Free Angels by Reba White Williams Page A

that nonsense? No, ma’am, you’re not a midget and your growth is not stunted,” he said.
    Dr. Mann is a fatherly sort and likes children, but he’s absent-minded about names. He calls all little girls “Sissy” and boys “Buddy.” I’d explained that to Coleman before we came so she wouldn’t be offended when he didn’t remember her name.
    “Then why am I so little?” she asked.
    “Oh, Sissy, your mama was a little bitty thing, and so was her mama, your granny. Your grandmother was a Coleman—that’s how you got your name—she was Olivia McLean Coleman before she married, and the Coleman women were all small-boned like you. I never saw a picture of your grandmother as a child, but you look a lot like your mother did at your age—there’s a photo of her on the wall over there. I was looking at it right before you came in.”
    Coleman nodded. She’s seen lots of photos of her mama, and she knew Angela wasn’t very big. “Yessir. How tall did mama get to be when she was grown?”
    He hesitated. “About five feet,” he said.
    She looked at me. “How tall are you, Aunt Polly?”
    “I’m five feet eight inches tall,” I said. “And before you ask, Ida is five feet seven inches.”
    She sighed. “I reckon I’m just gonna be short. Well, soon as I can, I’m goin’ to get me some high-heeled shoes!”
    We laughed, but I could tell she meant it. I hope she waits till she’s in high school. I don’t want to fight about that . Thinking about Coleman in high heels in the third grade distracted me so much, I forgot to tell her not to say “reckon.”
Dinah
    Aunt Mary Louise invited Miss Ida and Aunt Polly and Coleman and me to her church—the First African Church of God in Christ—this comin’ Sunday. It’s their homecomin’ service, when everybody who can comes back to Slocumb Corners. So many folks come, they can’t all fit in the church, and they put up a huge tent and have revival meetings the week before. After church on Sunday, the ladies spread a potluck picnic on tables under the trees in the churchyard, and people sit around and eat, and visit, and have the best time. In the late afternoon, there’s a baptizin’ down at the river.
    Coleman asked Aunt Mary Louise if she could go with her to a revival meeting. Aunt Mary Louise took her, and Aunt Polly went, too. I stayed home because I’ve been to revival meetin’s and I don’t enjoy them much—too noisy—and Miss Ida and I are going to watch To Kill a Mockingbird on TVagain, ‘cause we loved it the first time we saw it.
    Coleman came home lit up like a Christmas tree. She said it was the best church service she’d ever been to, and they had the best choir she’d ever heard. I’m not surprised she liked the choir—that choir sings better than some I’ve heard on the radio. When Aunt Myrna Byrd sings “Amazing Grace,” everybody cries.
    We all went to Aunt Mary Louise’s church on Sunday, and Coleman loved the choir, and the music, and Dr. Coker’s preachin’. People say Dr. Coker is one of the best preachers in North Carolina, but I’m partial to Reverend Guthrie. He doesn’t shout; he preaches like he’s just talkin’. Aunt Mary Louise’s church is much livelier than ours, but not as peaceful. I feel more like I’m in God’s house when it’s quieter, but some folks like to raise their voices and rejoice and praise out loud and clap hands and such, and that’s good, too.
    The Byrds’ homecoming picnic must be the best in the world. I counted eighteen different desserts, but I was stuffed with scalloped potatoes with ham, and tomato aspic (Miss Ida doesn’t care for tomato aspic, so we never have it, but I love it and eat it whenever I see it), before I even looked at the desserts. I only had room for chocolate pecan pie—that’s Miz Coker’s recipe; she’s famous for it. But I tasted a Japanese fruitcake they said Aunt Delphine Byrd made. I don’t much like fruitcake, but that cake is not really a