Free One More River by Mary Glickman

began. Cursing this fetish everyone he knew had about ancestry, he related his usual story about Daddy and the mystery of his origins. He even incorporated a version of the speech he’d made to Laura Anne on the day they met, the speech that charmed her for reasons he was only just beginning to suspect, those having to do with the seed of rebellion in her, rebellion against the restrictions placed upon good girls of spirit, a rebellion he was happy to indulge daily for the rest of her life if she let him. I am a child of mystery, he said, as he had that fateful afternoon. I am a child of mystery but I am as easy to decipher as a semaphore waved from the deck of a riverboat on a sparklin’ day in spring. Which means I might take a little study, but there is no deception in me. I have made my life a devotion in plain talk and honest proposal to atone for whatever drops of my daddy’s lying blood flow through my veins.
    Rose Needleman’s face went grim, her color heightened. She knew all this, having both quizzed her daughter on the young man’s background and done a bit of research with her Jackson acquaintances. With an introductory little cough, she commented in the manner she’d rehearsed and refined under her husband’s direction long into the night before.
    Ah-hem. Why that is a remarkable story, Mr. Levy. A remarkable story. A sad one, too. How difficult it will be to find a bride of good family in these parts with a history like that. How very difficult.
    It was as if a bomb went off. Laura Anne jumped up and insisted her mother not insult Mickey Moe. How can you be so rude? she demanded, which caused Daddy to jump up and tell Laura Anne to pipe down or go to her room. His wife started to cry. Her chin jerked repeatedly toward her right shoulder. I tried, Larry, I tried, she mumbled between sobs. At which Mickey Moe excused himself and rose to effect a rapid exit to avoid being witness to or focus of a family squabble. Laura Anne held him back then confronted her daddy bravely, without hesitation.
    Daddy. This man, this very fine man, does not need to search for a bride as he’s already found one in me although I am not so sure how worthy my own family is after this day.
    She told him this in a measured tone with a look sharp as needles. Lot Needleman’s jaw dropped out of complete shock that his baby girl could speak to him in such a way. Feeling the fool, he shut his mouth then vented his anger at Mickey Moe.
    Look what you’ve done, Mr. Levy! he shouted. Turned the sweetest creature on earth into a harridan in three short weeks! I want you out of my house!
    Yessir. Excuse me, m’am. Mickey Moe again tried to leave, but Laura Anne blocked his way.
    I’m goin’, too, she said and spun toward the door. Pursued by a stunned and sputtering daddy, half dragging Mickey Moe along behind her, she quit her parents’ house. They hustled into his car and took off.
    Neither spoke. Mickey Moe drove without destination for fifteen long minutes with Laura Anne nestled into his side, her head buried in his chest. It concerned him that she did not quiver, nor did her cheeks wet his shirt with tears. She breathed heavily. Her eyes were round and wide as a frightened doe’s. At last, Mickey Moe spoke.
    I left my hat.
    What?
    I left my hat at your mama’s.
    So?
    Well, she’ll probably call up those New Orleans cousins she mentioned and have their maid put voo-doo all over it.
    Laura Anne started to laugh.
    It was a good hat, too.
    And she laughed harder and harder until the tears came and then the sobs. Mickey Moe sighed a great sigh of relief, because he felt without knowing why that no matter what the battle ahead, if the girl shivering in sobs beside him could cry like that, they’d be ok. Where shall I take you tonight? he asked softly, hoping she’d suggest running off with him then and there. She stilled, picked her head up, and blew her nose into the monogrammed handkerchief she’d had tucked in the pocket of her