South of Broad by Pat Conroy Page A

that first day,” I remembered.
    “She is a formidable woman,” she said. “A good woman, but she overpowered you and your dad that day.”
    “Nothing’s changed there,” I told her. “We’re still not in her league.”
    “But you’ve learned strategies to work around her. And with her. Do you remember what your dad did that day?”
    “He cried for an hour. Couldn’t stop. Said I blamed him for Steve’s death.”
    “You did blame him … at least a little bit.”
    “It was the only clue I had, Dr. Criddle. The week before he died, Steve was sleeping when I heard him screaming, ‘No, Father. No, please.’ I woke him up and Steve told me he was having a nightmare. He laughed about it. Then he was dead.”
    “I’ve never seen a father love a boy like yours loves you, Leo,” she said.
    “You’ve never liked my mother, though.”
    “Don’t go putting words in my mouth,” she said.
    “Fair enough, Doctor. But you’ve taught me to tell you the truth. Otherwise, therapy isn’t worth a hill of beans. Your exact words. Here is what I think is true: you don’t like my mother.”
    “What I think about her is irrelevant,” she said. “It’s what you think about her that counts.”
    “I’ve come to terms with her.”
    “That’s a great accomplishment. Sometimes that’s the best we can do. You’ve become patient and forgiving with your mom. I’m not sure I could do the same in your shoes.”
    “She’s not your mother.”
    “Thank God,” Dr. Criddle said, and we both laughed.
    •   •   •
    H eading north on King Street, I jaywalked to the other side, moving toward Harrington Canon’s antique dealership across from the Sottile Theatre. Because I had the Southern boy’s disease of needing to be liked by everyone I met, Mr. Canon had presented me with the dilemma of being impossible to please about anything. I never had to worry about whether Mr. Canon would be in a good mood: he lived out his whole life as an anthem to the pleasures of a bad mood. Our first weeks together had been nightmarish, and it took me a while to grow accustomed to his starchiness. It was not that he lived as though he were wearing a crown of thorns that bothered me, but that he cherished those thorns and would have it no other way.
    When I approached the doorway of his shop, it was so dark my eyes had to adjust before he materialized, his head reminiscent of a great horned owl, at his English writing desk against the back wall.
    “You’re sweating like an up-country hog,” he said. “Go wash up before your bodily fluids stain my precious merchandise.”
    “Hey, Mr. Canon. Why, I’m doing just peachy, sir! And so is my family. Thanks for your kind inquiries.”
    “You are white trash, pure and simple, Leo. A sad fact that you bitterly resent. I would never think of inquiring about your family. Because, sir, like you, they mean nothing to me.”
    “Does an up-country hog sweat more than the ones around Charleston?” I asked.
    “Low Country hogs are too well bred to sweat.”
    “I’ve seen you sweat. Much worse than an up-country hog.”
    “You are a scoundrel even to suggest such a thing.” He eyed me through glasses as thick as my own. “Charlestonians never sweat. We sometimes dew up like hydrangea bushes or well-tended lawns.”
    “Well, you sure do ‘dew up’ a lot, Mr. Canon. But I always thought it was because you were tighter than a tick and refused to turn on the air conditioner in this store.”
    “Ah. You are referring to my prudence, my admirable frugality.”
    “No, sir. I was referring to your cheapness. You told me once you could squeeze a penny hard enough to make Lincoln get a nosebleed.”
    “Lincoln, the great anti-Christ. The defiler of the South. I’d like to give him more than a nosebleed. I still think John Wilkes Booth is one of the most underrated of American heroes.”
    “How are your feet feeling?”
    “When did you earn a medical degree, sir?” he asked. “The last