The Drunken Spelunker's Guide to Plato by Kathy Giuffre Page B

Better than they had it.”
    So we drove out on the old blacktop highway, not saying much—just watching the empty winter fields roll past. We arrived at their house and pulled up to the driveway at the same time as Danny’s parents.
    â€œOh, Daniel, there you are,” his mom said, getting out of their car under the roof of the carport. “I thought you might join us in church this morning.”
    â€œNo,” Danny said, looking vague. “No, we were in town.”
    â€œMust be a mighty good preacher there to hold a candle to Reverend Tucker.”
    â€œHow’s Charlotte?” his dad asked me as we went into the kitchen.
    â€œCharlotte who?” I said.
    â€œI knew a girl named Charlotte once,” he said. Then he paused and smiled. “Now she most definitely was not a nun!”
    â€œHush, Daddy!” Danny’s mom said reprovingly. “There’s no call for that kind of conversation.”
    Danny’s dad hushed, but I noticed that the smile lingered on his face for some time.
    â€œDaniel.” She turned to him. “There was a sale on out at the JCPenney and I bought you two new pairs of nice everyday slacks.” She was beadily eyeing the pants we had been so happy to find that morning. “They’re in your room, and you can try them on now.”
    â€œMama,” Danny began, but she cut him off with a sharp bark—“Daniel!”—and he got wearily to his feet.
    â€œCharlotte used to wear pants sometimes,” Danny’s father broke in. “Young ladies didn’t wear pants too often in those days, of course. I remember a certain white pair she had . . . .”
    â€œNo nonsense, now,” Danny’s mother said severely, possibly to both Danny and his dad, and then turned to me, smiling with obvious effort. “Boys will be such boys!” she said. “No matter how old they get, they always need a firm hand.”
    â€œFirm!” his dad said, smiling into space.
    â€œYou seem like the sort of . . . ,” she paused, “young lady who knows how to . . . ,” another pause, “handle menfolk.”
    â€œWell . . . ,” I started, thinking that both yes and no were bad answers to this question.
    But Danny’s mother carried on. “Why, they’re just like children, all of them! They don’t know what’s good for themselves, no matter how many times you tell them!”
    â€œBe sure to tell her I said hello,” Danny’s dad said. He reachedout and patted my hand.
    â€œTake Daniel,” Danny’s mother continued.
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t take Daniel along, if I were you.” Danny’s father shook his head and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Charlotte’s an awful pretty girl—you should see her in pants!” He winked.
    â€œHe has so much potential!” Danny’s mother said. “That’s what I always tell him. He could do things with himself, if he just showed a little gumption! Or if the right woman would settle him down. Like his cousin Bob Henry—he’s just almost exactly Daniel’s age, and he already runs four fried-fish sandwich franchises between here and Tennessee. Now there’s no reason in the world why Daniel couldn’t do that just as well. Or even better—half a dozen franchises! Why, when they were boys, Daniel could just run rings around Bob Henry.”
    â€œIs Bob Henry the one all the cats follow around?” his dad asked.
    â€œNow Daddy, you know Bob Henry!” Then, turning to me, “I’m not saying Bob Henry couldn’t maybe spend a little longer in the shower some days. It might help with his acne some, too. But that’s beside the point. The point is that he’s made something out of himself. You can’t say running four fried-fish sandwich franchises isn’t making something of yourself!”
    â€œAnd cats sure do seem to like