South of Broad by Pat Conroy Page B

relation to the famous Charleston Kings,” I said. “I’m descended from the nothing Kings.”
    “A pleasure to be friends with one of the nothing Kings,” Sheba said. She took the tin of cookies and handed it to her brother, then took my hand and squeezed it, as mischievous and flirtatious as she was lovely.
    Then a darker, more menacing presence approached from the rear of the house unsteadily, like a dog with three legs.
    “Who is it?” There was something wrong with the woman’s voice. A lovely but diminished version of both her twins appeared in the doorway, parting her two children like a wave. “What do you want from us?” she asked. “You’ve already got your check for the move.”
    “The movers are long gone,” Trevor said.
    “He brought us some cookies, Mama,” Sheba said, but there was a nervous, stilted quality to her voice. “From an old family recipe.”
    “It’s from Charleston Receipts,” I said, “a local cookbook.”
    “My great-aunt has a recipe in that cookbook,” the woman said, and a note of familial pride entered the slurred speech of what I now recognized as a common drunk.
    “Which one?” I said. “I’ll cook it for you.”
    “It’s called breakfast shrimp. My aunt was Louisa Whaley.”
    “I’ve cooked it often,” I told her. “We call it mulled shrimp and serve it over grits.”
    “You cook? What a faggoty thing to do. You and my son are destined to be bosom buddies.”
    “Why don’t you go back inside, Mama?” Sheba suggested, but with diplomacy in her voice.
    “If you become friends with me, Leo,” Trevor explained, “it’s a kind of kiss of death to my mother.”
    “Oh, Trevor, Mama’s just joking,” said Sheba, guiding her mother back into the shade of the house.
    “You wish,” said Trevor.
    “Would you like to subscribe to the News and Courier?” I asked the retreating figure of Mrs. Poe. “We’ve got a special introductory offer: the first week is free except the Sunday edition.”
    “Sign us up,” she said. “If you’re the milkman, we need milk and eggs too.”
    “I’ll call the milkman,” I said. “His name is Reggie Schuler.”
    Sheba appeared at the door again and said in an exaggerated Southern accent, “I don’t know what my mother, Miss Evangeline, would do without the kindness of flaming assholes.”
    I laughed out loud, surprised by the profanity coming from such a pretty face and knowing the witty reference to Tennessee Williams, which seemed dangerous. Her twin was not nearly as amused as I was and chastised his sister. “Let’s wait until we make a friend or two until we reveal our true trashiness, Sheba. My sister apologizes, Leo.”
    “I most certainly do not,” Sheba said, mesmerizing me with her eyes. Her Southern accent was extraordinary for its depth, although it was certainly not a Charleston accent, which was gussied up with its own bold flares and Huguenot accessories. Her brother’s voice was high-pitched, but hard to place in a geographical setting, though I would have guessed the West.
    “My natural charm has captivated Leo, has it not, my little benne wafer?” Sheba had opened the cookies and was eating one as she passed another to Trevor. Their mother’s sudden reappearance took them by surprise.
    “You haven’t left yet,” the mother said. “I forget your name, young man.”
    “I don’t think I introduced myself to you, Mrs. Poe. I’m Leo King. I live in that brick house across the street.”
    “I find it most undistinguished,” she said.
    “My father built it before the Board of Architectural Review got strong,” I explained. “It’s considered dreadful by most Charlestonians.”
    “But you’re a King. One of the King Street Kings, I suppose.”
    “No, ma’am. We’re the nothing Kings. I already explained that to your kids.”
    “Ah, you’ve met my darling children. A faggot and a harlot. Not bad for a single lifetime, don’t you agree? And to think I came from the Charleston