The Ming and I Read Free Page B

throw from Charlotte, North Carolina. Mama still lives there, on shady, dignified Eden Terrace. It is the same house I grew up in. Nothing has changed, not even the mint green drapes hanging desolately from the cornice. Although she would hotly deny it, Mama has kept the house as a shrine to Daddy, who died in a water-skiing accident on nearby Lake Wylie seventeen years ago.
    At four foot ten, Mama is only an inch taller than me, but we both have healthy appetites and managed to make a sizable dent in her delicious dinner. In fact, had Greg come there wouldn’t have been enough artichoke salad for him. Mama claimed that the Harris Teeter where she shops was plum out except for the one jar.
    “Then you should try Hannaford’s,” I said.
    The corners of Mama’s mouth twitched, which is as close to a grimace as a true southern lady is capable of making.
    “I can’t stand the traffic on Ebeneezer Road,” she said. “Rock Hill is getting so big. It’s growing by leaps and bounds.”
    “Growth is supposed to be good,” I said, but I was obviously not an expert on the subject.
    “New stores are popping up all the time.”
    “Like Hannaford’s,” I said.
    Her mouth twitched. “Other stores, too. All kinds.”
    “Yeah.”
    Mama gave me a long, hard look. “Other stores, Abby, if you know what I mean.”
    I didn’t and said so.
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure. Would you like to split another piece of pie?”
    Mama shook her head and sighed deeply. Her fingers drifted absentmindedly up to her pearls, a gift from my father.
    “I’m glad we have this chance to talk alone, dear. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
    She had me spooked. “Mama, it’s not cancer , is it?”
    “Oh no, nothing like that.” She sighed again. “I’m just not sure it’s something I should tell you. You might think less of me.”
    I patted her arm. “You can tell me anything, Mama.”
    Mama leaned toward me. “I’m going to finally get one.”
    I had no idea what she meant. It could have been anything from a pet parakeet to a jogging machine. Didn’t both of those things come in avocado green? No, it had to be more personal than that, like maybe an electric razor or one of those depilatory kits.
    “You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said gently.
    Mama’s face turned the color of pickled ginger. “I’m going to get a tattoo.”
    “ What ?”
    “Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always wanted a tattoo, Abby. Ever since I was a little girl.”
    “Why?” I wailed.
    “Because I’m seventy-five years old, and I want to have a tattoo before I die, that’s why.”
    “You just turned seventy, Mama.” My mother is one of six women in this world who actually pad their ages, rather than shave a few years off. That way they are always complimented on their relative states of preservation, rather than given sympathetic looks. In Mama’s case, however, this ruse is totally unwarranted, since Mama looks young enough to be my sister, and I must habitually maintain an artificial gray streak in my chestnut brown hair so as not to be mistaken for a teenager.
    I stared at her. Her color was back to normal, and she appeared surprisingly composed. Too composed. Mama is a Monroe, and her chin was set in that peculiar Monroe position that could only mean one thing—she was hunkering down to be stubborn.
    “Well, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
    “I want you to go with me. You know, in case I’m too uncomfortable to drive myself home.”
    “Can’t one of your friends go with you?”
    Mama gave me a horrified look. “Gracious, no! They must never find out. Promise me you won’t tell them, Abby.”
    “I promise.” Of course I meant it. Far be it from me to start rumors that my mother was fast slipping into her dotage.
    “Good. I’d just die if they found out.”
    Something terrible occurred to me. Mama’s friends have eagle eyes to go with their rabbit ears. They were going to see the