Deep in My Heart

During Freedom Summer in Mississippi a murderous psychopath stalks the fine white citizens of a sleepy rural town.

sophomore year just before the trig final she’d be up here instead of me.  Mary Perrine and Shane Waldrop are maybe a point behind Jennifer.  There are ten students that are within a four points of Mary and Shane. We’ve all spent many endless hours chained to books when we would’ve rather have been engaged in other, more interesting pursuits, but what I feel I must point out is that those of us with higher marks have all sometimes just been very lucky.  We just happened to remember the items that our teachers chose to put on the tests.  Our scores are no clear cut indication of the exact level of effort that any of us expended while attending this school.  But I can guarantee no matter how much hard work and time the most studious of us has put in, none of us here tonight would have achieved anything without the constant support of our families and instructors.  I’m reminded of the words of Sir Isaac Newton who wrote, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”  I’d like to expand on that thought and guess that if we were to examine those shoulders beneath our feet carefully, we will notice that from them sprout a full feathered pair of shining wings.  I stand here tonight to remind you my fellow graduates that twenty or thirty years from now who stood here giving a speech and what he or she said will not matter in the least.  From this moment on we all start out even.  What will matter is our resolve to pledge ourselves to make as much a difference in the lives of those who will count on us as those who have helped us get to this moment.  I ask you my fellow graduates to please join with me in giving thanks to our personal angels for all of their help.”

            The light swells back to full and the graduating class stands and gives their audience a rousing standing ovation.

            My son has a distinct flair for the dramatic.  He gets it from his mother.

            “Ah, geeze, Daddy, yew didn’t.”  My daughter looks disapprovingly at the large fiberboard tray containing the messy remnants of a pork barbecue sandwich.  Two over-crisp French fry ends stick like clipped panther claws in a puddle of catsup. Fragments of pork shoulder are tiny islands in a reddish-brown sea of sauce.  There is a sizable empty paper container that used to hold coleslaw.  A thick cigar smolders in the ashtray next to two chewed butts.  She plucks my glass of bourbon and asks, “An’ what num-bah drink would this be?”

            “It would be four, I do believe.”  I pick up my tab and check.  “Five.  The first one didn’t last long.”

            “Momma’s gonna throw a shit fit.  Y’all are supposed ta be watching you’self.  Yew’d think yew of all people would know better that to pollute yo’ body with all this junk.”

            “You would think,” I agree.  “I did two angioplasty, one bypass, and a pacemaker insertion only today.  And before you remind me, we do have a history of heart disease in our family.  Can I buy you a drink?  Have you eaten yet?”

            She grins and says, “I guess yew couldn’t ver’ well tell Momma on me.  I’ll have a tom collins and a catfish sandwich -- no fries though, chips.”  She slumps on the stool beside me and opens her purse and pulls out a cardboard pack of cigarettes.  I look from them to her face.  She tilts her oval chin to her chest and looks me in the eye, challenging me to berate her.  When I don’t she tucks her corn rows behind her ear and gives me that “hymph” expression by subtly tugging slightly at both corners of her mouth in a not quite smile and giving me a scant “I-didn’t-think-so” backwards nod.  She tucks the filter on