Mississippi Sissy by Kevin Sessums

with anger and longing and something as close to hatred as I had ever felt. When I began to cry he handed me off finally to my mother. My grandmother cried also as Vena Mae, knowing her big-sister routine by heart after all these years, calmed her with rote expressions of concern. “Women!” my father said, spitting out the word while looking right at me. “Goddamn women!” He left us there by the dying fire. We heard him once more crank the car and spin out of the gravel drive.
    â€œWe’ve still got a maternity dress to finish,” said Vena Mae, patting my grandmother’s shoulder. “Let’s get back to the sewing machine,” she said, taking charge of the situation. “I’ll make us all some ice tea. I hear Kim in there crying now. All this commotion must have woke him up from his nap.”
    My grandmother dried her tears with the lone strip of fabric my mother had not used for the burned-up skirt. “We’ll just keep all this from Lyle,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.
    I climbed beneath the sewing machine when we got back in the room with the half-made maternity clothes. I pouted and watched my grandmother’s old bare foot work the pedal, blue veins branching out toward her toes like an inky rendering of a gnarled oak tree ruined not by root rot but a palsied landscape artist’s choosing to go out sketching once his brushes began to scare him. “Here,” said Aunt Vena Mae, “you want to play with this? Will this cheer you up?” she asked and bent down to pass her unclasped gold charm bracelet to me. She jingled it in front of my frowning face until I took it.
    The women remained silent and drank their tea. “Kevin, come out from under there,” my mother finally said. I stayed put.
    â€œHe’s fine,” said my grandmother, and let me push the pedal for her with my hand when her foot tired and she gave me the go-ahead. I tried on the bracelet but, slipping from my tiny wrist, it fell into my lap. I plopped it instead on my head like the crown that Mary Ann Mobley wore in all the local newspapers my grandmother kept in her clippings box when Mobley made it to the big time up in Atlantic City the year before. The gravel drive came to life again when my father pulled his speeding car to screeching halt out front. My grandmother sewed faster, pushing my hand away with her veiny foot and going to town on some final seams. “You better give me back that bracelet,” Vena Mae said, and reached down to snatch it from my head.
    My father slammed the back door. His footsteps headed our way. He stopped at the door of the bedroom and took in the scene. No one spoke. He reached for the
Better Homes and Gardens
that was now sitting on the white chest of drawers. He rolled up the magazine in his fist then told me to follow him into the living room. “Haven’t you done enough, Howard?” my mother asked him, but pushed me toward him nonetheless. “Must you spank him?”
    My father said nothing. He picked me up and took me to the living room’s sofa and sat down next to me. He put his arm around me and unrolled the magazine. We sat looking at the pictures of the beautiful homes and lovely yards and he asked me which ones I liked best, which colors I preferred, which pieces of furniture looked the most comfortable. “Someday we’re going to live in a house like one of these,” he said and held me tightly to him. “I promise you that, Kevinator,” he said. He kissed me on top of my head. “Your mama deserves a house like these. You deserve it.” We flipped the pages and pointed to something when it pleased us. He quietly sang a verse ofJohnny Horton’s “Battle of New Orleans,” his favorite song that summer. He let me hum along. I’ve never felt as safe.
    ________________
    â€œGo on. Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry,” my father kept up his commands while I