THE PHELAN FAMILY stands tense, waiting on the brick steps of State Senator Whitworth’s house. The house is in the center of town, on North Street. It is tall and white-columned, appropriately azalea-ed. A gold plaque declares it a historical landmark. Gas lanterns flicker despite the hot six o’clock sun.
“Mother,” I whisper because I cannot repeat it enough times. “Please, please don’t forget the thing we talked about.”
“I said I wouldn’t mention it, darling.” She touches the pins holding up her hair. “Unless it’s appropriate.”
I have on the new light blue Lady Day skirt and matching jacket. Daddy has on his black funeral suit. His belt is cinched too tight to be comfortable much less fashionable. Mother is wearing a simple white dress—like a country bride wearing a hand-me-down, I suddenly think, and I feel a rush of panic that we have overdressed, all of us. Mother’s going to bring up the ugly girl’s trust fund and we look like countryfolk on a big damn visit to town.
He frowns at me and looks down at his pants. Never once have I told my daddy what to do. The door opens.
“Good evening.” A colored woman in a white uniform nods to us. “They expecting y’all.”
We step into the foyer and the first thing I see is the chandelier, sparkling, gauzy with light. My eyes rise up the hollow twirl of the staircase and it is as if we are inside a gigantic seashell.
“Why, hello there.”
I look down from my lollygagging. Missus Whitworth is clicking into the foyer, hands extended. She has on a suit like mine, thankfully, but in crimson. When she nods, her graying-blond hair does not move.
“Hello, Missus Whitworth, I am Charlotte Boudreau Cantrelle Phelan. We thank you so much for having us.”
“Delighted,” she says and shakes both my parents’ hands. “I’m Francine Whitworth. Welcome to our home.”
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