Ferris Beach by Jill McCorkle Page B

justice and God’s own way.
    “She pulled a knife on me,” he said. “It was a dark and steamy night and it all took place there in the kitchen, mayhem and murder.” She just shook her head and turned back to the boiling pot. Steam clouded the kitchen window, erasing the view of theyard and the row of pastel houses, the new Stuckey’s being built in the distance.
    “Anyway, some people have beauty marks and some people don’t. Now, take my niece, Angela,” he said, glanced at Mama’s stiff back and then turned back to me. “You remember Angela?” I nodded, anticipating an explosion of some kind. “Well, she has a mole, a little raised mole even, right above her lip.” He pointed with his little finger. “I’m not talking a little tiny mole either. Big, a big mole, except nobody calls it a big mole. No, no, no, it’s known as a beauty mark. Some women draw one on, I’ll tell you, that’s how anxious they are to evolve. Take your mama, for instance.” She didn’t turn but I watched her reflection in the window, shoulders limp as if the steam had taken all of the starch from her body. She just stared at the back of his head, her mouth quivering slightly, cheeks flushed. “Your mama painted herself a great great big mole there on her face. I didn’t know until after we were married that she could wash it off at night.” I knew from the look on her face that there was no truth in that story. She never even glanced at me though I know she was aware that I was watching her. She turned back to the stove and lifted the pot lid to release a thick cloud of steam.
    “No, sir, Angela is fully evolved, beauty mark and all.”
    “Isn’t it a shame we aren’t all so evolved?” Mama asked, and found her way over to my chair, placing a cold damp hand on my shoulder.
    “And I was talking about wisdom teeth.” My dad reached over and put his hand on top of hers and squeezed until she looked up and met him eye to eye. It seemed that they stared at each other forever, their hands heavy on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to rile you up, Cleva,” he whispered, and then waited for her smile—a weak one but a smile nonetheless. “Anyway, I was in the service with this old boy who had a couple of wisdom teeth pulled, got a hemorrhoidectomy and got circumcised all on the same day.”
    “Fred,” Mama said, her face flushed, but with a lingering lookof amazement. “I do not believe that.” I didn’t understand the full logistics behind circumcision, only that it involved the penis, which was enough to make me look down at the linoleum.
    “He was not feeling real good, I’ll tell you,” he said, and shook his head, stood and grabbed Mama by the waist when she passed his chair. They were almost the same height, and in every way she was broad and rounded, he was lean and angular. As a child I had felt terribly guilty for always thinking of them when I heard the rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife, so I confessed it to my Sunday school teacher, who unfortunately at the time was Mrs. Poole. For years after, people at church would sometimes refer to us as the Sprats. “Why did you tell her?” Mama had asked, but I hadn’t really known. Now, her hands were up against his chest, her body stiff as he tried to whirl her around. “Anyway, I was talking about evolution.” He paused and laughed. “That old guy with the wisdom teeth? Well, clearly he was not there yet.”
    I was never certain which of my dad’s stories were true and which had been embellished; I’m not even sure that he himself knew. He always had a joke to tell and for years he was asking things like “Why did Little Moron throw the clock out the window?,” only what I heard was “Little Mo Ryan,” all the while picturing this round little Irishman with red hair and face. Somehow the knowledge of an idiot, a moron, was such a letdown after picturing this whimsical leprechaun, that my father had to find a new target. Pollack jokes were out, due to