For you, a son of so-called privilege, puberty means beginning to make sense of why you kissed Imogene down in the hay pile when y’all were six and why you both always knew you could never tell a soul. It means coming to terms with the fact that you and Imogene both share your father’s nose. And it means beginning to internalize an arrangement in which you will one day inherit as property the woman who both competed with your mother for your father’s love and nursed you at her breast. If you were a good Episcopalian, as most plantation families were, this is also about the time you would be
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