Dressing Southern

Her plump face broke in to a wide smile, illuminating the wrinkles she tried so hard to mask with various creams—which were neither cheap nor expensive. The creams, like she, fit directly in to the middle of the spectrum. Her hair was short, curled, and a rose-like blonde. Around her neck were pearls, supposedly an heirloom she would pass down to her daughter. Her perfectly ironed button-down shirt was snug around her ample waist. She wore blue jeans, tight at the stomach and loose at the feet, which were clad in white sandals, merely because it was after Memorial Day but before Labor Day.

“Don’t you two just look darling?” Her accent forced drawled out syllables.

Her husband, a bald man whose vanity allowed his waist to expand much like his wife’s, wiped his hand across his forehead. The humidity had caused tiny beads of perspiration to gather. “Ya’ll are just a sight for sore eyes.” He added as he fished out a crisp white handkerchief.

“Thanks,” their daughter answered. She was tall, like her parents. Her hair, naturally brown, was dyed and highlighted to a medium blonde. Her skin was tan and her teeth, straight and perfect, were a glistening white. Her pale blue sundress danced in the gentle summer wind around her tiny silhouette.

“Is your hair hairsprayed enough, Karen?”

“Yes Mama. It’s fine. You and Daddy go inside.” Karen rolled her eyes at me. They were the same color as the sky behind her curled hair.

“Bye Mr. and Mrs. Harris,” I grinned at them, trying to hide my awkward tugging at my bright red dress.

Mrs. Harris’s parting smile revealed more bright white teeth, artificially achieved through many hours spent in both the dentist’s and the bathroom.

Karen and I stood still for a moment after they left.

“Oh God, I’m too fat for this dress,” Karen turned to me. “Look, it’s bunching at the waist. It’s too small. I’m too fat for a 00.”

I stared at her. The fabric was bunching, yes, but merely because she had gathered all of the excess into her hands. But the question was a common one. Karen, a naturally pretty girl, was fond of asking questions about her looks. She’d make a negative statement, waiting for someone to contradict her. Even at thirteen, she was in a constant state of searching for physical validation.

I contradicted her, just as I was supposed to, and we went on to find our seats inside the house. We were at my house, getting ready for a sleepover. Karen was the first of my guests to arrive.

The air-conditioning hit us with a blast of frigid air as we walked through the door.

“It feels so good,” Karen sighed.

Her parents had joined mine, seated upon the couches in our living room. Our pictures hung upon the wall directly behind Mrs. Harris and she stood to examine them.

“Now is this boy your son?” Mrs. Harris asked, pointing at a picture.

“Yes, that’s Witek,” my mom replied with a smile.

“Why he’s just so handsome!” She turned to face my mother. “He should meet my older daughter. They’d be perfect together.”

“Sure…” my mother shot me a wondering glance.

As she sat back down upon the couch beside my mother, Mrs. Harris spoke again. “Now my daughter is just the prettiest thing you ever saw. And your son is handsome! They’d make such a cute couple. We ought to get them together. Where does he go to school now?”

“The College.” My mother turned to look at Mrs. Harris. Where Mrs. Harris was tall, my mother was short. Where there was curly blonde hair, my mother’s was straight and black. Her accent, instead of Southern, was Polish. She wore a loose fitting green dress and brown sandals. Her eyes, a deep brown, were framed by black glasses.

“Well the next time he comes home they ought to meet!” Mrs. Harris’s smile grew wider and wider. I stared at her, observing the wrinkles growing on forehead.

Our mothers spoke on, discussing the weather and our education. When the conversation ran out of steam, Mrs. Harris took a deep breath. “Well, Mrs. Ania’s Mom, have you been Saved by Our Lord Jesus Christ?”

My mother stared at her.

“I mean, have you come to accept Jesus as your one and only Savior?”

Silence.

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

My mother nodded.

“Are you a Christian?”

Another nod.

“What denomination?”

“Catholic.”

“So you haven’t been Saved.”

Mrs. Harris continued down this track, attempting to convince my mother that her soul would be in eternal danger if she didn’t accept Jesus as a Christian and not a Catholic. In her eyes, our souls would be lost because we had the Pope. My mother calmly countered Mrs. Harris’s every statement, wasting mostly her breath.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris, in their pastel colored shirts and white sandals, left soon after that. They had to go grocery shopping, they explained. Groceries at Piggly Wiggly, where the deals were. Piggly Wiggly is also where all the other women, clad in heirloom pearls and button-down shirts, shopped with their bald husbands.