“Do you want me to invite him over?” I’d asked. “No, I don’t want him over here. Invite him to church.” Her eyes got real big and she nodded down toward me. “If he can’t come to church, he ain’t worth a quarter.” I thought to myself “Daddy don’t have to go to church, and you married him.” I could think whatever I wanted to, but I knew better than to say it. “What’s his name?” Daddy wanted to know. “Reginald Devereaux.” “Reginald what?” He jerked his head back. “Devereaux, Daddy. It’s French.” “Ain’t that something—a tough black name like Reginald mixed up with a soft-sounding French name. What’s he look like?” he asked. “He looks black, Daddy.” I shook my head. I’d wondered, even then, what Reginald’s complexion had to do with anything. I thought the question at hand was whether or not I could go. I followed Momma’s orders and asked Reginald to come to church. He wasn’t actually my boyfriend, but we were “talking,”
