ANNE HODGES WHITE

Then Mama took a deep breath. Mrs. Hodges. Please. It’s illegal. And dangerous. The words flew at me like other unspeakables and pushed cold fear into my belly. You had catching the polio bug in Morehead City, you had getting sucked out to sea by a rip tide, you had being demoted to the Red Bird Reading Group, you had going to Hell, which had been described as a burning place where sinners got poked day and night by guys who looked a lot like the goat-man with a spear.

But it was the likker and the long distance bills toted up by friends visiting the beach house that stuck in Hodgie’s craw. LuLu always gave herself over to hosting friends, and most weekends the beach house filled up with them. The men baited hooks and cleaned fish. The women trailed LuLu through antique shops from Morehead City to New Bern, herded us children along the tideline and waved us beachside of the breakers.

I heard whispering in the upstairs hall. Help me drag this in here, LuLu was saying to Mama. And Unscrew those. And Here, use this knife. My mother, who at the time was twenty-five if she was a day, and a pleaser, did what she was told in her easygoing way. The rattling and squeaking took until mid-afternoon when LuLu shut the door so the room would build up some serious heat.