Read Online Sources of Light by Margaret McMullan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret McMullan
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He was almost close enough to kiss her. "Let's us leave the serious business of governing to our governor."
My mother just smiled. "As long as the governor works for
us
."
Already little Jeffy had turned on the TV. A previously recorded performance was on
The Ed Sullivan Show,
and even though the McLemores' TV was the biggest I'd seen, that box didn't seem like it could hold the sounds coming out of Louis Armstrong's trumpet.
***
When we got back home from the McLemores', my mother pulled off her black shirt and skirt. It seemed she couldn't get out of those clothes fast enough. She pulled on one of my dad's old shirts to sleep in, and for a change she climbed into my bed with one of her big art books. She was so caught up in her booksâhuge picture books of art and art history, books two times the size of her head. She once told me she got hooked on art because every year her mother gave her a big art book for Christmas. My mother loved art and sometimes talked about old paintings like they were old friends. She told me that when she was my age, looking through her art books was an escape, and when she looked hard enough and long enough at the pictures, she was where she wanted to be. Now every night when she climbed into bed, sometimes even when it was still light outside, she'd haul these books in with her, opening them on a pillow so the corners wouldn't jab into her stomach, then with a pencil behind her ear and a notepad nearby, she would read these books, even the captions, and study the pictures until she had them memorized.
She had seen the Acropolis only in pictures. She was reading about Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli. She had just finished rereading Euripides. She wanted to do a study on all the different versions of Aphrodite and what every culture from different times saw as beauty.
When I climbed in beside her, she turned off the light. I couldn't stop thinking of Stone. He had kissed me. My first kiss and it was from Stone McLemore. Lying there next to my mother's warm, soft body made me feel weird.
"Kitty-cat," she said, tracing the outline of my ear. She sounded a little drunk.
"Quit it."
"Pookie-poo." I could smell the wine on her breath and the Pond's cold cream on her face.
"Why do you have to be so strange, Mom?"
She was laughing and I was not.
"Because that's the way God made me." She was making a joke, imitating someone now, but I didn't know whom. A McLemore?
"Are you making fun of them?"
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if each of them had white sheets and hoods in their closets. They are as bad as the people who painted our front door." She picked up some of my hair and twirled it around. I batted away her hand.
"Stone is not a member of the KKK, Mom."
"Honey," she sighed. "Don't go falling for a boy like Stone. He's not our kind."
"Leave me alone, Mom." Our kind? What was that supposed to mean? I didn't care if Mary Alice or Stone was our kind, but I sure knew I wanted to be Stone's kind. I thought of the whole McLemore world that had just opened up to me. It was a family world where they took vacations together, ate casseroles, held hands and said grace. I had never been skiing, but for some reason the McLemores looked like people who skied or who would eventually ski.
"You don't need their acceptance," my mother said.
I thought about that. "Yes, I do." I said it the way women say it at their weddings. "I do."
"You really don't, sweetie. You shouldn't."
I looked at her. I hadn't even told my mother about Stone's kissing me or asking me to the dance. This was my first secret from her, and it didn't feel right.
"When did you know?" I said. "About Dad. When did you know he was 'the one'?"
"I had no idea I would marry your father," she said. "But there was no way I could live without him." She stopped, thinking about what she had said. "Now I suppose we both have to, huh?" There was a pause. "When you were a baby, I'd pick you up and you'd put your hand inside my hair and you'd
My mother just smiled. "As long as the governor works for
us
."
Already little Jeffy had turned on the TV. A previously recorded performance was on
The Ed Sullivan Show,
and even though the McLemores' TV was the biggest I'd seen, that box didn't seem like it could hold the sounds coming out of Louis Armstrong's trumpet.
***
When we got back home from the McLemores', my mother pulled off her black shirt and skirt. It seemed she couldn't get out of those clothes fast enough. She pulled on one of my dad's old shirts to sleep in, and for a change she climbed into my bed with one of her big art books. She was so caught up in her booksâhuge picture books of art and art history, books two times the size of her head. She once told me she got hooked on art because every year her mother gave her a big art book for Christmas. My mother loved art and sometimes talked about old paintings like they were old friends. She told me that when she was my age, looking through her art books was an escape, and when she looked hard enough and long enough at the pictures, she was where she wanted to be. Now every night when she climbed into bed, sometimes even when it was still light outside, she'd haul these books in with her, opening them on a pillow so the corners wouldn't jab into her stomach, then with a pencil behind her ear and a notepad nearby, she would read these books, even the captions, and study the pictures until she had them memorized.
She had seen the Acropolis only in pictures. She was reading about Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli. She had just finished rereading Euripides. She wanted to do a study on all the different versions of Aphrodite and what every culture from different times saw as beauty.
When I climbed in beside her, she turned off the light. I couldn't stop thinking of Stone. He had kissed me. My first kiss and it was from Stone McLemore. Lying there next to my mother's warm, soft body made me feel weird.
"Kitty-cat," she said, tracing the outline of my ear. She sounded a little drunk.
"Quit it."
"Pookie-poo." I could smell the wine on her breath and the Pond's cold cream on her face.
"Why do you have to be so strange, Mom?"
She was laughing and I was not.
"Because that's the way God made me." She was making a joke, imitating someone now, but I didn't know whom. A McLemore?
"Are you making fun of them?"
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if each of them had white sheets and hoods in their closets. They are as bad as the people who painted our front door." She picked up some of my hair and twirled it around. I batted away her hand.
"Stone is not a member of the KKK, Mom."
"Honey," she sighed. "Don't go falling for a boy like Stone. He's not our kind."
"Leave me alone, Mom." Our kind? What was that supposed to mean? I didn't care if Mary Alice or Stone was our kind, but I sure knew I wanted to be Stone's kind. I thought of the whole McLemore world that had just opened up to me. It was a family world where they took vacations together, ate casseroles, held hands and said grace. I had never been skiing, but for some reason the McLemores looked like people who skied or who would eventually ski.
"You don't need their acceptance," my mother said.
I thought about that. "Yes, I do." I said it the way women say it at their weddings. "I do."
"You really don't, sweetie. You shouldn't."
I looked at her. I hadn't even told my mother about Stone's kissing me or asking me to the dance. This was my first secret from her, and it didn't feel right.
"When did you know?" I said. "About Dad. When did you know he was 'the one'?"
"I had no idea I would marry your father," she said. "But there was no way I could live without him." She stopped, thinking about what she had said. "Now I suppose we both have to, huh?" There was a pause. "When you were a baby, I'd pick you up and you'd put your hand inside my hair and you'd
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