” Mr. Harrison startled her.

Someone who she didn’t see offered. “Does she say more than two words at once? If not she must be related to Mr. Coolidge.”

A man seven places to her left leaned forward and began to look at her very hard. “She’s not.”

Another ripple of laughter and Grace felt her face heating up at being the center of attention.

“Perhaps Miss Grace would like to hear some about us rather than hear us talk about her?” That came from a gaunt looking man with dark hair and a matching beard traveling around his chin who sat on the other side of the table.

“That is a good idea sir. Though I have a feeling there is not much we could tell her. The world knows just about everything we would wish to tell.”

Grace felt her courage surge. “Please,” She turned toward the head of the table, “Would you tell me who you are?”

“Who we are?” Mr. Harrison echoed. “My dear Madam, isn’t it obvious? We are the presidents!”

I wrote this short little story for two reason: One, because today is President's Day. So, happy President's Day fellow authors and kind readers!

Two, because I wanted to acknowledge someone  very special today. You guessed it--Grace, our moderator! It is her birthday so I decided to  star her in my short story. I don't know how accurate I was in portraying what she would really do if dropped into the above situation but I did my best!

Happy, happy, birthday Grace! Thanks for being a wonderful moderator...oh, and friend too! ;) I hope you enjoyed the story!