the halls, watching everyone else go about their high school business, Mary Alice stood looking in the mirror of the girls' room, fixing her hair. She was putting her long blond hair into ponytails above her ears.
"You know my brother Stone?"
I nodded. I hoped I wasn't turning red.
"He said you were cute." She smiled, picked up her stack of books, propped them on her right hip, waved with two fingers, then twirled around and left, saying, "See you Friday at our house for dinner." Like a ballerina's, her head never moved when she walked. Mary Alice McLemore wasn't always the nicest, but she was the prettiest girl in both the ninth and tenth grade classes, and she was Stone's sister, almost entirely diminishing my competition. And he said I was cute! My luck had suddenly turned.
***
For the McLemores' I wore one of Tine's old red dresses. My mother wore a drippy black skirt with a knit black top. Together she hoped they looked like a black cocktail dress. She wore a string of pearls her mother had given her, and she clipped two sparkly earrings on the front of her top for decoration. To me, they looked like two earrings trying to look like something they weren't.
"That's the biggest flagpole I've ever seen," my mother said as we walked up to the McLemores' front door.
"That old thing?" Mrs. McLemore said, standing at the entrance. "Well, we're very patriotic when it comes to this state."
"Don't let her scare you away," Mr. McLemore joked. "Call me Jack." His face was red, and already he had a drink for my mother as we walked into their home. She laughed and accepted it, the ice clinking in the wet glass. "You fly yours?"
"I'm afraid not," my mother said. "Not since my husband died. Besides, we don't have a flagpole."
"I understand he died a war hero," Mr. McLemore said, quietly, in a way I appreciated.
My mother nodded.
I wanted to say something more about my dad, other than that he was dead.
"He was in charge of his own platoon," I said. "They were bringing in supplies to a village. But before, their helicopter crashed. He stayed with his soldiers until the end."
"He must have been very brave," Mrs. McLemore said. "And you must be so proud that he fought for our country."
My mother just stared off at some point beyond Mrs. McLemore.
***
Stone was there and so was Mary Alice. They were setting the table and pouring iced tea. They looked like they were in a television commercial. They introduced my mother to little Jeffy.
"Jeff Davies," he said. He wore plastic Slinky glasses with eyes that popped out.
"For Jefferson Davis? You're kidding, right?" my mother said, laughing. I looked at her and I tried to make my eyes say,
Can't you just pretend to be like other people? Just this once? For me?
I knew my mother was tired from her day of teaching, and already the two sips of her drink had gone to her head. Mrs. McLemore excused Jeffy so that he could go watch
The Jetsons
on TV.
"What a lovely shade," my mother said, walking into their living room.
The room had what Mrs. McLemore called lavender-colored walls, which I hoped my mother wouldn't comment on. My mother hated what people called the color lavender because she said it never looked like the real lavender. She felt the same about lilac. I thought the room was nothing but beautiful.
Mrs. McLemore said she saw the color in Natchez. She talked about Natchezâthe silt, the rich alluvial soil of the delta and how it had once been the floor of the sea itself. She made me want to go there. She told my mother about their new living room ceiling covered with Armstrong Cushion to cover the cracks and stains, not knowing that my mother didn't give a hoot about such things. But I did. I wanted a house like the McLemores'.
Over their fireplace, leaning on the mantel were wooden plaques that read FAITH, HOPE , and LOVE .
Mrs. McLemore could keep a conversation going. She said that she used to love that Loretta Young. Every Sunday night she had looked forward
"You know my brother Stone?"
I nodded. I hoped I wasn't turning red.
"He said you were cute." She smiled, picked up her stack of books, propped them on her right hip, waved with two fingers, then twirled around and left, saying, "See you Friday at our house for dinner." Like a ballerina's, her head never moved when she walked. Mary Alice McLemore wasn't always the nicest, but she was the prettiest girl in both the ninth and tenth grade classes, and she was Stone's sister, almost entirely diminishing my competition. And he said I was cute! My luck had suddenly turned.
***
For the McLemores' I wore one of Tine's old red dresses. My mother wore a drippy black skirt with a knit black top. Together she hoped they looked like a black cocktail dress. She wore a string of pearls her mother had given her, and she clipped two sparkly earrings on the front of her top for decoration. To me, they looked like two earrings trying to look like something they weren't.
"That's the biggest flagpole I've ever seen," my mother said as we walked up to the McLemores' front door.
"That old thing?" Mrs. McLemore said, standing at the entrance. "Well, we're very patriotic when it comes to this state."
"Don't let her scare you away," Mr. McLemore joked. "Call me Jack." His face was red, and already he had a drink for my mother as we walked into their home. She laughed and accepted it, the ice clinking in the wet glass. "You fly yours?"
"I'm afraid not," my mother said. "Not since my husband died. Besides, we don't have a flagpole."
"I understand he died a war hero," Mr. McLemore said, quietly, in a way I appreciated.
My mother nodded.
I wanted to say something more about my dad, other than that he was dead.
"He was in charge of his own platoon," I said. "They were bringing in supplies to a village. But before, their helicopter crashed. He stayed with his soldiers until the end."
"He must have been very brave," Mrs. McLemore said. "And you must be so proud that he fought for our country."
My mother just stared off at some point beyond Mrs. McLemore.
***
Stone was there and so was Mary Alice. They were setting the table and pouring iced tea. They looked like they were in a television commercial. They introduced my mother to little Jeffy.
"Jeff Davies," he said. He wore plastic Slinky glasses with eyes that popped out.
"For Jefferson Davis? You're kidding, right?" my mother said, laughing. I looked at her and I tried to make my eyes say,
Can't you just pretend to be like other people? Just this once? For me?
I knew my mother was tired from her day of teaching, and already the two sips of her drink had gone to her head. Mrs. McLemore excused Jeffy so that he could go watch
The Jetsons
on TV.
"What a lovely shade," my mother said, walking into their living room.
The room had what Mrs. McLemore called lavender-colored walls, which I hoped my mother wouldn't comment on. My mother hated what people called the color lavender because she said it never looked like the real lavender. She felt the same about lilac. I thought the room was nothing but beautiful.
Mrs. McLemore said she saw the color in Natchez. She talked about Natchezâthe silt, the rich alluvial soil of the delta and how it had once been the floor of the sea itself. She made me want to go there. She told my mother about their new living room ceiling covered with Armstrong Cushion to cover the cracks and stains, not knowing that my mother didn't give a hoot about such things. But I did. I wanted a house like the McLemores'.
Over their fireplace, leaning on the mantel were wooden plaques that read FAITH, HOPE , and LOVE .
Mrs. McLemore could keep a conversation going. She said that she used to love that Loretta Young. Every Sunday night she had looked forward
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