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Show in my father's house/ 264 the shrimp cocktail, relishing it's hot sauce and completely forgetting that shellfish ranked with pork in my father's estimation - an evil akin to drinking whiskey. "This reminds me of Mexico," I told Jeanne. "You've been to Mexico?" Mrs. Griffin seemed surprised. The pitying look she had worn all day left her eyes for a moment. "When, dear?" Through the meal I told them of our Mexico visit, avoiding any allusion to our way of life. But Mrs. Griffin knew and understood why we had gone. "Still, it isn't the same as a vacation - not when you're forced to go," she murmured. I nodded and ducked my head. "My great-grandfather hid from the law for the same reason." Mrs. Griffin said as we finished our cheesecake. "But he was a fine man. And I wouldn't be here without polygamy." "Neither would I!" I blurted and we all laughed. The day was perfect. I had feasted on beauty and elegance, had been listened to and accepted - with full knowledge of my background. Someone in this world believed my happiness counted. My new room in the new duplex overlooked a brown dirt yard and battered wood fence. Beyond the fence a few chickens scratched the hard earth beside our neighbors' horse, last tokens of a rural area gone subdivision. The white house with its surrounding grounds and buildings, sold for equity in the mother's new homes was remodeled into a rest home. Its sale seemed unreal and vaguely anticlimactic, something lost long ago, its essence squandered without our full realization. |