EDNA 2016

charm. I had no more standing than an acquaintance who hadn’t seen him in years. I stood quietly at his side observing him, my emotions in conflict. I could smell a hint of cheap cologne. His skin glowed.

There was a tiny smudge of grease on his collar. ​Did Mother turn you on to Vaseline as moisturizer when you were married? Or did you turn her on to it?

“So how’s school?” he asked, smiling during a break in traffic.

“It’s almost over,” I said. “I graduate in two weeks.”

“Good. Good. I heard you made good grades.”

You heard? You talked about me to someone who knows me? Who? You have been keeping up with us and didn’t bother to communicate?

We seemed a standard plot from a TV episode. Usually, it involved an athlete. He meets his long-absent father who’s been keeping track of all his triumphs. I paid special attention to those stories. Anything with a fathers and sons. They always ended in reconciliation. I ended up in tears.

“What college are you going to?”

“University of Illinois in Champaign. Accounting.”'

“Good,” he smiled.

Nothing of depth was exchanged between us. We were two strangers circling each other: he, polite, wearing his never-changing smile; me, self-conscious, struggling with light conversation, yearning to penetrate the grinning mask in front of me. I began to fidget, my few sentences full of stammers, long pauses, and “uhs.”

“Oh Lord, look who’s here!” One of the guests, a man Johnny’s age, exclaimed upon seeing him.

Johnny bobbed his head and laughed, embracing his buddy.

“This is my son,” Johnny said proudly, introducing me. ​Would that ever sound natural? “My oldest one.” He turned to his friend and asked about his family. I watched them talk for a few more moments then interrupted, gave Johnny a fake smile, and excused myself.

Later, he went next door to my mother’s middle brother’s house, the stop for most of Ralph’s childhood friends and the men who drank. The church men, the nondrinkers, and male friends of my mother’s and aunt’s socialized at the family house where I spent most of my time making trips to the food-laden table. Without the distraction of my mother and father, the food was delicious just like I knew it would be. Still, next door with all the laughter and loud voices bellowing from my uncle’s kitchen window seemed much more alluring than the restrained Christian environment at my grandmother’s. Whenever there was a new outburst from next door, I glanced at my uncle’s house, imagining Johnny partaking of the festivities. After much deliberating (torn between being a “good