Free Courir De Mardi Gras by Lynn Shurr Page B

hear the whir of the dryer and the clanking of the zipper of her jeans against the drum coming from the kitchen. The air smelled pleasantly of perfumed dryer sheets. She and her hostess settled comfortably on the sofa.
    “You have a handsome family.” Suzanne nodded toward the framed pictures. She’d seen her activist mother do this countless times to set people at ease when she went out soliciting for her favorite charities. In this case, her daughter was the object of charity.
    “My daughter, Harriet. My son, Lincoln.” Her hostess rose, gathered an armful of the photos and brought them to the coffee table where the teacups sat.
    “They’re both school teachers. I’m a retired teacher myself. Harriet has two sons, and Linc, he got a boy on the fourth try. This is Linc and Doris on their wedding day. And these are my grandchildren.”
    She handed Suzanne a multiple portrait frame stuffed with school and baby pictures. “Harriet’s boys, Ohin and Salim. Those names mean ‘chief’ and ‘peace’ in some African language. They laughed at me for naming them after Harriet Tubman and Abraham Lincoln. At least those people were Americans. And here’s Linc’s girls, Tiffany, Crystal, and Misty, and the baby, George Lincoln, Little Linc we call him. Here’s my boy when he played basketball for the NBA.” She showed the glossy still with obvious pride.
    “Your son was the Lincoln St. Julien,” Suzanne said, mentally thanking Birdie for the information and trying to remember what NBA stood for, not that it mattered. The word basketball gave her the clue.
    Mrs. St. Julien’s brown face brightened with pride. “That’s my son. He played with the NBA five years before his injury. He coaches at the high school now. When he was making all that big money, he wanted me to have a new house and a big car, but I said to save for the future because you never know what plans God has for a person. Besides, I like it just where I am. He got me that big TV and the air conditioner even though my old set still worked fine, and I’ve been used to the heat all these years. Well, truth to tell, I’m glad I have them and gladder still he saved his money so he and Doris could build a nice place for their family in the country. I’m too old for change.”
    Mrs. St. Julien paused a moment as if she were aware she monopolized the conversation in a typical proud parent way. “Rain’s quitting,” she said almost regretfully. “You want me to call you a taxi? There’s just the one in Port Jefferson, and Willie sometimes takes a while to get here, especially if the streets are flooded. Are you visiting family, honey?”
    Suzanne hesitated. She had no idea how staying in a big white mansion would be taken by a person like Mrs. St. Julien—politely no doubt. Oh well, the words “Magnolia Hill” had opened the library, the bank, and Joe’s Lounge to her. She tried the magic words once more. “I’m staying at Magnolia Hill.” And received an instantaneous reaction.
    “Then you’re George’s special visitor. I’m so happy he finally brought a nice woman to stay at the Hill. You’re a sweet girl, and he’s such a fine young man. I’m sure you two will hit it off. I can’t understand why he hasn’t brought you to see me sooner. When he and Linc were playing ball together, George spent more time down here than up at the Hill. And when Linc went away to play for the big leagues, George would bring me flowers on my birthday from the both of them. Look here.”
    She went to stand by a large ficus tree in a wooden tub filling one corner of the room. “George gave me this one Mother’s Day when Linc was away. It’s almost as tall as he is now. I remember…”
    Mrs. St. Julien sat on the sofa to do her remembering. “I recall the weekends those boys would come home from college when they weren’t playing ball. That wasn’t often, not often enough for a mother. When they were here, I thought I’d have to go on food stamps to