“Why should she be the one to run?” I asked indig-
nantly. “He’s the problem, not her.”
“Hey, I’m not saying she’s at fault,” he said, holding
up his hands to fend off my irritation. “I’m just say-
ing we can’t provide round-the-clock protection and if
the woman’s that worried . . . Be fair, Deb’rah. You live
on the beach and you know a hurricane’s coming, you
know you need to move to high ground till the storm’s
over, right?”
“I guess,” I said glumly.
“Well, she needs to get out of his way till he gets
over her. Give him time to get interested in another
woman or something. And that’s what Bo and I told
Portland.”
I could just imagine what her response to that had
been.
When I got to Aunt Zell’s that night, I found that
she had taken pity on my cousin Reid and invited him
to join us. He claims not to know how to boil water and
he’s always glad to accept the offer of a home-cooked
meal. The grilled trout were hot and crispy and Aunt Zell
had made cornbread the way Mother and Maidie often
did it: a mush of cornmeal, chopped onions, and milk
poured into a black iron skillet after a little oil’s heated
to the smoking point, then baked at 400? till the bottom
is crusty brown. Turned onto a plate and cut into pie
wedges, it doesn’t need butter to melt in your mouth.
Uncle Ash is tall and slim. Like his brother, who is
96
HARD ROW
Portland’s dad, he had the Smith family’s tight curly
hair, only his was now completely white. He had
brought home a copy of the
cause it carried a story about a murder that had taken
place when I was up there last October. One killer had
been sentenced to twelve years after pleading guilty.
The other was going to walk away free.
No surprises there.
We caught up on family news. Uncle Ash’s whole ca-
reer had been with the marketing side of tobacco and he
was interested to hear that my brothers were going to
tread water by growing it on contract for another year.
“But if they’re really interested in doing something
different, the first cars ran on alcohol, you know,” he
said with a sly grin. “Kezzie say anything about y’all
maybe distilling a little motor fuel?”
“Oh, Ash,” said Aunt Zell, who is always embar-
rassed for me whenever anyone alludes to Daddy’s for-
mer profession.
