Free The Clouds Roll Away by Sibella Giorello

that myself. I simply found it a curious coincidence.”
    â€œWally Marsh rents a room from me, yes.”
    â€œIs there some reason we shouldn’t take him?”
    â€œHe’s an excellent photographer.”
    â€œGood. We’re excited for him to document the trip. And he’ll be compensated generously,” he said. “You’re sure this isn’t a problem?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou seem surprised.”
    â€œWhen will you come back?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s difficult to pinpoint a day, Africa operates on its own time. But perhaps when we return, you’ll know who burned a cross on my property.”
    â€œThat’s my sincere hope,” I said.

chapter eleven
    T here was more ballast for dinner—stuffed mushrooms, soggy as dish towels—but I ate second helpings of everything, hoping to make my mother happy, hoping to get used to the incessant cheerfulness that seemed as authentic as a plastic garland.
    Immediately after dinner, despite the dark and cold, I pulled on my running gear and sped down Monument Avenue to my sister Helen’s office.
    Even as a kid, I could have predicted Helen’s future career. My family couldn’t drive down Monument Avenue without her commenting on the Civil War statues that made the street so famous, and tonight, as I jogged down J.E.B. Stuart, I could still hear my sister’s critique. The war’s most famous cavalryman sat on a rearing horse, the animal’s right foot raised. The general was turning in his saddle, also to the right, which incensed my sister.
    â€œHe should be turning left,” she said when she was ten years old. “His body should counterbalance the horse’s movement.”
    My own thoughts were more prosaic, even back then. I was bothered by the traffic pattern around the statue. The one-way street headed east so drivers could only see J.E.B. Stuart’s face in the rearview mirror. Helen said that was symbolism for you.
    And now she nested in academe, a professor of painting at Virginia Commonwealth University. Her books on Vincent van Gogh produced effusive reviews in the Sunday New York Times . She was lithe and agile and beautiful, and she irked me to the point that I empathized with van Gogh’s urge to sever his own ear.
    As I walked into her office off Broad Street, she said, “It’s Mom, isn’t it?”
    I was still panting from the cold night run, pulling off my knit cap and gloves, my fingertips stinging.
    â€œWell?” she said.
    A nice office. High ceiling. Picture window overlooking Broad Street. Nothing like my hovel next to an echoing stairwell.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” she demanded.
    â€œShe decorated the house like it was five years ago. She’s trying to cook with white sugar and white flour, which she normally considers poison, and the Christmas carols are playing twenty-four-seven.”
    â€œRaleigh, I’m in the middle of finals. Can’t you come by the house next week?”
    No way.
    Helen lived in bohemian splendor on Oregon Hill with an abstract painter named Sebastian Woodlief. Spawned by prestigious British boarding schools, Sebastian considered himself a passionate supporter of the workingman, despite never having a job himself. My dad prayed Helen wouldn’t marry somebody like this. Unfortunately his prayer was answered. They weren’t married; they lived together.
    â€œWhy don’t you come by Mom’s house?” I said. “She hasn’t seen you since Thanksgiving and she keeps asking about you.”
    â€œSo what’s the problem?” Helen plunked down behind her drafting board. “She’s decorating, celebrating Christmas, and this is a problem because . . . ?”
    â€œShe wanted to go to St. John’s on Sunday and wore some outfit from Montaldo’s. She sat frozen stiff through the entire service, then said it was perfect . Does that sound like