No Daughter of the South by Cynthia Webb Page B

she said. I laughed, and she kinda grinned, and then she sat down and opened the paper to Ann Landers.
     
    It was a nice moment between us, but it wasn’t like we had resolved all our differences. Not by a long shot. When I borrowed the car again to go visit Mr. Miller, she gave me that kicked puppy look again. I tried to ignore it.
    The route to the Miller’s house was completely familiar, but everything—streets and trees and houses—seemed smaller. I was seeing the physical surroundings of my childhood shrunk to doll-size.
    I got there sooner that I’d expected, and was surprised when I saw the house. I remembered it as grand. It was bigger than any other house around, but now the fake plantation style struck me as, well, tacky. I know it sounds funny to hear me say that, because I’m usually tacky’s biggest fan. But, thing was, a lot of things looked different to me. If I was wrong earlier, I was afraid I could be wrong again, that I couldn’t trust my own judgments. And since I’ve made it my business not to depend on anyone else’s, where did that leave me?
    Mrs. Miller opened the door. Another funny thing. I’d almost forgotten her existence. She was quiet, without presence. Whenever I had thought about her, she always reminded me of a little brown bird. She invited me in, exclaimed over how long it had been since she had seen me, and led me back to the Florida room. I sat down on the white wicker couch with floral, peach pillows. Mrs. Miller hurried away to get Mr. Miller and bring us some iced tea. While I was alone, I studied the framed photographs on the table by the wall. There was a formal studio pose of Mr. Miller, and several of Susan, including her wedding portrait. There was a small one near the back of the table, in a heavy, old-fashioned, silver frame. It was almost hidden behind the others, so I got up and walked over to get a better look at it. A pretty girl in a velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. From the hairstyle and the dress, it looked to be from the late fifties or early sixties. I thought she must be Belinda, Susan’s older sister. I had never met her, and had heard very little about her. I vaguely remembered that she was much older than Susan, maybe fifteen years, and I thought she had been institutionalized somewhere. I hadn’t thought much about her, but if I had, I would have guessed she was mentally retarded, or something like that. One of those private family tragedies—you don’t ask, and they don’t volunteer. A shame, I thought, she looked so lovely, so alive, in her portrait.
    Mr. Miller was just as I remembered him: courtly, polite, discreetly flirtatious. He asked me about my life, and managed to make all my responses to his questions sound fascinating. Mrs. Miller brought the tea, and cookies, and excused herself to do some sewing. After she left, Mr. Miller took the initiative.
    “So, Laurie, tell me what it is I can do for you.”
    I did tell him, as simply as I could, what I was there for. I didn’t lie, but I was reasonably sure that my words led him to believe that Sammy was a pal of mine. As I chose the words to give him that impression, I realized that it was even more important to me that Mr. Miller approve of me than my mother and father.
    “I am certainly honored and pleased that you have come to visit me today, Laurie. And this is a most interesting project you have here. I am curious, however, as to why you have come to me with this.”
    I was at a loss. Of course he didn’t know the role he’d played in my life, in my imagination. He had always listened to me, and talked to me, and found time for me when I was a guest in his house. At a time when my own family had found me uninteresting at best, and often unbearable, he had seemed to take me seriously.
    While I was struggling to think of how to say this, Mr. Miller reached over and put his hand on my knee. The touch was warm, intimate, comforting. I couldn’t remember the last time my own