George kept going out to his car to get a drink. "Excuse me," he would say and then would come back in reeking of bourbon. Mrs. Jones doesn't let him drink or smoke inside.
"I wish he would stop that drinking," George's mom told me with a scowl and a sigh as I was in the kitchen watching her cook.
Lunch was delicious. My favorite thing was Mrs. Jones' homemade biscuits and gravy. Every time I would eat my two, George's mom would put two more on my plate. I must have eaten ten. They literally melted in your mouth.
George and I got on a discussion of the differences between black and white churches after lunch.
"Black people go to church for hours," George told me.
"And black preachers are really theatrical and dramatic," I replied.
"That's to get the fear of God in you," George said.
I finally drove home in a driving rain. It was just a few miles, but I was growing concerned I couldn't see to drive. I am still so shaky these days.