Grace by Elizabeth Nunez Page A

didn’t go to Oxford.”
    She lets her hand linger in his. “Remember that priest?” A wide smile breaks across her face. “Your headmaster at St. Mary’s?”
    “Father Higginsmith.”
    “Lord, was he fit to be tied when you said Harvard! Almost had a heart attack.”
    “He was an Englishman. No university in the world was better than Oxford. That’s the way he thought.”
    “I used to tell those uppity people at the hospital that my son could have gotten in anywhere: Oxford, Cambridge, Yale, MIT. I don’t think they truly believed me until I brought that photograph of you at your graduation. I kept it at my station at the hospital until the day I retired.”
    He wants to tell her that he loves her, but the words do not come easily. They are not demonstrative. Not with each other. It is not only her Victorian self-consciousness that puts this barrier between them. It is the difficulty he has in closing the chasm that had yawned between them nine long years. He was a boy when she left him, a man when she returned.
    “You were here, Mother,” he says. “How could I go to England?”
    She makes tiny circles with her fingers on his hand. “I know, Son. I know.”
    They find other things to talk about at breakfast, the weather, Giselle’s latest expressions, her likes and dislikes, which his mother compares to his. “She is your daughter truly, Justin.” And they talk about his peeves with the curriculum committee at the college. She agrees with him that his students need toknow more than just the literature of their cultural heritage, but she brushes aside his arguments. All that stuff about common humanity is for you intellectuals in the Ivory Tower to figure out, she says. Her reasons are practical: His students need to have the keys to get in the door. You can’t change anything if you are outside the room, she says. You have to get in. You have to speak their language. You have to know how the enemy thinks.
    “The enemy?” Justin asks.
    “I mean the ones who are trying to keep black people out of the room, from their share of the American pie.”
    No doubt his father’s words.
    They finish breakfast and Justin helps her clear the table and wash the dishes. Later, when he is ready to leave, one arm already in his jacket, she returns to their earlier conversation. “So what will you do about Giselle?” she asks.
    “I don’t know,” he says.
    “Can a mother give her son a piece of advice?” she asks him.
    “Always, Mother.”
    “Give it time. Don’t rush into anything. Don’t say words you will regret. Don’t poison the air. Talk to Sally. She loves you. Hear what she has to say. Work it out.”
    He kisses her.

SEVEN

    Giselle comes home with a cold. She is sniffling when she greets him. Sally, too, is red-eyed. He wants to be on his best behavior. He wants to follow his mother’s advice. He does not want to lose his family. He does not say to Sally he was right when he chastised Anna for keeping Giselle out so late at night. He does not tell her that if Giselle had lost her hat, Anna should have put her scarf over her head, and if Anna had done that, Giselle would not have the cold she has now. He hugs Giselle. He says, “Poor child, you need to go to bed right away.” He pats her head when it drops to his shoulder.
    Sally makes hot chocolate. Justin changes Giselle’s clothes. They drink the hot chocolate together at the table in the kitchen. A family. Sally says Anna had invited them to dinner, but she thought it best to come home straight away. Justin says she did the right thing. They are having a conversation.
    Giselle asks him if he wants her to tell him about the movie.He says, later. Tell me tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. If you feel better, Mommy and I will take you out to eat tomorrow.
    “At McDonald’s?” Giselle’s face brightens up. “Aunt Anna was going to take us to McDonald’s.”
    Sally interjects. “Not McDonald’s,” she says quickly. “You know Daddy and I