Free Morning Is a Long Time Coming by Bette Greene Page A

things we hadn’t as yet done: We saw the shopping center under construction out on Poplar Avenue and Grandma drove over every inch of Memphis State College.
    At two o’clock we ate a real pit barbecue sandwich at Leonard’s. People who ought to know say that nowhere else in this country can you get a barbecue like a Leonard’s Pit barbecue. The meat itself is so smokily spiced that it’s practically guaranteed to clear out your nasal passages for life. And if you’re willing to pay the price to be a hero in your own time, then sprinkle the meat liberally with pepper sauce. Volcanic!
    About eight thirty in the evening, Grandma brought the car to a stop in front of a long, fieldstone house where (damn the kilowatts and full power ahead) every conceivable light (both inside and outside) burned. There was no stinting with the music either. Everybody all up and down Cypress Drive could hear every note, every word.
Arrivederci Roma ...
Goodbye ... Goodbye to Rome ...
    For some moments, Grandma listened with me before leaning over to kiss me goodnight and goodbye. “I know you’ll have a wonderful time at ...”
    “Iris Glazer’s,” I supplied.
    “Iris Glazer’s,” Grandmother repeated. “Her mother is a close friend of your Aunt Dorothy’s.”
    “I know,” I said, wondering how far that could take me, while Grandmother smiled as though already anticipating my “wonderful time.” For wanting that for me, I think I loved her; for pushing me here tonight, I think I hated her.
    I dashed up the Glazers’ front walk as though I couldn’t wait to arrive, until I heard the Buick drive off. Then I came to an abrupt stop. Bringing as much Cypress Drive air into my lungs as possible, I adjusted my peasant blouse and my full ballerina skirt before slowly climbing up the three or four terrazzo steps to press a tremorous index finger against the button.
    The door was opened by a slim girl with cheekbones like an Apache. She gave me a sort of who-the-hell-are-you look. “Hi, I’m Patty Bergen,” I said, and when her quizzical stare showed no sign of fading, I continued, “My aunt, Dorothy Fried, is a friend of your mother’s.”
    “Oh,” she said, opening the door barely wide enough for me to enter the overly air-conditioned house. “I’m Iris,” said Iris Glazer, already moving away to re-enter her tight circle of friends.
    Gliding across the highly polished floor of the living room, bobby-soxed girls pressed against brightly shirted boys.
Save your loving arms for my returning ...
Keep the flame of love still burning ...
Within my heart ... Oh, arrivederci Roma ...
    As I looked around the room for another single of either sex to join, I felt about as graceful as Bull Durham among the swans. There was something about being a stranger—and maybe even something more about being a single among plurals. I wondered if even old Noah would have known what to do with me. Would he have been able to find somebody to walk with me up that gangplank?
    On the buffet table, red candles dripped intricate trails down straw-wrapped Chianti bottles, while a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth played background to some great-looking food. There were cold cuts of all kinds, a chafing dish filled with spaghetti and meat balls, and a Jell-O mold so spectacular that it came in three colors and combined more varieties of fruit than I was able to identify.
    As I helped myself to a good-sized helping of it and the spaghetti, I told myself that if I had more pride, I would refuse (absolutely!) to eat where I wasn’t welcome. Umm ... this is spaghetti! But Iris didn’t exactly not welcome me. And there’s nothing wrong with this Jell-O either.
    Maybe it was she who was offended when I didn’t followher over to her encampment. Well, if she had wanted me, wouldn’t she have said, “Come on over and meet my friends?” Or “I’d like to introduce you to ...” You know, Patty Bergen, you amaze me, you really do. You who are always