Making Waves by Cassandra King Page A

to me. She crooned and patted my back and hugged the breath out of me, as Sonny and Ellis stood there in disgust.
    Aunt Frances Martha would be the village idiot if she weren’t a Clark and such a sweet old thing. Instead, she was everybody’s pet. Evidently some mild brain damage at birth caused her vacancy, for she’d been like this all her life. Sweet, simple, completely uncomplicated, incapable of any malice or guile. She turned to Sonny and Ellis and smiled over my shoulder as she patted it happily, like she used to burp me as a baby.
    â€œOh, look who’s here—mine and Sister’s baby boy! Mine and Sister’s wittle baby boy, come home.”
    Sonny rolled his eyes and downed his burgundy.
    Aunt Frances Martha had come out to call us in to supper. It was typical that Daddy Clark hadn’t come out. I’d have to pay homage to him in his lair; he’d never condescend to greet me. Pulling me by the hand, Aunt Frances Martha dragged me into the house and then to the dining room, where Daddy Clark stood waiting at the head of the table.
    â€œCome on in, Taylor, baby. Here’s your Granddaddy Harris waiting to see you,” Aunt Frances Martha lisped as she pulled me right up to him. Good thing she did. My knees suddenly went weak on me as I approached him. I hated like hell to let go of her soft protectiveness to face the godfather.
    Daddy Clark stood glaring at me, probably madder at me for holding up his supper than for returning to Clarksville. Unlike Sonny and Ellis, he hadn’t changed one bit. He was a massive old man, bald as a coot, with a stern bulldog face, always looking to me like an unforgiving Old-Testament God.
    Daddy Clark was no Southern Big Daddy, drinking and cussing and womanizing, no sirree. Part of the fear he instilled was from his puritanism. He was straitlaced as a Southern Baptist, disapproving of anything he considered unchristian or un-American. He had been chairman of the board of Clarksville’s First Methodist Church as long as anyone could remember, and his word was God there, like it was in most local business dealings. Daddy Clark, the God of his little world, Zion County.
    I walked over to him and held out my hand, despising myself for feeling six years old and tongue-tied again.
    â€œGood afternoon, Daddy Clark,” was all I could manage to say.
    His piercing blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses took in my long hair, my ragged shorts and my college tee shirt with distaste. He shook my hand scornfully without saying one word to me. I could feel Sonny gloating as he and Ellis watched.
    â€œSit down, boy.”
    After two years’ absence, that was all my granddaddy had to say to me. No solicitations over my health or inquiries about my college life. I knew there wouldn’t be any, either.
    â€œFrances, tell Annie Lou that we’re ready to be served now,” Daddy Clark said as we sat down. This surprised me, because the maid Annie Lou used to stay and serve dinner only on special occasions. Maybe I was wrong—could this possibly be a special occasion for the Clarks after all—the return of the prodigal?
    Annie Lou came in and stood respectfully by the sideboard, giving me a little wave of her hand. I noticed then that the good china serving dishes were on the sideboard, steaming hot and smelling wonderful. Turned out I was hungry after all. Daddy Clark prayed for what seemed like an hour in his gruff old voice, blessing the food to the nourishment of our bodies and then begging the Lord to be merciful and forgive us of our sins. Wonder what sins he was referring to? The old fool never forgave me for being born.
    Aunt Frances Martha, seated next to me, grabbed my arm as soon as we all raised our heads from the prayer.
    â€œTaylor, baby, your Aunt Opal wanted me to be sure and tell you she’s so sorry she couldn’t be here tonight. Her circle’s fixing supper at Miss Maudie’s.” Aunt Frances