A Southern Girl by John Warley Page A

stranger into yours will be a disservice to you and to her. You’ll see.”
    “Maybe,” I said, turning away.
    “Let’s take a stroll around the square,” Sarah suggested. We walked west, to the Ft. Sumter Hotel, then turned north. “You see these grand old homes?” she asked. “Some of the finest families in the world live here. People think they’re snobbish, and I suppose they are. But their clannishness is an effort to protect what so many people in this country seem to want to tear down or dilute. I admire them for it. Coles grew up here, andhe can walk into any house on the South Battery and be the equal of anyone inside. That’s a valuable heritage that Coleman enjoys and your sons will too. But this child will never be a part of that world.”
    “Which may be a loss for them.”
    Sarah shook her head slowly. “I believe that’s wishful thinking. There is another matter you should consider.”
    “What is that?”
    “My son, your husband. I know this was your idea. He didn’t need to tell me that.”
    “Yes, we guessed you’d make that assumption.”
    “If Coleman agrees to this, he’s doing it for you. Deep down, he agrees with me. I know because of the way he was brought up. He can’t divorce his heritage, no matter how hard he wants to please you. Perhaps it is unfair to put him in this position?”
    “Coleman is a grown man. He can say no if he chooses. I’m not forcing this on him.”
    Sarah just smiled at that, a doubtful smile that said she didn’t believe me for a moment. “Good,” she said, reaching over to pat me on the arm. “You two talk it over. Pray over it. The right decision will emerge.”
    We returned toward the house, making small talk for the duration of our walk. I had known it would come, eventually but inevitably, to where we left it. I would be the culprit, manipulating Sarah’s blameless son into a scheme he opposed and exposing Sarah’s grandsons to the Red peril, which in Sarah’s view had begun taking over America on the day the Japanese built their first transistor radio. “They’ve taken all those jobs from those poor people in Detroit. I’d rather die than drive a Honda.” At the root of Sarah’s xenophobia were the Communists, those tireless devils whose agent on earth was the Trilateral Commission. And the list went on: Robert E. Lee and Barry Goldwater were defeated but right, a woman’s place was in the home, “separate but equal” was “a sound policy which should never have been abandoned” and mankind took a giant step toward eternal damnation when the Episcopal Church approved the new Book of Common Prayer.
    I perfectly understood my impatience with Sarah. We disagreed on everything from abortion to Vietnam, from cooking vegetables (Sarah cooked broccoli for forty-five minutes, until it was literally beyond recognition) to toilet training. On the other hand, she possessed an elusivequality which drew me to her even as I had not been drawn to my own mother. It went beyond our mutual interest in Coleman, for Sarah loved her son uncritically and without reserve while I had come to a point in my life that I couldn’t say that, although I had said it when we married and thought I meant it. Marriage has taught me how difficult it is to love another person, any person, uncritically, and logic tells me it must be just as hard for anyone to love me that way. I’m convinced Sarah sees Coleman as perfect, rationalizing the imperfections as you might choose not to notice a tiny crack in your favorite mirror. Love for a spouse can’t be that way. You see the flaws, and he sees yours. The trick is to look past them, to the compensating qualities that brought you to him in the first place. I’ve even come to recognize my own flaws, at least some of them. I’m judgmental, for one, with little patience for those who disagree with me, particularly when they can’t back up whatever it is we disagree on. Uncritical love is a rare commodity, reserved for