High Noon

the grill.
    “Can you fix speeding tickets?” Zachary asked, and had Phin punching him in the arm.
    “Pay him no mind.”
    “I’m not kidding. Tisha’s had two since the first of the year.” Zachary sent Phoebe a wide grin. “After you eat my chicken, we’ll talk about it. You’ll be softened up.”
    “Your chicken?”
    “Boy, you couldn’t boil the egg this chicken started out as. That right, Loo?”
    “I take the Fifth.”
    “Couple a city lawyers,” Zachary said to Phoebe, wagging his thumb between them.
    “The lawyer with the empty wallet,” Phoebe said.
    “You will never live that down.” Loo belted out a laugh, did a shoulder and hip wiggle as she wagged a finger at her husband. “Deadbeat.”
    “I thought the story illustrated his innate sense of honor,” Phoebe put in, and had Phin flashing his teeth.
    “I like her. Leave her here. You”—he pointed at his wife—“can go.”
    “Mom!” A girl sprinted over. Curly tails sprung out over both ears. “Hero won’t come down out of the tree! Make him come down.”
    “He’ll come down when he’s ready. Say how do you do to Miz Mac Namara, Livvy.”
    “How do you do.”
    “Just fine, and how about you?”
    “The cat won’t come down.”
    “They like being up high,” Phoebe told her.
    “Why?”
    “So they can feel superior to the rest of us.”
    “But Willy said he was going to fall and break his neck.”
    “Oh now, Livvy, you know he just said that to get a rise out of you.” Loo gave her daughter’s pigtail a tug. “You wait till this chicken’s on the table. That cat’ll come down quick enough. You go on and wash up, ’cause it’s almost time to eat.”
    “Are you sure he likes it up there?” the child asked Phoebe.
    “Absolutely.” She watched Livvy run off. “How old is she?”
    “She’ll be seven next June.”
    “I have a little girl, just seven.”
    “Boy!” Ma Bee’s voice boomed over the yard. “You going to finish up that chicken anytime today?”
    “It’s coming, Ma,” the men called back together, and began to heap it onto a platter.
    There was potato salad and black-eyed peas, collards and red beans, corn bread and cole slaw. She lost track of the platters and bowls, and how many were passed to her. Arguments—mostly good-natured—and jokes jumped and jostled around the table as frequently as the food. Many went over her head—family history, which appeared in several cases to include Duncan. Kids whined or complained, mostly about one another. Babies were passed like the bowls and platters, from hand to hand.
    Nothing like her family, Phoebe thought, the tidy number of them, the overwhelming female tone of even the most casual meal in Mac Namara House. Poor Carter, she thought, forever unnumbered.
    There’d never been an old man at one of their courtyard picnics to be fussed over until he dozed in his chair, or a couple of sparking-eyed little boys dueling with ears of corn.
    A bit out of her depth, Phoebe chatted with Celia about her children—she already had two—and the one yet to come. She shared a smile with Livvy as the high-climbing feline inched his way down the tree to come beg at the table.
    At one point Duncan and Phin debated heatedly about basketball, the sort that involved the jabbing of forks for emphasis and the slinging around of uncomplimentary names. As they insulted each other’s brains, manhood, everyone else ignored them.
    Not just friends, Phoebe realized as the insults reached the point of absurd. Brothers. Whatever their backgrounds, upbringings, skin color, they were brothers. Nobody ragged on each other that way unless they were siblings—of the blood, or of the heart.
    She was having a Sunday barbecue with Duncan’s family.
    Not just a moment, Phoebe realized. A monumental moment.
    “Are you kin to Miss Elizabeth Mac Namara, lived on Jones Street?”
    Phoebe jolted out of her thoughts to meet Bee’s steady eyes. “Yes. She was my father’s cousin. Did you know her?”
    “I knew who she was.”
    Because the tone translated Bee’s unfavorable opinion of Bess Mac Namara, Phoebe’s shoulders tensed. There were any number of people in Savannah who enjoyed painting all family members with the same sticky brush.
    “I used to clean for Miz Tidebar on Jones,” Bee continued, “until she passed, about, oh, a dozen years ago now.”
    “I didn’t know Mrs. Tidebar, except by name.”
    “I wouldn’t think. She and Miz Mac Namara Did Not Speak.” The