Southern Discomfort

Aunt Zell had started putting the puppy out on the grass inside a portable fence after his morning feed so he could start his training, and the youngest Ou child had discovered him. He scooped up Brinkley/Donaldson/ MacNeil/Lehrer (Aunt Zell thought he'd cocked his head with interest when the news came on last night) and spoke to the others in lilting phrases that I took to be a Cambodian dialect.

There were broad grins and smiling replies as he hefted the puppy in an oddly familiar gesture I couldn't quite place. A stray breeze rippled my gown and one of the boys spotted the motion. He hissed a quick warning to the young one, who even more quickly returned Cronkite to his pen. The others paused and gave me half-bows of formal greeting.

'Bon jour,' I called down. 'C'est un bel matin, non?'

'Good morning,' replied Mr. Ou. 'Is beauty day, yes. Very hot soon.'

Another round of smiles and nods and I went inside to shower and dress. I admired the courage and tenacity that had allowed Mr. Ou to survive and now, even begin to flourish in a modest way. Lu told me that she'd signed up enough home owners for his services that by next spring he would probably be able to afford a riding mower for bigger yards. Dobbs can be suspicious of strangers and foreigners and I was proud they'd let the Ou family settle in without any friction. Cultural clashes can sometimes—

'Oh, dear Lordy!' exclaimed the pragmatist, who often puts two and two together a step ahead of my conscious mind.

'Now don't go jumping to conclusions,' the preacher warned nervously.

'Who's jumping? And why are you wringing your hands if you haven't already jumped, too?'

I found Lu Bingham's private number in my address book and when she answered sleepily on the fourth ring, I said, 'I have to be in court in exactly one hour and twenty-two minutes. If you want to keep Mr. Ou from having a cross burned on his front doorstep, you better get here in fifteen.'

I skipped my shower, threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs.

'Is something wrong?' asked Aunt Zell when I came barreling through the kitchen.

'No, no. Lu Bingham's coming over to help me talk to Mr. Ou. There's a question about wages,' I lied, knowing the mention of money would keep her inside.

Aunt Zell would never ask how much I was paying for her anniversary gift, but she did say, 'Whatever you're giving him, dear, he's worth every penny. He and those boys do such a good job.' *      *      *

One thing about working in a crisis center, it does seem to give quick reflexes. Lu was still in bed when I called, yet she made it in ten minutes. I guess she was expecting, from the tone of my voice, to find an angry mob storming Aunt Zell's backyard. Instead, there was only Mr. Ou and his boys, toiling peacefully in the early morning sun.

'I ran two red lights,' she began indignantly. 'What's the big emergency?'

'I need you to translate, okay?'

'If you'd paid more attention in Mrs. Jefferson's French class instead of flirting with Howard Med—'

'You gonna lecture or listen?' I interrupted.

We walked across the narrow arched bridge to the vine-shaded gazebo and Lu asked Mr. Ou to join us.

He came, but he looked apprehensive; and when I gestured for him to sit, he did so gingerly.

'Tell him my aunt has been very pleased with his work,' I said.

I waited till she had translated and he had warily acknowledged the compliment, then said, 'Ask if he understands that I'm a judge, an officer of the court and bound by the laws of this state?'

She started to protest, took one look at my face and asked him.

Mr. Ou nodded and looked even more apprehensive, if that were possible.

'I've read that dogs are considered great delicacies in your country. Even cats.'

Lu gave me an outraged glare. 'Of all the stereotyped, xenophobic, racist—'

I glared right back. 'Why does a recognition of basic cultural differences always get labeled racism? If I were a racist, I'd have someone from the sheriff's department over going through the bones in his compost heap. I called you, not a reporter from the Ledger, didn't I? So quit hanging insulting labels on me and ask him, okay?'

'Oh, God!' said Lu and hastily translated.

Mr. Ou listened, but said nothing. He didn't have to. Not after I'd seen that youngest boy heft Brokaw the way I've seen Aunt Zell heft a supermarket chicken or pork roast a thousand times.

'In this country, cats and dogs are pets. People here would be horrified and outraged if they knew you had cooked one.' I tried not to let myself think of Aunt Zell's Goldie. Of Miss Sallie's Queenie. Or, heaven forbid, Alice Castleberry's registered bull terrier.

'There is no law in North Carolina that actually forbids the eating of these animals,' I continued, 'but a person who took another's pet could certainly be prosecuted for theft, perhaps even for cruelty to animals.'

As Lu translated, Mr. Ou suddenly began to speak and even with my limited French, I understood a protest when I heard one.

Lu confirmed it. 'He swears there was no cruelty. Death was painless and swift.'

'Then he admits it.'