Chief Ass Burn stalked off, but not before coming over to me. “You won’t win, Evie. You’ll regret this.”

“She had nothing to do with anything,” my mother said, her voice furious. “She lives in the carriage house and came home from work a few minutes ago.”

“That’s it. I’m not even going to pretend I believe in Zen or karma or auras,” Aunt Camellia said. “Get out.” She pointed at him, her voice raised to a yell, and Aunt Camellia never yells. “Get off of our property now.”

“Don’t you dare threaten my niece,” Aunt Iris said. I had never heard her so angry, her voice hard and steely. “I will not tolerate it.”

“I’m watching you, all of you,” Chief Ass Burn said, then he glared at me one more time, turned on his heel, and left. Only he turned too quickly and smashed right to the ground. He swore.

“Bad words,” I said. “Please don’t swear. It offends my sensibilities.”

“I’m going to miss that pot,” Aunt Camellia said as the chief left our property with the sirens on and lights flashing.

“Oh, pish,” my mother said. “You hardly ever even smoked it.”

“I know. But it made me feel adventurous.”

“Adventurous?” Aunt Iris said. “How about we go and plan that Antarctica expedition if you want adventure?”

“It’s a porpoise, packed ice, and pot vacation!” my mother said. “What a blast.”

* * *

That night my mother and aunts changed their mind about Antarctica.

They had done some thinking.

Jules’s DNA test said that she had Bantu, Mali, and Senegalese in her blood.

They determined it wasn’t from their father. His lineage, Norwegian and English, from family lore and letters, and DNA test, backed that up. It wasn’t from Jules’s and my father. His lineage, English and Scottish, from family lore and letters, and DNA test, backed that up, too.

So the Bantu/Mali/Senegalese most probably had to be from their mother’s side. We thought about Grandma, Grandma who wore wings and believed in fairies, who created a magical garden that protected her, and who jumped off a cliff, arms outstretched. She said she was from France and Greece. There was no French or Greek by lore or letter or DNA test in Jules.

Grandma had olive skin.

Thick black hair.

Very dark eyes.

“She was passing, wasn’t she?” Aunt Iris said

“I think she was,” my mother said.

“Sad, in this country that she felt she had to pass to live a life,” Aunt Camellia said. “That she knew it would be easier for her if she did.”

“She was born in 1910 in Mississippi,” my mother said. “I think we know why she lied.”

“I may have lied, too,” Aunt Iris said.

“Yes,” we all agreed. We might have. And that was incredibly sad.