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“I’m not going to their house,” Chloe said. “I don’t want to see them.”
“But they’re your grandparents, sweetie,” Mama said, looking up from the okra she was slicing into little pieces.
Chloe stood by the sink, facing her mother. Her hair was styled in a pixie cut, and she was wearing overalls and low-cut All Stars, her eyes magnified by her horn-rimmed glasses.
“I can’t go there,” she said. “They have that stupid flag in their yard to show that they’re proud of voting for a fascist.”
Her mother turned toward her, adjusting the apron that she only wore when she was cooking fried food.
“It’s just a flag, honey,” she said.
“It’s not just a flag. It’s a symbol of approval. They voted for putting kids in cages. They voted for letting every lunatic redneck who stormed the Capitol go free. They voted against me because I’m a teacher. I’m not going there, Mama.”
“But they’re old,” her mother said as she poured buttermilk into a mixing bowl.
“Well, if they’re old, they should know better.”
“They won’t be here forever. Can’t you just overlook all this?”
Chloe rubbed her fingers on her temples and glanced up at the ceiling.
“I can’t. I can’t overlook it. If they were senile, I could overlook it. But they’re not.”
“They’re old,” Mama said. “That’s all.”
“Being old is not an excuse. And it’s not like they have a bunch of calcium deposits in their brains. It’s something completely different. It’s like they want to go back to a world before Brown versus Board.”
“What is that?”
“A civil rights case. They want to go back to a world when only white people had rights.”
“Maybe that world is all they remember.”
“I don’t think so. And you know what Lyndon Johnson said about voting.”
“Not really. But Lady Bird planted lots of wildflowers, and that I love.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I am not. You like bluebonnets, don’t you?” Mama said, now frying the okra in a cast iron skillet.
“Of course, I do. But I don’t like that our country is being run by fascists.”
“I have some seed if you would like some. I’ve got wildflower mix with Indian blanket, black-eyed Susan, Mexican hat, winecup, and purple coneflower.”
“It’s the wrong time of year for planting, but thank you. And no, I’m still not going to that house. That red ballcap Peepaw wears is no better than a white hood. I don’t want to see it.”
“You’re being intolerant,” Mama said.
Chloe found a rag and cleaned the countertop where her mother had accidentally splashed some of the buttermilk she was using for the batter.
“Intolerant?” Chloe finally asked, her volume increasing with every syllable.
“Intolerant.”
“It’s not intolerant to not want to be around fascists.”
“And you should respect your elders.”
“I always have. Or I always did until I found out that my grandparents were freaking brownshirts.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating. They’re fascists. Their hero quoted Mussolini, and they didn’t even care.”
“They must have thought Mussolini was a kind of pasta,” Mama said, flipping the okra with a spatula, the oil cracking and hopping in the old, seasoned skillet.
“Well, their leader is a fascist, and if they voted for him, that makes them fascists, too.”
“But they love you.”
“I understand that.”
“They love you.”
“But they’re Nazis.”
“But they’re the Nazis that love you.”
“That love me?”
“That love you. You know that. They are the Nazis that love you.”
Chloe nodded softly and began to wash the dishes in the sink. She thought about all of the weekends she had spent at her grandparents’ house as a child. She thought about how she had gone to church with them on Sundays and eaten lunch at their house after the service. She remembered how they attended all of her soccer games and all of her school plays. She remembered how much of their lives they had spent loving and supporting her.
This all confused her. Her grandparents were Nazis, but they were Nazis who loved her. And she loved them. That much was true. Maybe she would try to see them, she thought. Maybe she could try to change their opinions, though she was not so sure how effective she would be. It probably wouldn’t help. It would probably just frustrate her. It would probably just cause a fight, and she would end up saying something she never should have said and storming out the door. Her grandmother would stand there pale and uncomfortable, and her grandfather would be red and steaming with anger but would nonetheless remain in his chair and not say a word, though he would have surely wanted to. Neither of them had ever once treated her unkindly, and that, she knew, would never change.
“Think about it,” Mama said.
“Maybe I’ll see them at Christmas.”
“That’s a long time from now.”
“It is. And I’ll probably be out of town anyway.”
“Then go see them this weekend,” Mama told her. She turned off the burner and put the okra on a dinner plate that was covered with a paper towel.
“I don’t know.”
“Go see them. They love you.”
“I know they do. Maybe I’ll go. We’ll just have to see. I have a lot of papers to grade.”
“You always have a lot of papers to grade.”
“I know, Mama,” Chloe said, looking out the window, the leaves on the burr oaks swaying in the wind. “But, you know, we’ll just have to see.”
