Yellow Mesquite by John J. Asher

undertaking prescribed by Sidney along with a study of ancient and modern philosophy. He felt like he was practically in college.
    “Would you like a glass of milk?” Aunt Grace asked.
    He hesitated in surprise. “No, thanks. I grabbed a hamburger earlier.”
    “My, my. You young people, always on the go, just a-raring and a-tearing to get at life. Well, you’re a nice young man with ambition.” She squinted at him as if to reassure herself that this was true.  
    “Uh, thanks.”
    “I knew from the first that you were a gentleman. Your mother did a good job with your upbringing.” Aunt Grace paused. “You are a nice young man.” It sounded more like a question.
    “Well…”
    “So many young people these days, thoughtless, selfish, never time for anyone or anything but themselves.”
    He didn’t know what to say to that.
    Aunt Grace fanned herself. “It’s because they don’t have the love of Jesus in their hearts.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She paused. “Would you like a piece of chocolate pie? Mattie made some this afternoon. Very good.”
    His surprise turned to bewilderment. “Thanks, but—”
    “Good then.”  
    Reluctantly, he followed her into the kitchen. A food safe from another era stood against the wall, six pies on the shelves behind the screen doors. Aunt Grace took one out and cut a wedge from it. The chocolate was an inch deep on a graham-cracker crust, and there was a good two inches of white meringue lightly browned on top with beads of syrup.  
    “Get a glass from the cabinet,” she said. “There’s milk in the refrigerator.”
    “Isn’t this for tomorrow’s dinner?”
    “You don’t have that many meals with us, your little art classes and all. Here, you want to bring that along and sit with me in the parlor?”
    It wasn’t something he wanted to do at all, but she took up a paper napkin and he followed her out.  
    “You can set it right there on that coffee table. Here, let’s put this chair in a little closer so you don’t spill.”  
    He felt like a child as Aunt Grace arranged his setting. She then settled into a wingback alongside a floor lamp, the shade heavy with yellowed fringe. She and her ancestors in their oval frames had him surrounded. She took off her glasses and wiped them with a little lace handkerchief she kept tucked into her narrow black patent-leather belt. Without her glasses she no longer looked so imposing, but tragic, vulnerable as an unshelled mollusk. How could you draw a woman like that, big, yet make her appear frail and vulnerable? He thought about something Sidney had said: “ The appearance of a thing is only one of its realities.”
    “Is something wrong?” Aunt Grace squinted, her head angled at him.  
    “Oh…no. Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”
    “Yes. Well.” Aunt Grace strained toward him with her weak eyes, then put her glasses back on and looked normal again. “My little niece is coming up from Louisiana.”
    “Oh?” Harley cut off a bite-size chunk of pie with his fork.
    Aunt Grace settled into the wingback with a sigh. “I have no idea what a girl that age is like these days.”
    “How long is she staying?”  
    Aunt Grace picked up the paper fan. “Indefinitely.” She took a tug at her lace collar and frowned. “Yes. Indefinitely.”  
    “Her folks coming too?”
    “Unfortunately, she only has a mother. Well, she does have a stepfather but… I’m afraid the mother isn’t able to care for the girl, poor dear.”
    “That’s too bad.” He had trouble picturing Aunt Grace with a little kid to raise.
    “She’s coming in on the bus tomorrow.” Aunt Grace began to fan herself again. “I was wondering, how would you like to go with us to the Cotton Bowl tomorrow night to hear Brother Billy Graham? You’re a nice boy and I think Sherylynne would like that.”
    “Me?” Harley said, suddenly alarmed.
    “I’m sure Sherylynne would be pleased.”
    “Uh, I don’t know anything about little