She’d be pacing in her sea-green nightie, mumbling names of people she probably knew only out of books, “Ramona told Gregor told Buck told Philip IV told Mona …” Sometimes she’d half-hum place names: “In Casablanca, Verona, Boca Raton, or Antibes. In Seattle, maybe Glasgow, then, of course, in old Bombay.” You know, she never mentioned North Carolina? Not a single town along Dad’s Bible route and mine.—Finally, the bedroom door creaked shut. Uh-oh, a “no” answer. Dad scuffed outdoors to his beautiful Packard. He sat for hours in the dark, just the red tip of a cigarette to mark him there.

Clyde joshed about his own appearance; poor guy had little choice. Standing six feet one prevented hiding all that much of it. Nervous people laughed when he walked into the room—with or without his mismatched cufflinks, orange bow tie, and forty free Bibles. I once heard a lady desk clerk (who created Last Supper “scenes” from numberless glued seeds) call Clyde—to his face—the Human Basset Hound.

“You mind, Clyde? Your face makes people happy but in reverse, like. Probably just glad it ain’t them. People swear you’re so plain you’re almost cute. You mind much?”

Shy, he shrugged, “Heck, Verna, that’s a step up. Most folks say I’m so ugly, I’m just real ugly…. Yeah, when the Lord was passing out looks, I thought He said ‘books’ and asked for somethin’ funny.” She folded double, laughing as if this were new to her.

Only once did Mother join us on our motel jaunt. She took a wry and girlish interest. I saw the legendary charm. Her family had been rich, at least compared with us. As a child, she’d owned a pony all her own named Lucky. Given Dad’s unmentioned dirt-poor history, he considered her folks regular Rockefeller runners-up. The Sunday she came along, Dad was so glad for Mom’s company he nearly wrecked us, staring her way too much. If Clyde looked at her long, irrational grins—actual tears—would form.

Mom pronounced our pals—the hobbyist innkeepers—“stitches.” After riding a hundred miles, she decided they were “basically pretty eccentric.” By next morning, our friends had sunk to “loner nut cases.”

Mother’s migraine blinders deserved a Sunday-school-perfect attendance pin. We lived in “Falls, pop. 2100, bird sanct.” Low-grade rumors circulated—about how Mom spent those ailing Sunday afternoons as we toted God’s word from Manteo to Mount Mitchell (North Carolina). Someday I planned to prove to Dad such gossip was untrue.

2.

Once we’d endured church service, after Pop placed cool white terry-cloth to her forehead, soon as he shut their bedroom’s Venetian blinds as tight as gills, we regained permission to leave her.