Read Online Sources of Light by Margaret McMullan - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret McMullan
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me listen. "And why would you think that having advantages makes a bit of difference in the formation of a human being?"
Mrs. McLemore looked up and down and all around my mother. Her eyes couldn't settle down.
"Did we mention we knew your husband's people, the Russells?" Mr. McLemore said, patting his wife's knee. He talked about my great-grandfather Frank Russell, who had once been a schoolteacher. Frank Russell and his father had helped settle parts of Smith County, and he sold goods he brought up from New Orleans in his wagon. I was surprised Mr. McLemore knew so much about my father's relatives.
"The Russells are all buried in a pretty little cemetery on the property where my husband grew up," my mother said. "Sam has spent a lot of time out there with her grandparents."
Mrs. McLemore smiled. "It's important to know your family tree."
"She's a regular little Mississippi girl," Mr. McLemore said, squeezing my shoulder. I don't know why, but I breathed a sigh of relief, as though I'd passed some test. I didn't think my mother had, though.
I watched Stone watching my mother, who smiled and said nothing more. Stone had Elvis lips, but his eyes weren't so boyish or sad.
***
At the dinner table I sat next to Stone and I tried to keep breathing to steady my heart. We all held hands to say grace. His palms were hard and cool. His big hands with long, slender fingers were just turning into man hands. I had never held a boy's hand in any religious or romantic way before. My knee brushed against his.
Mr. McLemore poured my mother another drink. We ate roast with pearl onions, scalloped potatoes, and tomato aspic with olives and celery. My mother and I never ate like this on a weeknight, and I had never seen anyone cut his meat the way Mr. McLemore did, holding his fork like a dagger and then sawing away with his knife. Stone did the same. I thought of how my father had cut his meat, all the power coming from the tips of his fingers.
We used colored paper napkins too. At home my mother and I each had our own cloth napkin that we only washed once a week. I thought now how disgusting that might be to some.
No one spoke while we ate. My mother insisted on conversations at the table. She asked the McLemores what they had done that summer. I tried not to notice my mother watching Stone waving his fork as he spoke. I just listened. He had been to the bridge over the East Pascagoula, even fished in the same spot where those two shipyard workers said space aliens abducted them. He told us about the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where they went for family vacations, the alligator and turtle races in Long Beach, the Deer Ranch, and his favorite, Beauvoir, Jefferson Davis's house in Biloxi.
If my dad were alive, I would tell him about Stone. In my mind, we all would have gotten along.
Stone and his father said something to each other that sounded like gibberish but was really just man talk, separating themselves for a moment from the rest of us.
I was glad not to be a boy in Mississippi. Boys couldn't just be smart. They had to be smart in school, then pretend to be hunters and farmers even if they weren't. They had to say "ain't" and use the wrong verbs every now and then, just to show others they hadn't gotten beyond their raising. If boys were smart they had to be two people all the time.
"What, are you two in a klavern or something?" my mother said. She sounded drunk and she kept smiling, giggling even. When they were together, my mother and Perry often made fun of the KKK and all that was happening. They said laughing about it helped them get through a day of listening to crazy people. "You aren't Kluckers, are you?"
Mr. McLemore cleared his throat. Mrs. McLemore disappeared into the kitchen to get something.
"Ma'am?" Stone asked, filling my mother's water glass.
My mother and Perry had gotten too used to mocking anything having to do with the Ku Klux Klan, it had become habit. Once she'd told me, "The whole thing is so
Mrs. McLemore looked up and down and all around my mother. Her eyes couldn't settle down.
"Did we mention we knew your husband's people, the Russells?" Mr. McLemore said, patting his wife's knee. He talked about my great-grandfather Frank Russell, who had once been a schoolteacher. Frank Russell and his father had helped settle parts of Smith County, and he sold goods he brought up from New Orleans in his wagon. I was surprised Mr. McLemore knew so much about my father's relatives.
"The Russells are all buried in a pretty little cemetery on the property where my husband grew up," my mother said. "Sam has spent a lot of time out there with her grandparents."
Mrs. McLemore smiled. "It's important to know your family tree."
"She's a regular little Mississippi girl," Mr. McLemore said, squeezing my shoulder. I don't know why, but I breathed a sigh of relief, as though I'd passed some test. I didn't think my mother had, though.
I watched Stone watching my mother, who smiled and said nothing more. Stone had Elvis lips, but his eyes weren't so boyish or sad.
***
At the dinner table I sat next to Stone and I tried to keep breathing to steady my heart. We all held hands to say grace. His palms were hard and cool. His big hands with long, slender fingers were just turning into man hands. I had never held a boy's hand in any religious or romantic way before. My knee brushed against his.
Mr. McLemore poured my mother another drink. We ate roast with pearl onions, scalloped potatoes, and tomato aspic with olives and celery. My mother and I never ate like this on a weeknight, and I had never seen anyone cut his meat the way Mr. McLemore did, holding his fork like a dagger and then sawing away with his knife. Stone did the same. I thought of how my father had cut his meat, all the power coming from the tips of his fingers.
We used colored paper napkins too. At home my mother and I each had our own cloth napkin that we only washed once a week. I thought now how disgusting that might be to some.
No one spoke while we ate. My mother insisted on conversations at the table. She asked the McLemores what they had done that summer. I tried not to notice my mother watching Stone waving his fork as he spoke. I just listened. He had been to the bridge over the East Pascagoula, even fished in the same spot where those two shipyard workers said space aliens abducted them. He told us about the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where they went for family vacations, the alligator and turtle races in Long Beach, the Deer Ranch, and his favorite, Beauvoir, Jefferson Davis's house in Biloxi.
If my dad were alive, I would tell him about Stone. In my mind, we all would have gotten along.
Stone and his father said something to each other that sounded like gibberish but was really just man talk, separating themselves for a moment from the rest of us.
I was glad not to be a boy in Mississippi. Boys couldn't just be smart. They had to be smart in school, then pretend to be hunters and farmers even if they weren't. They had to say "ain't" and use the wrong verbs every now and then, just to show others they hadn't gotten beyond their raising. If boys were smart they had to be two people all the time.
"What, are you two in a klavern or something?" my mother said. She sounded drunk and she kept smiling, giggling even. When they were together, my mother and Perry often made fun of the KKK and all that was happening. They said laughing about it helped them get through a day of listening to crazy people. "You aren't Kluckers, are you?"
Mr. McLemore cleared his throat. Mrs. McLemore disappeared into the kitchen to get something.
"Ma'am?" Stone asked, filling my mother's water glass.
My mother and Perry had gotten too used to mocking anything having to do with the Ku Klux Klan, it had become habit. Once she'd told me, "The whole thing is so
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