the cook nor the maid lived with us because we didn’ t have separate living quarters or anything like that. My father had bought the home because of its historical value. Though it wasn’ t the house where Blackbeard had once lived, which would have been more interesting to someone like me, it had been owned by Richard Dobbs Spaight, who’ d signed the Constitution. Spaight had also owned a farm outside of New Bern, which was about forty miles up the road, and that was where he was buried. Our house might not have been as famous as the one where Dobbs Spaight was buried, but it still afforded my father some bragging rights in the halls of Congress, and whenever he walked around the garden, I could see him dreaming about the legacy he wanted to leave. In a way it made me sad, because no matter what he did, he’ d never top old Richard Dobbs Spaight. Historical events like signing the Constitution come along only once every few hundred years, and no matter how you sliced it, debating farm subsidies for tobacco farmers or talking about the“ Red influence” was never going to cut it. Even someone like me knew that.
The house was in the National Historic Register— still is, I suppose— and though Jamie had been there once before, she was still kind of awed when she walked inside. My mother and father were both dressed very nicely, as was I, and my mother kissed Jamie hello on the cheek. My mother, I couldn’ t help but think as I watched her do it, had scored before I did.
We had a nice dinner, fairly formal with four courses, though it wasn’ t stuffy or anything like that. My parents and Jamie carried on the most marvelous conversation— think Miss Garber here— and though I tried to inject my own brand of humor, it didn’ t really go over too well, at least as far as my parents were concerned. Jamie, however, would laugh, and I took that as a good sign.
After dinner I invited Jamie to walk around the garden, even though it was winter and nothing was in bloom. After putting on our coats, we stepped outside into the chilled winter air. I could see our breaths coming out in little puffs.
“ Your parents are wonderful people,” she said to me. I guess she hadn’ t taken Hegbert’ s sermons to heart.
“ They’ re nice,” I responded,“ in their own way. My mom’ s especially sweet.” I said this not only because it was true, but also because it was the same thing that kids said about Jamie. I hoped she would get the hint.
She stopped to look at the rosebushes. They looked like gnarled sticks, and I didn’ t see what her interest was in them.
“ Is it true about your grandfather?” she asked me.“ The stories that people tell?” I guess she didn’ t get my hint.“ Yes,” I said, trying not to show my disappointment.“ That’ s sad,” she said simply.“ There’ s more to life than money.”“ I know.”