wasnât a little gentleman. He was a little lady. That was the trouble. Heâd grown up around too many women. Papa treated him like his own, but Papa was always at the store or at a church meeting.
âWill, stay to supper and talk Lorna out of it,â Mama begged. âCampbell Junior is petrified.â
I knew that anything I said would just make Aunt Lorna more determined. âIâll try to come back Tuesday, Mama, and talk to him.â I pulled out my pocket watch. âI really cainât stay long now, but since supperâs ready Iâll eat with yâall.â
Mama splashed some water on her face, blew her nose, told me to bring the sweet potato soufflé, and picked up the platter of fried chicken. âWhat with the shame of his daddy shootinâ himself dead and all,â she muttered, âthat poor boyâs had moreân his share already.â
***
The family gathered, and we hadnât sat down at the table good before Aunt Lorna said in her put-on Northern accent, âYou must have felt like a white knight this afternoon, Will, rescuing that poor maiden from those great big old mean yellow jackets.â
Loma always did know how to get my goat. When she was twelve and I was six, she decided to make me call her Aunt Loma. Mama, Papa, Granny, and even Grandpa had backed her up. They said she was a young lady now and I must show her proper respect.
Ever since I got grown, and especially after she got to be thirty, sheâd been trying to make me go back to calling her just Loma. I could feel sorry for any woman worrying about getting old, even Aunt Loma. So I knew how to get back at her. Whenever I felt hateful, Iâd stick my face in hers and say, âAinât you my Aint Loma?â
That night around the supper table I said, âWhat I want to know, Aint Loma, is about this rich old Yankee you goân marry. Whatâs his name, and just how old is he? And how rich?â
âThatâs how rich!â Reaching across the table, Aunt Loma made a fist of her left hand and wagged that big old diamond ring at me.
Campbell Junior interrupted. âCudn Will, I donât want to go up North,â he whined, and bit glumly into a drumstick. I was his last hope. âTell Mama I ainât goân go to no military school.â
âYouâll like it once you get there,â his mother said, not unkindly. âBut you might as well quit saying âainâtâ right now. And start cutting up your chicken. New York people donât say âainâtâ and they donât eat chicken with their fingers.â
âNot even fried chicken?â
âThey donât have fried chicken. They flour it and brown it and then steam it awhile. Thatâs what they call fried chicken.â
Campbell Junior stared at her, unbelieving, and slowly lowered the drumstick to his plate.
âNever mind,â Loma said. âHoney, youâre going to have a daddy.â
âI donât want a daddy. Uncle Hoyt is my daddy.â
Smiling very sweetly at him, Loma said in exaggerated Southern, âHoney chile, you just goân love Mr. Vitch.â
âMr. Vitch?â Papa repeated.
âThe man Iâm going to marry.â She rattled off a twenty-syllable last name that I couldnât understand then and never could remember later. âOur friends call him Vitch. But when itâs just us, I call him Mr. Rich Vitch. He likes that.â
âIs he a Bolshevik?â asked Papa.
âDonât be silly, Brother Hoyt. Rich men arenât Bolsheviks.â
âWith a name like that he could be anything,â said Papa.
Campbell Junior just sat there pushing his black-eyed peas into a mound with his fork and a cornstick.
âHow,â I asked, âdid this man Itch make his money?â
Lomaâs face flushed. âI said Vitch.
Vitch.
I think he made it in the steel business. Or maybe coal.