I shot my daughter a look that could have frozen boiling tar.
“Help yourself to chow.” Palmer set off.
Hearing what he thought was a reference to his bloodline, Boyd shot forward, yanking the leash from Katy’s hand, and began racing in circles around Palmer’s legs.
Recovering his balance, Palmer turned, a look of uncertainty on his perfect face.
“He’s OK off the leash?”
Katy nodded. “But watch him around food.”
She retrieved the leash and unclipped it from the collar.
Palmer gave a thumbs-up.
Boyd raced in delighted circles.
Behind the main house, folding tables offered homemade concoctions in Tupperware tubs. Coleslaw. Potato salad. Baked beans. Greens.
One table was covered with disposable aluminum trays mounded with shredded pork. On the edge of the woods, wisps of smoke still floated from the giant cooker that had been going all night.
Another table held sweets. Another, salads.
“Shouldn’t we have brought a dish?” I asked as we surveyed the Martha Stewart country-dining assemblage.
Katy pulled a bag of Fig Newtons from her purse and parked it on the dessert table.
I did some eye rolling of my own.
When Katy and I returned to our chairs the banjo player was doing “Rocky Top.” Not Pete Seeger, but not bad.
For the next two hours a parade of folks stopped by to chat. It was like career day at the junior high. Lawyers. Pilots. Mechanics. A judge. Computer geeks. A former student, now a homemaker. I was surprised at the number of CMPD cops that I knew.
Several McCranies came over, welcoming us and expressing thanks for our coming. Palmer Cousins also came and went.
I learned that Palmer had been a fix-up through Lija, Katy’s best friend since the fourth grade. I also learned that Lija, having completed a BA in sociology at the University of Georgia, was working in Charlotte as a paramedic.
Most important of all, I learned that Palmer was single, twenty-seven, a Wake Forest biology grad currently employed with the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service at its field office in Columbia, South Carolina.
And a McCranie’s regular when he was back home in Charlotte. The missing piece in why I was now munching on pulled pork in a clover field.
Boyd alternated between sleeping at our feet, racing with varying aggregates of children, and working the crowd, attaching himself to whoever looked like the easiest touch. He was in nap phase when a group of kids ran up requesting his company.
Boyd opened one eye, readjusted his chin on his paws. A girl of around ten wearing a purple Bible Girl cape and headgear waggled a cornmeal muffin. Boyd was off.
Watching them round the barn, I remembered Katy’s words on the phone about Boyd wanting to have a conversation.
“What was it the chow wanted to discuss?”
“Oh, yeah. Dad’s got a trial going in Asheville, so I’ve been taking care of Boyd.” A thumbnail teased the edge of her Budweiser label. “He thinks he’s going to be there another three weeks. But, um…” She dug a long tunnel in the wet paper. “Well, I think I’m going to move uptown for the rest of the summer.”
“Uptown?”
“With Lija. She’s got this really cool town house in Third Ward, and her new roommate can’t occupy until September. And Dad’s gone, anyway.” The beer label was now effectively shredded. “So I thought it would be fun to, you know, just live down there for a few weeks. She’s not going to charge me rent or anything.”
“Just until school starts.”
Katy was in her sixth and, by parental dictate,
“Of course.”
“You’re not thinking of dropping out.”
The World Cup of eye rolls.
“Do you and Dad have the same scriptwriters?”
I could see where the conversation was going.
“Let me guess. You want me to take Boyd.”
“Just until Dad gets back.”
“I’m leaving for the beach on Monday.”
“You’re going to Anne’s place on Sullivan’s Island, right?”
