While I was puttering around the house getting my breakfast, the phone rang. I answered and was greeted by the voice of my oldest, Estelle. "Bonjour, cher papa. Ça va?"

I smiled. I was proud of my children's bilingualism, but I couldn't keep up with them in French. "I'm fine, sweetheart. I'm gradually getting into a routine."

"You know that you're always welcome to come and stay with us. The kids are always asking when grand-pére is coming. You'll just have to promise not to spend too much time drinking with Jean-Marc. Sometimes I think you're a bad influence on my husband."

"I am," I said, "or I certainly try to be. But that husband of yours can be a pretty good hell-raiser all on his own. Tell me, 'Stelle, what's the real reason you called?"

"I got a call from Uncle Will last night. Granny has taken a turn for the worse. They don't expect her to last the night."

"That's bad news, but I'm not surprised. It's a wonder she's lived this long with that condition. But she's always been a tough lady. She's had to be."

"We're all getting ready to go down tomorrow. Can you come with us?"

"I can't come until the afternoon at the earliest. I have an operation first thing in the morning. The poor guy has been waiting for months, and it wouldn't be fair to postpone it any longer. I'll join you as soon as I can."

"We're going to stay with Grandpa and Grandma Culpepper in the big house. Grandma called right after Uncle Will did. She's insisting that we stay with them. Jeanne and her kids are coming as well. Louis will have to come on Friday."

"How about Danny?"

Estelle was silent for a moment. "Danny is going through one of his bad periods. He claims that he's clean and sober, but I have my doubts. I'm so worried about him, Papa."

"We all worry about Danny. That's what he's for." I sighed. "I'll give him a call."

"Papa, Grandma and Grandpa want you to stay with them as well. Will you at least consider it? This thing between you and your folks has gone on too long."

"Sweetheart, I'll think about it. But it's hard. They could have come. They should have come. But they didn't. I know that it hurt you, too."

"Yes it did, Papa. But do you remember what you always told us when we were kids? It takes a little person to hurt someone and a big person to forgive."

"'Stelle, I'll think about it. Seriously, I promise you. Now, I have to get to work. I have a full day in the O. R. Please give my best to your uncle when you see him."

Estelle rang off. I finished my breakfast and got ready to go to the hospital, all the while thinking about the past and my alienation from my parents.

I grew up in Albany, Georgia. Well, not exactly in Albany. We lived about ten miles south of the city. The "town" was called Putney. It's big enough to show up on a map these days, but when I was a kid, it had a general store, a gas station and a tiny one-room post office. The town or area of Putney was the old Putney plantation. My family was related to the Putneys somehow. I never really understood what the relationship was. The last "Putney" was Mr. Witherspoon. He lived in the "House," pronounced with an implicit capital "H." The House was an old ante bellum mansion, then somewhat faded and decayed. The House always seemed very spooky to me. The exterior was white, at least where the paint wasn't peeling. Inside, it was filled with oversized furniture, dark wood upholstered in maroon velvet. There were heavy velvet drapes at the windows, often drawn against the midday sun. Mr. Witherspoon, or "Uncle Fred," as he insisted that I call him, was a bachelor. His only companions in the House were his man servant Noah and his housekeeper/cook, both black. Uncle Fred was quite fond of me, and I was fond of him as well. He insisted that I visit often and would take me on his forays into Albany.

This was in the 1950s. Like most wealthy people at that time, Uncle Fred had a Cadillac. It must have been one of those early fifties models, one of the first with the fins. It was a limousine, and it certainly seemed enormous to me, much bigger than my dad's Buick. Uncle Fred would ride downtown several times a week in the Cadillac. Noah, his man, would drive him. I'd sit with Uncle Fred in the back. When we were settled in, Uncle Fred would rap on the window separating the front and rear seats, and away we went.

Noah always took care of Mr. Witherspoon. When my family came to the House, Noah would be the first to greet us. He would show us into the parlor to await Mr. Witherspoon. After we'd waited for some time, the great man would at last appear. He was always dressed in a white suit. Out of the house, he always wore his white hat. Inside the house, of course, he did not. But he always wore one of his many lovely bow ties. Uncle Fred took pride in his ties. I recall his taking me aside and saying, "Charlie, a man is judged by a number of things. One of these, and perhaps not the least consequential, is his tie. Wear a nice tie, and many things will be forgiven you."

He was reputed to be quite wealthy, although his lifestyle was not lavish. His uncle, Judge Francis Flagg Putney, had given the lion's share of the money for Albany's general hospital. It was called Phoebe Putney Memorial Hospital, in memory of Judge Putney's mother, Mr. Witherspoon's great aunt. Mr. Witherspoon continued the family tradition of contributing to many local charities.

I liked Uncle Fred. He taught me to play chess. And he never laughed at my mistakes. He took me seriously, treating me as an adult. Sometimes, he'd send Noah to pick me up in the Cadillac. Noah would let me ride up front with him instead of in the back. I much preferred that. The back of the car was very intimidating. It was all dark leather and wood with curtains over the windows. It wasn't a friendly place for a little boy. When I rode in the front with Noah, it was as though he and I were coconspirators.

The sojourns with Mr. Witherspoon were very unlike my home life. My dad made his living developing properties. I recall that when I was in junior high school, he developed and sold an area in the western part of Albany. He called it "Whispering Pines." That was hardly an original name, but it mattered little. Albany was booming in those days. There was the Air Force base, Turner Field, and the big Marine Corps supply depot. Many people were making money. Whispering Pines sold quickly, and my dad made a lot of money. The houses were considered "upscale" in those days. They sold to families with upper-middle incomes. My dad was one of the first developers in what was called "SOWEGA" (South Western Georgia) to build properties especially designed for this demographic.

Aside from the interruptions from Mr. Witherspoon, my life at home continued as usual. My dad had built a large house on part of the family's lands. It was, now that I think of it, quite grand compared to most in the area. There was an oval driveway sweeping around the front of the house. There were the requisite fountains, trees and so forth. As for the house itself, it was white. The entire structure was white. The roof was white. All the fitments were white. Everything was white. Much like Mr. Witherspoon's house and suits. Of course, the society in which I grew up was also white.

This was before any semblance of integration had occurred in Georgia. I attended all-white schools. Our church, our theaters, even our public busses, on the rare occasion that I entered such a vehicle, were also segregated. But Effie was my best friend. And Effie was black.

Her dad, Willy, worked with and for my dad. I describe it that way because Willy Terry was at once my dad's man of all work and business partner. He oversaw many of Dad's enterprises, especially those concerned with the black community. It was, they reasoned, far better to have a black man in command of these businesses. Willy was a partner in several of them and a full partner in at least two that I knew of, both of them semilegal bars and gambling establishments, known as "juke joints." The biggest of them was a club called "Terry's Place." Sometimes he would take me there and let me play the horse racing machines. They looked rather like pinball machines, but instead of balls there were little horses that made their way down the track. At the beginning of each "race," you placed your bet by inserting quarters in the slot below your horse of choice. Willy would give me a roll of quarters and leave me to myself.

I loved Willy. He treated me like a man, even when I was six years old. "Charlie," he'd say, "you and me have to do some man stuff now. Let's leave these ladies alone." The "ladies" were often my mother, my sister Mary Sue, Willy's wife Ethel and her daughter Effie.

Dear Effie. She was two years younger than I. Her brother, Willy Junior, was my age. He was called "Alarm Clock," usually shortened to "Clock," from his habit of rousing the family when he was a toddler. Clock and I often went on expeditions, many of them for no understandable purpose. Clock was the oldest in his family. He had three younger siblings, all girls: Effie, Leonora and Alfreda. The children's ages were almost equally spaced. Clock was my age. Effie was two years younger. Leonora was nearly two years younger than Effie, and Alfreda, the baby, was about a year and a half younger than Leonora. Since our families lived in the country, the Terrys were our nearest "neighbors." Their house was only a half-mile or so from ours. I grew up playing with the Terry kids. I liked them all. But Effie was my special friend. She and I could spend hours together doing minimal things or perhaps nothing -- just delighting in each other's company.

Effie's Christian name was Ethel, after her mother. However, when she was first learning to talk, she called herself "Effel." Everyone began calling her Effie, and it stuck. Effie was a very pretty girl, even as a young child. Her complexion was lighter than that of her siblings. Her features were perfectly symmetrical. In a later time, she might have had a career as a model or actress. However, this was the Deep South in the 1950s.

Our families seemed amused by our friendship. I'm sure that they assumed that we'd eventually grow apart, as boys and girls do. But as we grew older, we became even closer. Every day when I returned home from school, I looked forward to spending time with her. Often, she'd already be waiting for me in our kitchen. Other times, I'd take my bike down the road to the Terry house. Ethel would greet me at the door. She'd always ask, "Are you hungry, Charlie?"

Silly question. Boys are always hungry, and Ethel was a master cook. There were often cookies hot from the oven. Sometimes there were even donuts or pecan fritters. My family had several large pecan groves, and the Terrys looked after them. In return, they got a percentage of the proceeds and, of course, as many nuts as they wanted. From these nuts, Ethel would create culinary masterpieces.

After I'd eaten my fill and sworn that I would never tell my mother, Effie and I took off on our bikes. Sometimes we'd ride down to the creek or to one of the old abandoned houses on the plantation. There were still the ruins of slave cabins with their attendant barns and outhouses, as well as more modern but equally abandoned farm houses. As we explored them, we'd sometimes surprise a little snake or other animal taking refuge in these ruins. Effie always cried when they ran away. She felt sorry for them. This was their home, and we were the intruders.

Our friendship continued through elementary school and junior high. Of course, we didn't attend the same schools. That was forbidden. But both of us always looked forward to our time together. When I reached my teen years, Effie was the only person to whom I could confide the frightening things that beset a child going through the trauma of adolescence, things I couldn't tell my parents or any other friends. Effie also knew that she could share any problems with me. We had many secrets together -- things that would seem inconsequential to adults but which were very important to us.

My relationship with Effie was much closer than that with my own sister. It wasn't the age difference. Mary Sue was only slightly younger than Effie. But I never felt as close to Mary Sue as I did to Effie. Although we got along, we were never close, either as children or as adults. Of course, this lack of closeness was amplified by the fact that Mary Sue went to a private boarding school in Macon. I was sent to public school. My dad's reasoning for this was that he'd been sent to a military school as a child. He felt that had left him with no empathy for the common man. He'd had to develop that empathy to become successful in business. He didn't believe that boys should be kept away from their peers. However, girls were different. They needed protection from the lower classes. Of course, a girl would eventually marry someone of her own class who would take care of her.

Besides Effie, I had only one other close friend -- another girl. Her name was Rudine Klein. Rudine and I met in third grade at Isabella Elementary School. It was a brand new school, and we were either the first or the second group of children to inhabit it. Rudine and I were both social outcasts. I was an outcast because I simply didn't fit in with the other children. Most of them came from poor or working-class families. I couldn't relate to them, nor they to me. In order to avoid playground fights, I learned to avoid the tougher boys. In spite of the fact that I was reasonably proficient in sports, I was widely regarded as a sissy.

Rudine had a different problem. In spite of her name, she was not Jewish. She was a Seventh Day Adventist. Her parents were very strict, and she wasn't allowed to take part in many of the school activities. Rudine's family also lived in Putney. Often my mother picked me up at school. She'd give Rudine a ride home. On the days when Mother was otherwise occupied, Rudine and I took the school bus. We always sat together. We spent a lot of time sitting in the back seat of my mother's station wagon or on the school bus. We talked about all sorts of things. Rudine was interested in many of the same things that I was. Like me, she was a budding intellectual. She was an only child with no close neighbors. She read a lot. We were both science fiction fans. We'd swap pulp magazines and paperback books. We could discuss Heinlein for hours. We remained friends all the way through high school. Rudine was a tall, slim girl. She had dark hair and blue eyes. In high school, she would become a real beauty, but rarely dated.

It's a truism that most boys are closer to their mothers than to their fathers. That was never the case with me. My dad and I were close. My mother and I were not. Dad taught me many things. Remember, this was rural Georgia in the 1950s. Dad taught me how to shoot a gun, how to fish and how to hunt humanely. Dad, Willy, Clock and I spent many hours hunting and fishing. Those days are among my fondest childhood memories.

Dad often traveled on business. On occasions when the trips didn't conflict with school, I accompanied him. We traveled to many cities. The ones that I still remember were Atlanta, Charleston, Savannah and Birmingham. They were all much larger than Albany. The trips were great adventures.

When I was a sophomore in high school, Dad had to go to New York. The trip would last most of a week. It was to take place around the time of my school's Easter break. I was overjoyed when Dad asked me to go with him. With an uncharacteristic display of bravado, I asked him if Effie could come with us. I regretted it as soon as the words left my lips. But Dad surprised me.

He said, "Why not? If her parents agree, I'd be happy to have Effie come with us."

Then I had another thought. "But we'll be staying in a hotel, right Dad? Where will Effie stay?"

Dad laughed. "Son, we're going to New York City. New York isn't Georgia. Effie can stay with us in the hotel. Hell, I'll get us a suite, and we can all stay together. It's about time that you saw more of this country, and it'll do Effie good, too."

Effie's parents agreed, somewhat reluctantly, I thought. Effie certainly wasn't reluctant. She danced around the room. "Oh Charlie, I can't believe it. We're going to New York! Everybody will be so jealous."

I was sure that she was right. But unlike Effie, I didn't look forward to the jealousy of my schoolmates. When I was eight, my maternal grandmother died. Granny Prentice had lived in Mobile, Alabama. My parents went there to attend the funeral and look after the estate. I was left in the care of Uncle Fred. During the two weeks my parents were gone, Noah drove me to school in Uncle Fred's Cadillac. He allowed me to ride in the front when we left the House, but he insisted that I sit in the back when we approached the school. According to Noah, it was the proper way for a young gentleman to ride. I'd ride in the front from the House until we were a few blocks from my school. Noah stopped, and I got in the back. When we reached the school, Noah got out of the car, walked around it and opened my door. When he picked me up after school, the process was reversed. Unfortunately, my arrival came to be regarded as quite a show, especially by some of the tougher boys in the school.

During recess, they'd taunt me. They called me "little rich boy" and mocked me for having a "nigger chauffeur." I had more than one fight because of this. Some I won. Most I didn't. I wasn't particularly tough, and these bullies had much more fighting experience. After my parents returned, the taunts and bullying gradually became less and eventually ceased. That experience taught me that fitting in, or at least trying to, was the best policy.

So as the time for my trip arrived, I did not flaunt the fact at school. I told a few close friends, especially Rudine. They were appreciative and envious. Some were frightened. New York was the great unknown. I usually omitted, of course, the fact that Effie was accompanying me. In fact, Rudine was the only person to whom I told the whole story. At first, I simply told her that a friend was coming with me. When she asked who the friend was, naturally I told her.

"Charlie, that's wonderful," she said, "my church teaches us that all people are equal in the sight of God. I'm so glad that you have a black friend."

I was speechless. This was not the reaction that I'd anticipate from anyone I knew in Albany. But Rudine was special.

My dad knew New York well. He usually stayed at the Berkshire Place, a fairly small hotel on East 52nd Street, not far from the Plaza, as he told me, but much more friendly. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time. I learned why. I've often stayed at that same hotel in the years since.

Flights in those days were not the routine thing that they are today. We flew in what seemed to me at the time a large and impressive plane. Today, it would probably seem much less so. I suspect that it may have been a DC-7, one of the last of the propellor-engined airliners. We stopped several times on the way, I recall. Once, we were allowed to get off the plane and go into the terminal for a short time. I believe that was in Washington, D. C.

When we arrived in New York, we took a cab from the airport to our hotel. Effie sat very close to me. Her eyes were wide and became wider at the sight of the tall buildings of Manhattan. She squeezed my hand tightly and gasped occasionally. Dad looked at her and grinned. "Yes, Effie," he said, "it sort of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

We checked into our hotel. Our suite seemed very grand to me. It even had a TV set. Of course, we had a television at home, but there was but one channel, WALB-TV. Here there were a lot of them. Or at least it seemed a lot to me. There were two bedrooms. My father was to have one and Effie the other. I was to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room.

Our first night, my dad ordered our supper from room service. He allowed the television to be turned on during dinner, something that never happened at home. After supper, we watched television for a little while and then went to bed. We'd had a long and tiring trip.

The next day, Dad went to his business meetings, and Effie and I stayed in the suite. To tell the truth, we were both too frightened to venture forth into the big city. Besides, there was the TV set and all that it offered. That television set was to contribute to a change in our relationship.

In the afternoon, we were watching a soap opera or some similar show. I remember that there was a romantic scene between a boy and a girl. Effie turned to me and said, "Gosh, Charlie, doesn't that just make you want to cry?"

I was puzzled. "Why?"

"'Cuz it just looks so sweet."

I had to remember that girls saw these things differently. "Why?"

"Just 'cuz, silly." She looked at me solemnly. "Charlie, did you ever kiss a girl?"

"No. Not like that. Did you ever kiss a boy?"

Effie blushed. "No. But I've wanted to. One boy anyway."

"Who?"

She looked at me. "You, silly! Who else?"

I stared at her. At thirteen, Effie was definitely blossoming. Her breasts pushed against her shirt, and her hips now had a definite flare. Yes, she was all girl. No doubt of that. And to me, she was much prettier than any other girl I knew.

"Charlie, would you kiss me?"

I sat there like an idiot, not knowing what the hell to do. Effie was looking down at her hands. After a few moments, she looked up at me. She seemed about to cry. "I'm sorry," she said, "if you don't want to, don't feel bad."

I felt butterflies in my tummy. I reached out and took Effie in my arms. She lifted her face to mine. Our lips touched gently. In that moment, things between us changed forever.

I didn't hear bells ringing. There was no jolt of electricity through my body. None of those clichés. But it just felt right. Completely and totally right. Effie belonged in my arms. Her lips belonged on mine. I felt totally comfortable and wonderful.

We kissed awkwardly for quite a while. Neither of us had any experience. It didn't seem to matter. We stopped kissing and cuddled with our heads on each others' shoulders. Effie whispered into my ear, "I love you, Charlie. I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Effie. You're the only girl for me. The only girl I'll ever want."

She was sobbing now. "I want to be with you, too. But we can't. We can never be together. Ever. You're white, and I'm a Negro."

I held her, stroking her hair and somewhat awkwardly trying to comfort her. "We'll find a way, Effie. We'll find a way."

The next day, my dad insisted that Effie and I get out of the hotel and do something. He had a number of suggestions, among them going to a movie. I thought that was a great idea, but I pointed out that we wouldn't be able to sit together. In Albany, black people always sat in the balcony of the theatre. White people sat downstairs.

My dad laughed. "Damn, son. I'm glad you came on this trip. You need to see the world. As I told you before, this is not Georgia. Of course you can sit together. I'll get a newspaper from the bellhop, and you kids can pick out what you'd like to see."

I deferred to Effie. She picked The Three Faces of Eve. "I hear it's really good," she said. It was also playing nearby, so the matter was decided.

The next day, Effie and I ventured forth to the movie theatre. I was very nervous. I could tell that Effie was, too. As we left the hotel, she held my hand very tightly. We both wondered what would happen when people saw a white boy and a black girl together. We needn't have worried. When we reached the theatre, there were several mixed couples in line ahead of us. We drew very little attention.

I bought popcorn and cokes in the lobby, and we took our seats in the theatre. The movie began.

I'd been unaware that this movie took place in Georgia. Perhaps Effie had as well. In subsequent years, I've watched the movie and been able to appreciate it as a fine psychological drama. That afternoon, all that Effie and I could see and hear were the inaccuracies. Of course, the accents were all wrong. Some actors didn't even try, but the actors who attempted an accent had some hilarious generic "southern" accent. There are probably hundreds of different accents in the American south. Many southerners can tell where someone is from just by listening to them talk. These actors were as funny to Effie and me as English actors attempting an "American" accent or vice versa. We giggled incessantly. People around us glared. We moved away to an isolated part of the theatre.

We sat for a few minutes watching the movie. Then, Effie reached over to me. She turned my face to hers and kissed me. It was quite magical. We were kissing, although we were surrounded by people. After our kiss, we sat holding hands. Then I felt Effie's other hand on my thigh.

Her little hand moved slowly up and down my thigh. Gradually, it neared my belly. I couldn't believe this was happening. Slowly, ever so slowly, she drew her hand across my abdomen, down the front of my pants and eventually touched my penis.

Effie stroked my dick softly, investigating its length and contours. I could hardly breathe.

We were still holding hands. She gently moved my hand to her leg, placed it flat upon her, and patted it.

I took a deep breath and began moving my hand. I stroked her thigh. She continued to touch my dick gently. She started to rub the head with her thumb. Gradually, I gained courage. I moved my hand down to the hem of her skirt. I touched her leg beneath the skirt. Aside from a quick intake of breath, there was no reaction from Effie. I moved my hand ever so slowly under her skirt. I gently stroked the soft skin on her inner thigh. At last I reached the junction of her thighs. Just as I touched her panties, three things happened. Effie squeezed my dick. I came in my pants. And the lights came on.

Effie felt the moisture that was seeping through my pants. She looked at my crotch and gasped. "Oh God, Charlie. Did I hurt you? Are you OK?"

I kissed her gently. "Sweetheart, I'm OK. It's just something that happens to guys when they're really excited. But I'm a terrible mess. I have to try to clean myself up a little bit. OK?"

Effie looked at me, still unsure. "OK," she said.

She waited while I went into the men's room and tried to clean myself as best I could. It seemed as though I'd come a gallon, although I know that's impossible. My underwear was soaked in semen, and there was a good-sized wet spot on my pants. Finally, I realized that I had no choice but to face the world with a soggy crotch.

Effie was waiting just outside the door of the restroom. When I came out, she took my hand and gazed up at me with a stricken look. "Are you OK, Charlie? You were in there a long time. Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

"Darling Effie, you could never hurt me. The only thing that's damaged is my pride. I look as though I've peed myself. If you can put up with that, it'll be all right." We went straight back to the hotel. By the time my dad arrived, I'd cleaned up and changed clothes.

We had two more days remaining in New York. Effie and I were together constantly. We were often alone. We explored our new relationship and each other's bodies, tentatively at first. With increased familiarity we became more comfortable.

Looking back, I can see that trip changed our lives in many ways. Not only did we pledge our love and begin a romantic relationship, we learned that there were places in the world where people of different races could be together openly. Of course, when we returned to Putney, we had to be circumspect about our feelings. Our romance was a secret even from our parents. Perhaps most of all from them.

The only person I told was Rudine. Since junior high school, we'd usually had lunch together. By the time we reached high school, my friends would taunt me about it. "You ain't gonna get no pussy from that tight-assed cunt," they'd say, "the only guy she wants to fuck is Jesus, and he ain't about to share."

One day over lunch, I told her most of my experience with Effie. Again, Rudine surprised me. She had tears in her eyes. "Oh Charlie," she said, "that is so sweet. Effie is a very lucky girl."

I was puzzled. "How can you say that, Rudine? We can't ever be open about how we feel? We have to hide all the time."

"But at least," she said, "she has someone that she loves and who loves her. That's more than most people ever have."

"Rudine, you're really special."

"Not special enough, though," she said.

My dad had it in his mind that I would be a doctor. There were many lawyers, politicians and businessmen in our family but no doctors. I was not averse to the idea. I loved science. So, that summer dad sent me to a "science camp" at Florida State University in Tallahassee.

It wasn't really a camp in the usual sense. We stayed in university dormitories, and our classes were at Florida High School, the demonstration school of FSU. Our teachers were a combination of Florida High teachers and graduate students in education. The first several weeks, I moped about, missing Effie terribly. Then, I began to have a good time in spite of myself. There were many wonderful projects and experiments. And there was Jill Houston.