man jokes and peel his soft-boiled eggs for him. He had a dreadfully bad case of ulcers brought on by listening to old ladies complain in the pharmacy where he worked sometimes and drank quarts of pineapple juice all the time. The point is: I think there's a connection between Albert's actions, the pig-eyed Idahoan, and Miss Annie Hannah. Because regardless of what any of them say -and that goes for my Uncle Hector who has a B.A., an M.A., and a Ph.D. in history-according to the psychology I know (I took three courses in it at State U) and the facts I've gathered, Albert gave himself away as a homosexual that early in life. After he gave up on the idea of marrying either Miss Annie or Mother, he never looked twice at another woman. The only women he ever loved were Mother and Miss Annie, and, believe me, they both have the pig eyes he adored. Well, you saw Mother's. Hey, yours are kind of like hers. But don't get me wrong, because around here that's strictly a very nice thing to say. Well, anyway, turning away from adored pig eyes of women and to pig eyes of men, like that Idaho boy's, sure was the telling detail as far as I'm concerned.

Furthermore, he had had experiences that he told me about that I kept as sacredly secret as the fraternity ritual I accepted at the State U, something I'd never reveal anything about to anybody who isn't a Brother. I saw Albert that day when he sidled up to that Mormon boy and I saw them walk out to Creekside Park to discuss the possibilities of Mormanism. Two days later Albert was gone without a word.

In good time we got a card from some Blackfoot or Crow or some kind of Indian reservation in Montana. I didn't have any idea till then how nice Indians were and how much the Mormons wanted the tribes everywhere to believe and join. All that card said was, "Converting unbelievers is adding depth to my character and stars to my crown. May God lead you to the Prophet and the True Church. Love, Brother Albert." I didn't see the implications that I do now, and I thought, now can you conceive of that-"depth," "stars," and the biggest laugh of all, "Brother Albert." Why, I never called him brother. Well, I'd never spread evil about my blood relatives. I have my own faults, I know. But I knew it was glands, not God, that did Albert in, and if I'd had my way no one else in this family would have ever had that revealed to them.

Mother was so shocked and upset after the missing persons bureau turned up with Albert in Salt Lick, Montana, yet failed to convince him to come back that she wept and wailed for weeks on end. Right after the finding of him, the card came, but it did her not a bit of good. She even lost three pounds, which convinced her that strawberry shortcake three or four times a week was no sin after all. While she'd bake the huge, flat biscuit-cake-that's the way a fourth generation Mississippian begins creating a strawberry shortcake-she'd cry, "My baby! My love! My own sweet darling child!" Now he may have been her love and her child, but he surely wasn't her baby, and I reminded her.

"Mother," I'd say, conjuring up all of the dignity that I'd have used at a solemn initiation ceremony at State U, "I'm your baby, and you know it. Now calm yourself and be careful of what you're doing." (At that point I'd pick up the soda box which she would have knocked down with one of those wild gestures of flipping her tiny wrist, her hammy, ringless hand and bulbous, flabby arm swinging in the breeze.)

"You know all the crying in the world won't bring Albert back. And you know he's happy with those Indians and those Mormons and all.”

Those consolations, repeated so many times and always well meant, would just set her off again.

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