The Swan House by Elizabeth Musser

him, but by now I knew his teasing was perfectly harmless.
    â€œAnd over there’s the Rite Price Laundromat where me and my friends hang out on the weekends.”
    We must have been walking for at least fifteen minutes, and I was beginning to wonder if I should have come with him. “Are we almost there?”
    â€œNot far now, Mary Swan. Over there’s the cemetery—they call it Oakland. Right famous place,” he commented.
    Oakland Cemetery! Way across the street, I could see a tall redbrick gateway rising in three arches with wrought-iron gates marking the entrance. Carved in the stone above the main arch was the word Oakland .
    I nodded in the direction of the cemetery and said, “That’s where my mom is going to be buried.”
    â€œGo on. Ya don’t mean it?”
    â€œSure I do.”
    â€œShe hasn’t been buried yet?”
    â€œNo. Daddy and the rest of the people who lost family members in the crash are dealing with lots of red tape in getting the bodies back to the States. Most of the funerals are just now taking place. Mama’s is scheduled for next Saturday.” I suddenly felt a funny catch in my throat.
    He walked with me to the entrance to Oakland, and I peeked through the gate. Tall oaks and magnolias lined a narrow red-brick cobbled road with stone monuments on each side. “Have you ever been inside, Carl?”
    â€œYep. Lotsa times. Big ole place, sprawlin’ out all over. Kinda rundown now. But mighty lot of famous folks are buried in there.” He got this distraught look on his face, just for a second, and then he turned away from the cemetery and kept sauntering down the street.
    I watched him take his long, nonchalant strides. I wondered if he just liked to wander around in cemeteries, or if he went in there to attend funerals of people he knew. I was finding it hard to swallow. My head felt light, and I wanted to sit down on the curb, but Carl was already halfway down the street. I felt an awful aching inside for my dead mother, but even more so for this boy who was an orphan, who attended a run-down church and had a night job and had missed two years of school so he could help care for his siblings. I had to jog to catch up with him, and when I did, I was sweating and out of breath from the thick heat.
    â€œIt must be really hard to be a Negro,” I said softly. Then I wished I hadn’t.
    He looked over at me, wrinkled his brow, and shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
    We walked a little farther without saying a word. The houses on this street were small, wood clapboard, different colors, mostly with peeling paint. Many had little porches on the front, and on some of those porches men and women sat rocking back and forth, fanning themselves and staring at me as if I were a Martian. And I guess I stared back, all the while thinking to myself, This is what poverty looks like .
    It wasn’t so much the unkempt homes or the sparse grass and trash along the route. It was the people. The children with a kind of dirtiness that meant they hadn’t taken a bath for weeks. The men with toothless smiles and the wide women wearing clothes that looked like they’d picked them out of a rummage sale with their eyes closed. It was something I couldn’t quite define—something that made me feel sad.
    â€œHere’s where I live,” Carl said. He stopped in front of a white wooden house. Its yard was neat with potted flowers on the front porch. I couldn’t help but notice the contrast with several of the surrounding homes, which had car carcasses in the front yards.
    As soon as he opened the screen door, his siblings came to greet us.
    â€œCarl’s here,” one of the boys called out. “He done brought a friend. A white girl!”
    The two boys studied me solemnly at first. The little girl, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, stood beside Carl and gave me a shy smile.
    â€œMary Swan,