So much in Ruth’s life had been defined by Joanna—her presence and her absence. Ruth had made a vow to never become the girl the world expected her to be, the one who slept around and got pregnant by a guy who walked away. Yet that’s exactly who she had become. Her mother’s daughter. Her greatest motivation to excel in school and become successful had been the driving desire to reverse that fate.

Seventeen

Midnight

Midnight buttoned his white dress shirt and smoothed the creases of his black funeral pants, the ones Granny kept on a wooden roller hanger. She didn’t allow shoes in the house and the socks he’d worn all day stunk like his boots. In the clothes dryer, all he found were mismatched socks, those that survived the sucking vacuum of the air vents. So, he took off the ones he’d been wearing, cranked the window open, and draped his socks over the sill to air out. When he sniffed them a few minutes later and deemed them acceptable, he tucked the ends of the socks under his toes to cover the holes.

The Tuttles were coming over for spaghetti dinner that night. They hardly ever had company, and surely nobody as special as Miss Ruth. A smile snuck up on him and he didn’t know where it came from. Only that he wanted dinnertime to hurry up.

Midnight stood beside Granny, who leaned over a steaming pot of marinara sauce, stirring, licking the spoon, and stirring again. When she finally noticed him in his dress clothes setting the table, her mouth opened and then she shut it, saying nothing. Every night since he’d found out he might be shipped off to Louisiana, he set the table for dinner. Forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. If he arranged the place settings properly and filled the glasses with ice, maybe Granny would notice how useful he was, helpful even, and change her mind about sending him away.

The first thing Auntie Glo did when she came in the kitchen was laugh at Midnight and say, “Who died? You look ridiculous.” Even her insults couldn’t dampen his mood, and he smiled back at her, for once not having to fake it.

“Leave him alone,” Granny said.

As soon as Midnight heard a car pull into the driveway, he flung open the front door. Mrs. Tuttle came in first, her large body bent forward, her heavy breasts swinging when she walked, like the trunk of an elephant, and he worried she might topple over. She held on to her son Mr. Eli’s arm for support. Miss Ruth came in last, and Midnight actually smelled her perfume before he saw her. He banged his good arm on the kitchen counter trying to move away from the door, pretending he hadn’t been staring.

At the dinner table, he sat next to Miss Ruth, and when they said grace, her long fingers squeezed his, the way Mom’s used to when he got his shots at the doctor’s office before school started. Not since Mom died had he felt such comfort, reassurance that he’d be okay. After the blessing, he felt Mr. Eli’s eyes on him, something unspoken passing between them whenever they saw each other.

“What did you ask Santa to give you for Christmas?” Ruth said, spooning green peas onto her plate.

He hadn’t believed in Santa Claus for years and neither had his friends. He figured Miss Ruth didn’t have kids of her own and didn’t know too many. But he couldn’t disappoint her. “I asked Santa not to send me to Louisiana.”

“Patrick!” Granny’s face got tight and she pressed her lips together.

It was Mrs. Tuttle who spoke next. “Now, what do you know about Louisiana, young man? I bet you’ve never been,” she said.

“Mama, leave him alone. Maybe he read about it in school,” Miss Ruth said, sipping her lemonade.

Mrs. Tuttle waved her fork, spaghetti dangling from it. “Stop defending this child. That’s what’s wrong with kids these days. They don’t take the time to learn. They don’t know how to appreciate the South. Now, take Mississippi. That’s my home.” She leaned in, the table squishing her big breasts. “It’s beautiful. Have you ever sat under a magnolia tree and sipped lemonade on a hot day? Or ran your fingers through black soil that grows the food you eat, that grows the cotton they used to make that nice shirt you’re wearing right now? Huh? You tell me.”

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond or whether this was one of those questions grown-ups asked where the answer was understood, but not spoken. By the way she looked at him, though, he figured she expected an answer. “No, ma’am,” he said, his eyes on his plate, thinking the peas reminded him of little eyeballs.

“What are they teaching you in your history books, young man? What do you know about Louisiana?”

“The people from there talk kind of funny, I guess,” Midnight mumbled, his eyes still on his plate.

Mrs. Tuttle laughed without smiling and it sounded more like a cough, and he could hear the phlegm in the back of her throat. “How do you think you talk? You sound funny, too.”

Her face turned serious again. “Louisiana gave us jazz and all that good Cajun and Creole cooking. That’s culture, child.” As she ate, sauce dripped onto her chest, but she didn’t notice.

Granny said, “All right now. Food’s getting cold on your plates while you’re doing all this talking.”

With his mouth full, Mr. Eli said, “Everything’s good, Mrs. Dureson. Tastes like more.”

Granny liked it when people ate her food and asked for seconds. Soon as he said those words, she brought out a fresh bowl of spaghetti, spilling sauce when she plopped it on the table. She grabbed for her napkin and frowned. “Now, Midnight, you know better than to put paper towels out here instead of our cloth napkins,” she said, frantically dabbing red stains.