South of Broad by Pat Conroy

father’s lead in rising from our chairs until the ladies were seated, their chairs held by white-jacketed waiters who hurried from the corners of the room.
    “Ah!” Chadworth senior said. “The return of the natives.” Looking to my mother for approval, he added, “That was a literary reference in honor of you, Dr. King. Hardy, I believe. What was his first name?”
    “Thomas,” Mother said.
    “I understand from my research that you did your doctoral dissertation on James Joyce. The Odyssey , or something like that. Correct?”
    “Something like that,” she said.
    “Fraser has something to say to everyone at the table,” Mrs. Rutledge announced.
    Fraser, red-eyed, began to speak. “I’m so sorry I caused a scene, and I want to apologize to my daddy and brother for embarrassing them in public. You both know how much I love you.”
    “Sure thing, sugar. The whole family’s been under a lot of pressure,” her father said.
    My mother pulled out of her long period of near-silence and said, “Miss Rutledge, I’ve been noticing you with great interest today at lunch. It’s my conclusion that you’re a young woman of much character.”
    Fraser glanced around the table, her eyes glistening. “But I didn’t mean to ruin the lunch. I had no right to speak.”
    “You had every right to speak,” Mother said. “You are a woman of parts.”
    The silence of bivalves gripped the table until young Chad made a serious error by following my mother’s praise of his sister with the most untimely joke. “Yeah. Big parts. Real big parts: big shoulders, big thighs, big feet.”
    “Hush up, young man,” Mother said, rising out of her seat. “Just hush your mouth.”
    “Don’t you ever talk to my son like that again, Dr. King,” an enraged Worth Rutledge snarled. “Or you’re going to find yourself looking at want ads.”
    “He’s enrolled in my school,” Mother flashed back. “If the superintendent doesn’t like how I’m doing my job, then he can let me know about it.”
    “If you want to come back to my office after lunch, Dr. King, we’ll put in a call to your superintendent,” Rutledge said.
    “The business of education at Peninsula High is conducted from my office, Mr. Rutledge,” Mother said. “You’re welcome to visit me there. Please set up an appointment with my secretary.”
    If the setting had been anywhere but the Charleston Yacht Club, with the sunlight shining on bone china and silver cutlery, I think Worth Rutledge might have exploded. Social forces I was only dimly aware of had brought anarchy upon that sedate luncheon which had begun as a function of bureaucracy, courtesy, and goodwill.
    Across from me, a shell-shocked Molly Huger was staring at me.
    “Ever had so much fun, Molly?” I asked. To my complete surprise, the whole table laughed, except for Chad, whose face was stony at the general loosening of the ghastly atmosphere. In the privileged world of young Chadworth Rutledge, when he chose to be the comedian, boys like me were born to be the audience. When Chad chose to be serious, my role was to play the admiring fool. When Chad declared a pronouncement, I was to be a midnight rider, delivering the message to the countryside. But that would be years in the learning.
    My mother took her seat and the gathering grew cordial and pragmatic again. Lunch came to a swift conclusion over coffee and pecan pie. In parting, the gentility that is both the bedrock and the quicksand of all social endeavors in Charleston brought grace and quietude to the last act of that meal. There were handshakes all around, but no love lost among any of the major participants.
    My parents and I made our farewells. We walked out of the Charleston Yacht Club, and the great heat met us at the doorway. Uncharacteristically, my mother kissed me on the cheek, and the three of us walked together toward East Bay Street and our city of many mansions, away from the yacht club that we would never be invited to