No Daughter of the South by Cynthia Webb

bugging him. When I have to react fast, I tend to rely on my old habits; sex as a shield and a weapon is a deeply ingrained one. I guess it’s something I need to work on.
    We could hear the heavy steps of one of my brothers walking into the kitchen, and then Walter’s voice, “What’s going on out here?”
    “I’m watching your sister investigate.” Now Josh’s drawl was exaggerated.
    “Damn right,” I said. “And I’m watching him watch me.” Just so he had that straight.
     
    Later, when the television was finally turned off, and the house silent, I snuck into the kitchen to call Sammy. It was late; I was afraid I’d wake her up because she usually went to bed pretty early, to save her energy for catching babies. But I needed to talk to her. I had to talk to her.
    Her voice, while sleepy, was as warm and comforting to me as cinnamon toast on a cold morning. As I sank into that feeling, I knew my emotional balance had moved, some weight inside me had shifted. I had had an inkling of this when I found myself on the plane headed south on my quest for Sammy’s sake, but now I felt the true consequences of that change. Sammy wasn’t just my partner in fun and carnal pleasures, I knew that now. She was becoming part of my life. But that didn’t quite cover it, that made her sound like a job or an apartment, something easily exchanged. She was becoming more like a part of me , like my voice, or my eyes, or my heart.
    I described my visit out to Piney Woods Road. Pleased with my own bravery and ingenuity, I tried to seem modest, while also seeking to ensure that she recognized my stellar qualities. In her reply to me, I recognized the technique she used when reviewing Annie’s homework. First, she praised me, “Laurie, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.” Then she moved on to the next stage, “You know, Laurie, I wonder about the rest of the black community in Port Mullet.” She was pointing out what I could have done better. She was being tactful, but I got the point. Only a handful of the most pathetically poor lived on Piney Woods Road. I’d acted like the entire black population of Port Mullet was clustered in what Momma had called “the quarters.” I was ashamed to admit that I didn’t know a thing about the lives of the rest of the black community. I didn’t even know what had happened to the black kids I’d gone to school with. I knew, basically, nothing.
    I felt stupid, but I still had to tell her about the sign out on Night Lake Road. I heard her audible intake of breath across the telephone line. And then silence.
    “Sammy?” I said, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut, wondering if she thought less of me, now that she knew the truth about the kind of place I’d grown up in.
    “I’m here,” she answered. “I just can’t believe I was so stupid. So involved with my missing father complex. Knowing Momma the way I do, I should have stayed out of anything she doesn’t want me to know. But what did I do?—I ask you to go asking questions about a dead black man in a place where the Klan is so powerful they go around adopting highways. My god, just like any other civic organization! I hate to even think about it. Laurie, just forget it. Have a nice visit with your folks, and hop on that plane and come on back to me.”
    Well, I was offended then. She didn’t think I could handle it. Truth is, I was feeling a bit foolish for my oversight about the black community in Port Mullet. I hated feeling that way and was looking for something to get touchy about. I thought I had my bravery to prove, and I thought it was Sammy I had to prove it to. It was me, of course, that needed the proof. Over the following days, I found myself giving in to my impulsiveness, leaping into hell first and worrying about the devil later. I think my behavior had its start there, in that chip on my shoulder. That’s just a partial explanation, though, and sure as hell not a good