Social Blunders by Tim Sandlin Page A

men smoking cigars in a Gettysburg. The men had on the same ugly-colored pants as the golfers up at Starmount Forest. I have a theory that when stereotypical styles jump from one racial, sexual, or generational group to another, it’s the ugly stuff that jumps first.
    “Rape is the most terrible crime there is,” Gilia said.
    I nodded. “Sometimes I can imagine conditions where murder or stealing might be fair, but I can’t come up with a justifiable rape.”
    She crossed her arms under her breasts. “This destroys the father-daughter relationship.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    To fill space, I explained how Western civilization sprang from the ancient Roman Empire and the origin of the Roman Empire is dated from the rape of the Sabine women. Therefore our Western civilization was founded on slime and is doomed to rot.
    Gilia said, “I can’t forgive him.”
    The block Jake Williams lived on was made up of small off-white houses with mostly green-shingled roofs and unpainted porches. Many of the yards contained flat-tired cars that appeared more as growths from the dirt than modes of movement. A couple of houses had window unit air conditioners. Jake’s house was neater than the rest—kept-up lawn and uncracked framing. A glider sat on one end of the porch.
    The woman who answered my knock looked from me to Gilia and back. She didn’t seem hostile or anything, but if we were salesmen, she definitely didn’t want any.
    I told her my name and said, “We’re looking for Jake Williams.”
    Her eyes snapped. “What for?”
    I glanced over at Gilia who had gone noncommittal. “I’d just like to see him for a minute,” I said, “if he’s home.”
    “What are you two up to?” Gus has what you’d call a black accent. When she talks, her voice is husky the way you think of when you think of Billie Holiday. This woman didn’t have any of that in her voice. She sounded like a schoolteacher.
    “I was hoping to speak to Mr. Williams a moment on personal business.”
    The woman studied my face, I suppose searching for clues that a swindle was being played. I tried to look innocent.
    Finally, she blinked once and spoke. “Mr. Williams passed away.”
    My stomach felt sick. I looked over at Gilia again. A lock of blond hair had fallen across her cheek; otherwise she hadn’t moved.
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “When…”
    Her hand clenched on the doorknob. “Thirty years ago last January sixteenth.”
    “I’m sorry.” All that time growing up I might have been an orphan, or half orphan, and I didn’t even know it. The woman offered no details, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask.
    “I guess we’ll be leaving now,” I said.
    “Wait a minute, you can’t do that.” Her hand came off the doorknob. “Why did you want to see my Jake?”
    I turned toward Gilia. “It’s not important. We won’t disturb you further.”
    “Disturb me? You come waltzing up to my door asking to see my husband who’s been dead thirty years, and you don’t want to disturb me?”
    “I’m sorry,” I said for the fourth time in as many minutes.
    “You are not leaving here until you tell me what this is about.”
    I looked back at her. “You don’t want to know, it would cause you pain.”
    Her chin lifted. “Well, it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?”
    Gilia finally spoke. “May we come in?”
    ***
    Inside, the house was dark furniture and soft lighting behind lamp shades. The couch and chairs had lace doilies over the arms. A glass bowl of candy corn sat on the coffee table. The woman crossed to an RCA radio and cut off the classical music that had been so low you could hardly hear it anyway.
    Sure enough, she was a schoolteacher. Students’ papers lay stacked in graded and ungraded piles on the stained pine dining room table, the graded pile veined by red pencil marks. Jake looked at me from framed photographs atop the piano. Like a campfire in the dark, he drew Gilia and me across the room.
    The woman