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I wondered what had happened to mum's old size fourteen. As I drifted off to sleep, remembering those happy, carefree days, I resolved to pay mum a visit; I hadn't seen her for a while, and our relationship was at a pretty low ebb. She always seemed annoyed with something when I visited, and invariably found something to criticise. It usually ended in a stand up fight and me storming out. At the heart of it, I suspected, was the fact that at thirty-two I still wasn't married. Life, for my mother, was about duty. I wasn't doing mine.Next day I awoke with a familiar, dull ache that followed a day with Rayanne. It was one of these lazy Sundays, when nothing much happens. I donned the lycra. 'Off to visit my mum,' I told Jeff. 'Want to come?' 'Uh, no, no thanks. I've got the, emm, grass to cut.'I smiled. Jeff was scared of my mum. She could be quite forceful in her opinions, and considered Jeff a bit' lightweight'. 'Make sure it's done when I get back,' I said, as I mounted my bike. 'Or. I told them my boy was twelve. He was sixteen at the time. Neighbors did not betray us. All had lost sons and husbands. It helped that Hortense's stature is slight, hardly taller than myself. When my boy eventually chose to grasp me, two years later, my diminutive build was as much at fault for casting me into mortal sin as was the lie.Two years later, the Confederacy was enslaved. The black was freed, and carpet baggers cloyed their way into state offices, to intercept the funds of promised reconstruction. Liars lay with lies.The farm my husband's grandfather had first sown, had become half sty. One strong boy and a strong but small mother could not till nor tend the acres needed to sustain our lives. Pigs grew fat and profitable. Hortense and I could plant beets and squashes and let pigs forage unkempt rows pocked with weeds they ate as readily as the crops. Winters were mild, and there was open country to herd the pigs to, while replanting took hold.Grandfather cursed us, tried to.
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