The Right Thing Read Online Free

she’s there on the sidewalk, facing me.
    Trailer Park. Her pale eyes meet mine, and the wind lifts that hair, the color of good champagne, in a foamy tangle. I know this woman. I’m sure of it even before she speaks my name.
    â€œAnnie Banks,” she says. She folds her arms above her belly. Even in my confusion, I notice her coat’s grown too small, the buttons not able to meet. I’m speechless. Who the hell is she? I wonder.
    â€œYes,” I manage. She knows me? I used to be a Banks before I married Du and became a Sizemore. Without thinking, the rite pertaining to social awkwardnesses comes to my lips and I say, “Do I know you?” Immediately I realize I’ve said the wrong thing—even though under these circumstances, of course it’s the right thing to say—because her face closes like a prayer book at the end of a funeral.
    â€œI’m Starr Dukes,” she says. The look she gives me is as cold as the wind. “It’s sure been a long time.”
    The Jackson liturgy fails me. There’s no rite conforming to this situation, no magic incantation at my disposal to turn this into a casual encounter. I’m stunned. Before I can stop myself, I reach out to take the freezing, ringless hand of my once-best friend.
    â€œOh, Starr,” I breathe.
    It’s been twenty-seven years.

C HAPTER 2
    I met her in the summer of 1963.
    â€œI hear he’s a preacher,” my father said, looking worn out. The end of August had been a big week for his pediatric practice, what with immunizations, back-to-school physicals, screaming toddlers with ear infections, and the day wasn’t even over yet. My parents still had a cocktail party to attend after we finished eating, but this was news: a family had moved into the rental on the back of the block, next door to the Allens’ big white Victorian house over on Gray Street, and my mother and father were talking about this development over dinner.
    â€œWhat kind?” my mother asked. Her green eyes were watchful. “What kind” was an important distinction because preachers weren’t the same as pastors or priests or even reverends. Preachers’ sermons were characterized by unseemly physical exertion, gross quantities of sweat, hollering in unknown tongues, falling out in the aisles, and occasional snakes, so “what kind” was a serious question.
    â€œThe wandering kind,” Daddy answered. “What’s for dessert?”
    I was seven years old and an only child, so to me, my parents, especially my mother, were still the most extraordinary people in the world. Sneaking worshipful glances at her during the course of the meal, I was almost unable to eat my chicken à la king on toast points, my throat was so backed up with inexpressible admiration. My mother, Colleen O’Shaunessy Banks, “Collie” to her friends, was never anything but enviably dressed, and that night she glowed in an emerald-green, off-the-shoulder sheath, gleaming pearls about her long neck. A real beauty, her skin had that classic Black Irish, pore-less luminosity, set off with hair as dark as crow feathers. Because her people had worked the Georgia linen mills, her past was a nightmare of hand-me-downs and cheap shoes, and so she spent a scandalous amount of money on her clothes at Maison-Dit, the most exclusive department store in Jackson. To me, my mother was always, always beautiful, and tonight she was heart-stopping.
    â€œWhat are you staring at, Annie Banks?” my mother said irritably. “Eat your peas.”
    I swallowed and asked, “Do you have to go out tonight?”
    â€œLord, we’re only going down the block to Dottie Bledsoe’s for cocktails. It’s not the end of the world, Annie. Wade, could you hurry up? We’re going to be late.”
    And so, being under her thrall, I ate my peas instead of hiding them in my housecoat pocket when no one was looking like I