serve our nation, though.”
Papa had been born in 1929 and he and Mama married in 1954. Adel came along in 1955 and me in 1960. My father had seen three wars thus far in his lifetime but hadn’t fought in any of them, and he sounded sorry about it.
Papa stood. “We’d better get on the road, Darcy.”
I gave Adel a questioning look, and she said, “Sandy’s driving over this evening and I’ll come home with her. For now, Barry and I will just keep each other company.” She gave him a flirtatious smile and he grinned.
Barry shook Papa’s hand. “I’ll take good care of her, sir.”
“You’re the one who’ll need looking after, son. Southern women are not to be trifled with. They look delicate as lace, but they’ve got rods of steel running through them,” Papa joked goodnaturedly.
Adel said, “Oh, Papa, stop it . . . you’ll scare him off.”
“Not likely,” Barry said.
On the drive home, I was quiet, mulling over what I’d seen and heard that day. After a long time, I said, “Adel and Barry seem to really like each other.”
“Yes, they do.”
“What’s Mama think?”
“She wants Adel to be happy, and if Barry makes her happy . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.
“I miss Mama,” I said. “We’ll be going a long time without her. And an extra-long time having to eat Adel’s cooking.”
“We surely will,” Papa said, sounding wistful.
We looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Evidently, we both held the same opinion of Adel’s kitchen skills.
Papa said, “I was thinking that maybe we should start having Sunday dinner down at the Southern Grille.” He named the single restaurant in Conners other than the Woolworth soda counter and the brand-new Kentucky Fried Chicken fast-food store.
“Sounds like a reasonable idea,” I told him. “Potluck supper at church on Wednesday night, Sunday afternoon in a restaurant.” Two out of seven meals Adel wasn’t cooking. “I’ll bet Friday night is good for takeout from Kentucky Fried,” I ventured.
“Don’t push it, Darcy,” Papa said. “The girl needs to practice sometime.”
On Friday night, Conners’ football team played Redford, one of our toughest rivals, at the Redford field. Russell still hadn’t taken the kind of notice of Becky Sue that would result in his asking her on a date, so we were with each other, as usual. Becky’s dad drove us to the game and stayed, but he sat high up in the bleachers with other Conners parents and alumni, which left Becky Sue and me to sandwich ourselves between our classmates in the lower seats.
The night had turned chilly, so we were bundled up and had an old quilt thrown across our laps. Both bands were playing, and people in both sets of bleachers were cheering. Rebel flags waved, and since it was Redford’s homecoming, we were watching their queen and her court sashay around the field.
“Who do you think will be elected queen at our school?” Becky yelled above the noise of the crowd.
“Neither one of us,” I shouted back.
As the court passed in front of our stands, some senior boys yelled out a few rude remarks and received threatening looks from the Redford court in return. I remembered when Adel had been queen and had ridden around our high school field in Tom Chapman’s red convertible. She had looked beautiful perched atop the backseat, wearing a sparkling tiara and holding a scepter just like a real queen. Fleetingly, I wondered if any boy would ever look at me the way Barry had looked at Adel, a memory I could not get out of my mind. I’d told Becky Sue that he’d looked at her “. . . like she’d been ice cream, and him starving for it.”
Becky Sue poked me in the ribs. “Look, there’s Jason.”
My heart did a stutter-step at the sight of him. He stood at the side of the field, elbows braced on the top of the four-foot chain-link fence. He wore the old leather jacket and a black knit ski hat.
“Looks like he’s all
Papa had been born in 1929 and he and Mama married in 1954. Adel came along in 1955 and me in 1960. My father had seen three wars thus far in his lifetime but hadn’t fought in any of them, and he sounded sorry about it.
Papa stood. “We’d better get on the road, Darcy.”
I gave Adel a questioning look, and she said, “Sandy’s driving over this evening and I’ll come home with her. For now, Barry and I will just keep each other company.” She gave him a flirtatious smile and he grinned.
Barry shook Papa’s hand. “I’ll take good care of her, sir.”
“You’re the one who’ll need looking after, son. Southern women are not to be trifled with. They look delicate as lace, but they’ve got rods of steel running through them,” Papa joked goodnaturedly.
Adel said, “Oh, Papa, stop it . . . you’ll scare him off.”
“Not likely,” Barry said.
On the drive home, I was quiet, mulling over what I’d seen and heard that day. After a long time, I said, “Adel and Barry seem to really like each other.”
“Yes, they do.”
“What’s Mama think?”
“She wants Adel to be happy, and if Barry makes her happy . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.
“I miss Mama,” I said. “We’ll be going a long time without her. And an extra-long time having to eat Adel’s cooking.”
“We surely will,” Papa said, sounding wistful.
We looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Evidently, we both held the same opinion of Adel’s kitchen skills.
Papa said, “I was thinking that maybe we should start having Sunday dinner down at the Southern Grille.” He named the single restaurant in Conners other than the Woolworth soda counter and the brand-new Kentucky Fried Chicken fast-food store.
“Sounds like a reasonable idea,” I told him. “Potluck supper at church on Wednesday night, Sunday afternoon in a restaurant.” Two out of seven meals Adel wasn’t cooking. “I’ll bet Friday night is good for takeout from Kentucky Fried,” I ventured.
“Don’t push it, Darcy,” Papa said. “The girl needs to practice sometime.”
On Friday night, Conners’ football team played Redford, one of our toughest rivals, at the Redford field. Russell still hadn’t taken the kind of notice of Becky Sue that would result in his asking her on a date, so we were with each other, as usual. Becky’s dad drove us to the game and stayed, but he sat high up in the bleachers with other Conners parents and alumni, which left Becky Sue and me to sandwich ourselves between our classmates in the lower seats.
The night had turned chilly, so we were bundled up and had an old quilt thrown across our laps. Both bands were playing, and people in both sets of bleachers were cheering. Rebel flags waved, and since it was Redford’s homecoming, we were watching their queen and her court sashay around the field.
“Who do you think will be elected queen at our school?” Becky yelled above the noise of the crowd.
“Neither one of us,” I shouted back.
As the court passed in front of our stands, some senior boys yelled out a few rude remarks and received threatening looks from the Redford court in return. I remembered when Adel had been queen and had ridden around our high school field in Tom Chapman’s red convertible. She had looked beautiful perched atop the backseat, wearing a sparkling tiara and holding a scepter just like a real queen. Fleetingly, I wondered if any boy would ever look at me the way Barry had looked at Adel, a memory I could not get out of my mind. I’d told Becky Sue that he’d looked at her “. . . like she’d been ice cream, and him starving for it.”
Becky Sue poked me in the ribs. “Look, there’s Jason.”
My heart did a stutter-step at the sight of him. He stood at the side of the field, elbows braced on the top of the four-foot chain-link fence. He wore the old leather jacket and a black knit ski hat.
“Looks like he’s all
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