The Remnants

Chapter I
2008

“Donate to the dogs?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?” she said, looking at the two German Shepherds on leashes, drooling happily.

“Donate to the dogs?” he said again. His eyes were the seafoam green of a Matchbox car and his skin a ruddy olive, but there was something about him that looked like a made-up corpse, like he might melt in the 95-degree heat of this little town.

She had left Colorado when the snows started and there wasn’t anything else to do. She considered driving through Memphis and Tupelo but in the end decided to go straight through Atlanta. The city was a disappointment – bloated highways and tired buildings, rather than the Antebellum mansions she had seen in the movies. She figured she’d just keep driving south until the highway ended in Miami or Key West or wherever. She had stopped in Vidalia to get gas and saw the signs for the Onion Festival. Hillbillies would celebrate anything, she thought. She hated making left turns into traffic, so she took a right and ended up in the town square. It was a grey old thing. With dusty stores that seemed to sell nothing. The whole town had turned out for the festival – middle aged men and women and screeching kids that you would find anywhere else. The traffic headed back to the highway was brutal, so she chose to look around and find some festival food for lunch. She was standing in line for a fried onion sandwich when the man with the green eyes and the dogs came up to her.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“They’s strays. Need shots so they don’t give anyone the rabies.”

“They don’t have their shots? They look very well cared for,” she said, reaching down and rubbing the larger one’s neck. Both dogs had heavy brown leather leashes.

“Need to be fixed so’s they don’t breed,” the man said, “$60 should do it. These dogs breed and then they run in packs, see? Then they try to eat…things.”

She couldn’t really give up sixty dollars; she needed every cent to get to Florida. “Is there a Humane Society around here?” she asked, thinking she could give a few bucks in the name of the dogs.

“Humane Society 60 miles away. I was gonna drive ‘em myself once I got the money.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “I can’t afford sixty, but maybe this will help?”

His face illuminated and he took the money from her hand. “That’s fine! That’s fine! I’ll get their balls snipped this very afternoon.” As he walked away, she could see that the dogs did not, in fact, have balls at all. They were either female or already fixed and she bet on the latter. She watched the man open the hatch and the dogs jumped in as if it was an old routine. He tethered them to a ring, then backed the truck into the festival traffic.

She remembered all the scumbags she held her garter open to. The geezer who thought it was funny to flutter the dollar in front of her face then snatch it away. The college kid who folded his like a fan and waved it in front of her g-string yelping about the smell of fish. She was too smart to be taken by a stupid redneck. So she got into her car and followed him into the line of traffic.

He drove through a convolution of suburbia and 1950s ranch houses. Over the years, people had tried to add their own touches, a portico here, shutters there, but by now these ornamentations were as decimated as the houses themselves. In the front yards, each property was strewn with cars, boats and engines. It as if the houses had given birth to a litter of machines and no one was able to give them away. One neighborhood looked like the other, but he eventually turned by a crumbling sign that said Eaton Manor. The houses here were born of the same architect as the others, but they had been sliced in half, tiny renditions of their big brothers. The slums of the suburban slums, Deanna thought. The truck started to slow and he turned down a dirt road that seemed to just appear. The path was circuitous, but she trailed him, staying camouflaged in his dust. When the road ended, she parked her car on the edge and got out. She didn’t intend to follow him, she meant to get just march right up to him and demand the money back. But she became fascinated by his house and wondered about his place in it. He went around back and disappeared. The dogs followed without the trepidation of strays.

More Here The house was the type she expected to see of the old south. But the upkeep had been minimal and the house was in sorry disrepair. Downspouts hung from the eaves and the exterior resembled driftwood in its decay. The garden whispered of a time when someone tended it, but that time was long past. A tangle of vines and wildflowers were attempting to overtake a bench with the seat collapsed in front of an arid fountain and a trellis being consumed by the earth.

She felt anger well up in her – that the owner of this mansion, albeit a crumbling one, would dare swindle money from her. She tromped up to the screen door and rang the bell. She heard nothing in response, no chimes, no barking dogs, no running footsteps. She pressed the button again, and was again greeted with silence, so she gingerly opened the door and poked her head inside.

“Hello?”

It occurred to her that he could be waiting behind the door with a baseball bat or a machete, but when she saw the foyer, she thought twice of it. The inside was a monument to wealth. She stepped on a threadbare Persian rug that upon closer inspection would reveal tigers and palms and sultans perched on elephants who had once gallivanted through better times. Crevices were built into the walls to house two porcelain statues, one of a prince handing a bird to a maiden, the other of a princess tending to a lamb. One of ht prince’s hands had broken off and there was a ragged stump. A dusty chandelier loomed overhead, its crystal stacked like rock candy.

“Hello?” she said more loudly.

“Missus?” His voice. Suddenly, she felt stupid. She must’ve misunderstood. He was probably the town’s doctor or lawyer who was raising money for the Humane Society, for all dogs, not the two full-bred shepherds he obviously owned.
She turned to go, when his shadow appeared on the upstairs landing.

“Missus?” he said again.

“Hello? This is Sarah? I gave you money back at the festival?”

“And?” he said, descending the staircase and pulling at what she thought was a pair of heavy work gloves. God only knows what important project she was taking him away from.

Think quickly, she thought to herself. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I mistakenly thought you were getting those two shepherds neutered and I thought you could use some help.”

“So, what do you want?” he asked and as he came down the stairs, she could see they weren’t work gloves at all, but rubber dishwashing gloves.

“I just wanted to – um, check to make sure you didn’t need any help.”

“Help?” he repeated, his voice liquid southern.

As nervous as she was, calling this man to task for her misunderstanding, she felt the anger well up in her again. It was the same anger that trumped her humiliation at the Cherry Creek Country Club. She had jumped out of an elaborately constructed cake to the disapproving looks of women bedecked in Prada handbags and Vuitton sunglasses. She came to discover some of the husbands had wheeled the cake into the Ladies’ Historical Preservation Meeting as a joke on their attending wives. The husbands had given her a thousand-dollar bonus, after she again jumped out of the cake to a more appreciative audience, but it didn’t snuff her anger any. And she had given some of that money to this strange, wealthy man with the yellow dishwashing gloves. He had no right making her feel like a second-class citizen.

“I’m obviously quite mistaken. I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said turning to leave.

“Come in,” he said, and closed the front door behind her.

He must think I need a receipt or something, “Please don’t worry about a thing. Again, I’m really sorry to have bothered you,” she said.

“They was having a special, “ he stammered, rushing from the front door to a massive oak door with a burnished doorknob. He hesitated in front of the door and she could again see his waxen face and the dull, seafoam green eyes. “At the Humane Society. It was free. Today only. I’ll get you your money back. Come in here and wait.”

He opened the oak door, and led her into a room that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. Everything was covered with white drop cloths. She could make out the outline of a sofa and chairs; tables and lamps; and a piano; all set as if at any moment someone was going to whip off the covers and begin a cocktail party. She wondered what the sofa looked like under its burqa. He left and the sound of nothing surrounded her. There were no other cars in the driveway. But of course there wouldn’t be. This place probably had a five-car garage. And this room – it was doubtlessly only used for company. His mother must be on the way over and he didn’t want her to see that he had a guest.

But something felt wrong. Her skin became clammy and her stomach pitched as if she was on a falling elevator. She had followed him here straight from the festival. How would he know if the Humane Society was having a special? And did Humane Societies have neutering specials anyway?

Her stomach dropped another five stories as she realized one knew she was out here. I could scream and scream and scream and no one would hear me, she thought, looking through the huge picture windows at the woods beyond. Perhaps this man didn’t live here at all. Perhaps he had killed everyone who originally resided there and had taken the house to be his own. He could murder her and make her body into another decaying ornament in the garden that might be full of bodies already. In this room, she could detect none of the usual sounds of a home, no footfalls upstairs, no skittering of dog claws on hardwood floor. Where had the dogs gone? More importantly, where had he gone?

She heard a creaking and saw him enter from another door at the far side of the room. He held the twenty-dollar bill in his hand.

“Here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take your money. I only meant to take a coupla dollars, but then I thought of the airplane I could buy and I didn’t give it back. Don’t tell Missus, ‘kay?”

An airplane? She thought.

“Missus said I couldn’t…can’t have an airplane ‘cause I’ll get it stuck in the tree again, but I thought if I had twenty I could buy two airplanes and if I got one stuck, she wouldn’t know.”

Toy airplanes.

“But it’s okay. One day I’ll have as many airplanes as I want. Would you like some juice?”

“No, thank you,” she said, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you take the money and buy the two airplanes. It sounds like you need them very badly.”

“I do! I do!” he screamed. He sat on the couch and began to bounce. His adult weight causing the springs to weep in response.
He got up and rushed to the door where he came from. “I’m gonna get you some juice!” he said, and disappeared.

She decided this was her chance. The man was harmless enough, retarded in some way, but didn’t seem to want to hurt her. She started to think about the events leading up to this and how silly she’d been. But she could berate herself later. Now, she had to get back on the road. She was making horrible time. She went back to the front door but, but it was locked, a bolt lock that fastened from the inside with a key. Only there was no key. She’d just have to wait until he got back, then. They probably kept it locked and usually left the key in it. In his excitement, he must’ve taken it out.

In a moment, he was at the top of the stairs again, this time holding a glass. “Juice,” he said, and walked down the stairs very slowly, with a styrofoam cup held out in front of him. She took the cup and looked inside. It was only half full of red liquid and smelled of chemical coconuts. A red powder clung to the edges like eroded sand. Kool-Aide. She had given up on all social graces. Thank you, she said, setting the cup down on a stair without drinking it.

“No!” he screamed, making her jump, “No! No! No!” Missus says it will leave a ring. Missus says always hold the glass and never put it down!” There was something unnerving about his voice. As if it was a piano that had been over-tuned. He seemed to be on the threshold of escalation, so she picked up the cup and wiped the spot where it had been.

“It’s a lovely day,” she said, using her head for once, “let’s enjoy the juice in the garden.”

“No. Missus says can’t go out unless it’s work hours. Is it work hours?”

“Sure,” she said, unsure of what Missus’s decrees meant, and even more unsure of the ramifications of breaking them.

“Then let me get my shoes,” he said, tearing up the stairs as quickly as his adult body would allow him.

Clearly, something was very awry in this household. Either this man was so undeveloped that he needed extreme supervision, or someone – Missus – had been so strict that he hadn’t been permitted to develop properly. Either way, this funhouse was no place for her. There had to be another way out. Missus probably wouldn’t bolt all the doors from the inside – what if there was a fire? She thought about waiting for him, but then decided she could be hanging out with him for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night. She was not Curley’s wife. With once glance up the stairs, she went back into the room with the drop-clothed furniture. There was a door on the other side that opened easily enough and led to an enormous kitchen. Everything about it was exquisite, expensive and unused. Someone had put craft paper over all the windows. There was a door at the far end, but with a board of plywood bolted it to the wall. She could feel little scarab beetles of nervousness patter through her stomach. She went through the hallway of a butler’s pantry and found herself in a child’s playroom. The toys were neatly assembled, and looked as if they had been played with rather than discarded. She bent down to examine at them and was alarmed by what she saw – The Six Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Women, both in perfectly preserved jumpsuits. There was a Barbie camper that looked like a rounded Microbus. Inside was a Wonder Woman doll, complete with lasso and golden crown. In a bin, laid out like a child’s drawer, was layer upon layer of Barbie clothes, each neatly pressed and folded. There was a dearth of Han Solos and Luke Skywalkers and there were no board games.

“You want to play with my toys?” said the voice behind her.

She turned to see the man standing there, with a pair of battered Adidas Stan Smiths in his hands.

“Let’s play with them in the garden,” she suggested, hoping he would load up his pockets with the Holly Hobby figurines and open the front door and that would be that. She could almost feel the gauge of her steering wheel in her hands.

“Missus says we can’t take the toys outside, but we can play with them here,” he said dropping his shoes and lunging for a crate of Barbies in individual boxes.

“Where is your Missus? Is she upstairs? I would like to meet her.”

“She can’t come down now, but she said to stay and play with me. We just have to put the toys back up.”

She had never liked babysitting, and here she was doing it for what appeared to be a 35 year-old man, and for no money. Kids were manipulative, right? So, she had to think like a kid. She grabbed one of the dolls – a Barbie Gold Medal Skier.

“Let’s take her out back and make her ski!” she said, mustering as much excitement as she could.

The offer was obviously very tempting. She could see the slow processing, the icicles of thought forming, then melting, “No,” he said taking the doll from her, “we need to stay in here or Missus will get mad.”

He plunked down on the floor and started building a hut with Lincoln Logs. She sat down to join him.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Christy,” he answered.

“Christy. Is that a family name?” And is this where all the trouble started?

“Don’t know. What’s yours?” he was so childlike in his off-handed manner of asking, an aside when there was nothing more important than the construction project in front of him. It reminded her of quite a few “normal” men she had met in her life.
She almost told him her professional name out of habit, but reverted to the one her mother treasured so greatly, “Deanna.”
“De-Anna,” he said measuring the syllables and vowels against each other as if it was a word he was hearing for the first time.
“How old are you?” she asked.

“Don’t know. How old are you?” he parroted.

“Thirty-two.”

“Oh,” he said and continued to play with the Logs.

“Is your Daddy home?” she asked.

“No.”

“Just your Missus.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Is she in bed, Christy?”

“Yes. Do you know how to make these two stay together? They won’t stay.”

She took the logs in her hands. One had been masticated, whether by dog or human she couldn’t tell.

She had to see ‘Missus’. Maybe this woman didn’t even know she was here. Maybe the mother was fully aware of her son’s disability and would be embarrassed if she knew Christy was keeping her here. The mother would probably escort her to the door with sundry apologies, But she had to get beyond this stupid playroom and wake his mother up.

“Christy, does your mother like tea?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why don’t we take your Mom a cup of tea? As a present?”

He raised his head with a grin on his face.

“A present!” he repeated.

“Sure, let’s go in the kitchen and we’ll boil some water and bring her tea.”

He abandoned the Lincoln Log project and was leading the way to the kitchen. They started rummaging through drawers and cabinets, but there was nothing. How could they live like this, she thought. He obviously ate. He wasn’t malnourished and seemed in fact, extremely healthy. To the point where one of the girls at the club might even find him good-looking. And he was good-looking – tall, broad shoulders, small waist, cut jaw. And the seafoam green eyes that glowed like they were backlit. So, he was obviously eating, but not in this kitchen. Which led her to believe there was another one, perhaps in an in-law suite. Houses like this had such things.

“It seems you’re all out of tea down here. Maybe there’s some in the other kitchen,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers.
“No other kitchen. No tea for Missus.”

Dammit, why hadn’t she said cookies, or crackers, something a canteen would actually have. And maybe that was the point. Perhaps his family didn’t call it a kitchen, or perhaps they were in the kitchen and the other one was called something else.
“Do you have a canteen, Christy?”

He looked at her, puzzled.

Other words for kitchen – come on think, she said to herself, “A galley? A mess hall? Where do you make your peanut butter sandwiches?”

“In the cookroom!” he said, finally understanding.

“Good! Let’s go there.”

“Missus says I’m not allowed in there alone.”

“But we’re going to make a present for her. She won’t mind if it’s for her, I promise.” Besides, you’ll be with me.”

“Okay! I’ll be with you!” He led the way up four flights of stairs and down another three. They roamed several hallways before they came to what seemed like a different house altogether. He led her into a miniaturized duplicate of the other kitchen. Instead of kraft paper on the windows, there were no windows. And of course, there was no tea, but there were cooking utensils. She found a kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. She motioned to him to sit at a table with her.
Christy, is your mother sick?”

“Yes. No? I don’t remember,” he said not meeting her eyes, but fiddling with a splinter of wood from the table.

“And you don’t live here with anyone else but her?” she asked.

“Do you like licorice?” He said, sitting up straight.

“Christy, listen to me, how often do you leave the house to go to work?”

“I dunno,”


“Where do you work?”
“In town,”

“And what do you do?”
“I talk to people.”

“Did your Mother teach you how to talk to people?”

“No. The tea’s whistling!”

So the family must’ve lived off his swindling. Why didn’t they just sell this massive property? Because the mother was probably too sick to do it. It was time to see her to get some answers. She started rummaging through the cabinets, but of course there were no tea cups or mugs.

“Christy, where are the cups you used for the Kool-Aide you gave me?”

He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“The juice?” she said.

He went into a pantry and threw around a few things, then came out with a battered Styrofoam cup. She washed it out and poured the hot water into it. She saw a used paper napkin peeking out from behind a toaster. She grabbed it and quickly folded it into an origami flower, which she set to float in the hot water. It made no sense, but it looked present-like and might prevent Christy from backing out of taking her to his mother.

“Can I carry it?” he asked.

“No, it’s a little too hot and I don’t want you to spill it on the stairs, but I’ll tell you what, when we get into her room, you can give it to her.”

He bounded ahead like a dog and led the way up the stairs to a dark corridor. The walls were bare, no wallpaper, no pictures. The floors were hardwood and squeaked when they walked. They passed other rooms with closed doors. He stopped at the end of the hall. He didn’t knock on the door, but pushed it lightly and it gave easily. And then there was the smell It was the odor of dental floss if the user hadn’t flossed in a long time. The word, ‘putrefaction’ came to mind, yet she couldn’t recall where she had learned it.

“Can I take the tea now?” he whispered.

She was ready to hand it over and run, but she had to get in there, speak to Missus, no matter how sick she might be, and talk her way out of this infernal house.

“No, Christy. I don’t want you to burn yourself. You can hold it as soon as we get in the room, okay?’
“Okay, okay, okay.”

She went in. The smell intensified, like the smell of a wound when a Band-Aid is torn off. It permeated her nostril cavity and she couldn’t understand how Christy could stand it. There was no light, only a small nightlight in the corner, beaming a sad, weak glow. When her pupils adjusted, she could see the figure. It looked like a full size Barbie doll that someone had tramped on in the dirt. She could see the head, and a ragged American flag quilt was askew revealing a limb. The mouth was agape.
Keep playing along, she told herself. No matter what this is, you have to keep playing along.

“Is this your mother, Christy?” she asked summoning her best party voice.

“No. This is Marion, my sister. It looks like Missus has gone out. Can we keep the tea hot for when she comes back?”

“Your mother – has gone out? I thought you said she was sick.”

“She is. She goes out everyday to get the sis.”

“But your sister, is…here…do you have another sister?”

“No, the sis. Where they take the peas out and put it back in.”

Pea? P.? Pea P.? Pee. Dialysis. But was he telling the truth? Did he even know what the truth was? What if there was no mother. Or, what if she was dead in another room like the sister? Once again, DeAnna had the feeling that there was no one else in this house but she and Christy. Did this girl die of natural causes or did he kill her? He didn’t seem capable, but accidents could happen and this man wasn’t even aware of how to make Kool-Aid.

She had to call the police. This was no longer just a misunderstanding. Why did she leave her cell phone in the car? She came up with another tactic, “maybe we should wait for your mother in the front yard and give her the present as soon as she comes home.”

“Can’t.”

“Where is the key,” DeAnna asked almost too desperately, “does your sister have it?” God forbid that she does.

“No. Missus has the only one. But she’ll be back soon. Why don’t you teach me how to play dominos? Sister has some –“

“Christy?” It was a female voice from the landing, “Christy, you get down here this instant.”

Christy did not move.

Chapter Two: 1977
All three children were wailing, their mouths gaping holes of despair and their eyes scrunched up like Chinese babies.
“Bonitaquee?” Louisa called down the stairs. Where were those damn women? “Bonitaquee?”

She would have to get out of bed again. What was the point of having all this help if no one was there when she called?
“Bonitaquee!”

“They’re out in the yard having a family reunion or something. You need to control them better, Louisa.” Mawmaw Amelia hobbled in, made her pronouncement and hobbled out again. Of course she didn’t ask what Louisa needed.

“Could you call them for me, Mawmaw?” she pleaded from the bed that Doctor Johnston insisted she must not leave. But Mawmaw was deaf and couldn’t hear her any more than Quee could, playing out in the yard.

“Bonitaquee!” she yelled again, tossing the American flag quilt to the side that Auntie Blake had made to celebrate both Marion’s birth and the birth of their nation, a nation which, in Louisa’s opinion was fizzling like an exploded firecracker.
“Stop that yelling this instant,” Momma Stance said, coming in the room in a small hurricane of dressing robes and Chanal No. 5. “What have you done to these children, Louisa?” she scolded, scooping Millie and Emory up and placing Marion, the newborn, in bed with Louisa, “Where’s Quee?”

“She and Bonita are out in the front yard. Momma, take Emory, and give me Millie. Millie, come here and lay in bed with Mommy.”

Momma Stance ignored Louisa’s request and absconded with Millie and Emory to the hallway. Louisa could hear her yelling out the open window, “Bonitaquee? Bonita! Quee! What are you doing out there? Get in here right this instant.” She placed Millie and the still-howling Emory back in the playpen cage and rustled out of the room, her dressing grown dragging the floor like dead leaves.

Louisa could hear Momma Stance chastise Quee in the hall, “What are you people doing out in the yard? I swear, just because Mr. Conway is out there with his little firework show doesn’t mean my whole household has to be out playing with them, too.”
“We weren’t,” Louisa heard Quee protest, “we was unloading the groceries.”

“It don’t take five of you to unload groceries. Bonita is perfectly capable of doing that herself.”

“Bonita has the arthritis –“ Quee started.

“That’s enough, Quee, get in there and help Missus with the children.”

Quee rushed into the bedroom and took Millie into her arms, being sure to gather her cape around her. The cape was a remnant of polyester cloth, orange with the stains of clay from playing in the river.

“You poor child,” she said stroking the six year-old’s head, “did that mean ol’ Emory hit you again?”

“Quee, please don’t pit my children against each other,” Louisa said, over the howls of Emory.

“Missus, I was only tryin’ to comfort her – “

“And take that dirty ol’ tablecloth off of her,”

“It’s not a tablecloth, Mommy,” Millie said.

“Yes, it is, Millie, now come get into bed with me and Quee’s gonna take Emory and the baby downstairs for breakfast.”
“Can’t,” Quee said, holding on tighter to Millie.

“What do you mean?” Louisa said, angrily. Why couldn’t these women respect her the way they did her mother and grandmother? “Are you sassing me, Quee?”

“No ma’m, but Momma Stance said you need to nurse that youngin’ and told me not to feed her table food. She said to take Miss Millie and Mr. Emory down to breakfast.”

“All right,” Louisa said, just to get the screeching Emory out of the room, even though the thought of nursing Marion was deplorable to her. But she couldn’t let Quee leave without giving her dear Millie a kiss.
“Leave Millie a second, Quee.”

Quee put Millie on the bed and the girl scrambled into the crook of her mother’s arm.

“It’s not a tablecloth, Mommy,” Millie said, lazily rubbing the cloth against her mother’s neck, “Momma Stance says I look like Princess Grace.”

“You look exactly like Princess grace without that dirty old thing around your neck.”

“It’s breakfast time,” Quee said scooping up Millie and her cape again, ”Come on you,” Quee said, grabbing Emory by the hand.
“I think you look beautiful in your cape,” Louisa heard Quee whisper.

“Quee, be nice to Emory. And don’t carry Millie everywhere. She’s big enough to walk on her own,” Louisa called, wondering why she felt like she worked for them instead of the other way around.

* * *
Bonita stood over the stove, stirring hot cereal in the pot her own grandmother used when the house was the crown jewel of land that spanned all the way to xxxxx. Quee placed Millie in a wooden high chair, and Emory in a metal one that was slightly too small for his oversized four-year old body and restrained his movements.

“That Missus is getting bitchier as the days wear on,” Quee said.

“Quee! How many times I gotta tell you not to talk that way in front of them children?”

Quee moved her heavy braids out of her eyes and settled in front of Millie to spoon-feed the cereal, “How’s my little girl? How’s Quee’s little girl today?”

“Quee, you need to let that baby eat on her own. She way too old for you to be feeding her like that.”

“I can do it myself, Miss Quee” Millie said, gently taking the spoon from Quee’s hand.

“See what I’m saying? Whyn’t you let Millie be a big girl and you go on and feed Emory?”

Quee snarled in Emory’s direction, “I don’t trust that boy. You feed him, Momma.”

Millie started banging the tray of her highchair, “I don’t want to be in chair-chair anymore! Quee, can I get down?”

Bonita shuffled Quee out of the way, and bent down to be eye-level with Millie. “Miss Millie, I tell you what, you be good, sit still in chair-chair and let Quee feed you. Tomorrow, we let you eat all by yourself at the table like a big girl.”

“Mom-ma!” Quee whined from behind her while Emory started hitting his metal tray with his fists.

“That’s the way it’s gonna be, Quee. She gotta grow up sometime. Now don’t you give me no backtalk.”

“Okay, Bonita. I’ll be Quee’s today, but tomorrow I’m a big girl,” Millie said, sweetly.

Behind her, Emory started to bounce angrily in his highchair. His substantial weight caused the chair to teeter uneasily on its legs.

“Quee, control that boy. Give him his doll.”

“But, I’m feeding Miss Millie,” Quee whined, then started looking around for the ragged Bionic Woman figure that once belonged to Millie.

“Don’t you backtalk me, girl. Leave Millie be and get that boy before he –“

Bonita watched in horror as Emory bounced the chair and the metal leg bent causing the chair and child to topple.

“Quee – see what you did!” Bonita shouted, rushing over to Emory and gathering the wailing child in her arms.

“Boy did it to himself,” Quee whispered over the screetches.

As Bonita picked Emory up, he pulled the kerchief off her head and hit her with his impressive fists.

“Now, boy, I know you angry,” Bonita said gently, “but you gotta get with the program.”

The boy wailed in response, a sound that pierced the tympana of all humans and animals within a one-mile radius of the Altama Plantation. Bonita tried to settle him on her lap, but Emory only responded by kicking her shins with his heavily braced legs.

“Okay, boy, I try be nice to you, but we goin’ to time out. You ain’t hurt. You just yellin’ to yell.”

“And he did it to himself, Momma,” Quee added.

Bonita gently lifted Emory and took him to his time-out area. As Emory’s tantrums became longer and more violent, the women all agreed that he should be quarantined in some way. Bonita enlisted Lamont to clear out an area in the mudroom under the stairs. He erected a small gate making the space just big enough for Emory to stand up in, and just bare enough for him to know he was in trouble. Bonita sat on a small chair outside the gate and started to sing:

Do you fear the gathering clouds of sorrow?
Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus.

Quee picked up on the melody and joined in:

Are you anxious what shall be tomorrow?
Tell it to Jesus alone.

Emory started to calm and stopped rattling the bars of the gate. “You better now, Emory? Here’s your doll,” Bonita handed him the Bionic Woman doll and he clutched it in his fist. She picked him up in both arms. “I ain’t young like I used to be. My back’s goin’, arthritis settin’ in, and I’m still carryin’ around Mr. Emory.” She led the boy to the overturned highchair, picked it up, placed him in it, and commenced to feed him cereal.

“He shoulda died when he was born, that’s what shoulda happened, Momma,” Quee said from the sink where she was washing Millie’s bowl.

“Shut your mouth, Quee. I didn’t raise you to be so insolent. This boy a gift from God, just like you is to me. His Momma loves him.”

“It don’t seem like she love nobody too much, lest of all him.”

“That’s enough outta you,” Bonita said, lifting Emory out of the chair, “Take Miss Millie and Mr. Emory out and show them the firerackers Mr. Eaton settin’ up in the yard.”

“Fireworks, Momma,” Quee corrected.

“I want to see the fires,” Millie said, drawing circles on Quee’s arm with her finger.

“Come on junebug,” Quee said, “Mr. Emory, get on over here.”

Emory had taken a seat on the floor with his legs splayed on either side of him. He was tapping the Bionic Woman doll frantically against his mouth. Quee grabbed Emory’s hand and dragged the boy across the linoleum, his braces scraping the floor.

“Quee!” Bonita yelled, “pick that boy up and treat him like a human being. I swear, if I’m not runnin’ after these children, I got to be runnin’ after you, too. Now you all go find somethin’ to do and get out of my kitchen.”

Quee took the children to a rise on the property where Mr. Brodie and Lamont were setting up the fireworks.

“Boy, I don’t know what you think you doin’ out here with Mr. Brodie,” Quee teased Lamont, “Ain’t like you know your way ‘round a firework, noways.”

Lamont drew himself up to his full six feet, “Mr. Brodie couldn’t be doin’ any of this if I wasn’t here,” he said, “Ain’t that right, Mr. Brodie?”

Conway Barbor Brodie ambled over, still wearing his golf shoes and sipping from a plastic tumbler.

“Good afternoon, Quee,” he said, shading his eyes from the sun to look at her.

“Hello Mr. Brodie,” Quee said.

“Hey, Emory, come on over here, I got somethin’ to show you,” Conway said and they all followed him to a stack of wooden crates. He put his drink on one of them and opened the lid of another.

As if he was doing a magic trick, Conway withdrew a Bic lighter from his pocket and pulled out a sparkler from the crate. He lit it and the children’s eyes became moons in their sockets. Emory started to howl, fearful of the flames, and Millie began to cry. Quee picked Millie up and stroked her head.

“You want to hold it, Emory?” Conway asked, extending Emory’s left hand, and placing the stick in it.

Emory howled at first, then reached out his hand to touch the shooting light, as if the sparks were crystals that could be held and played with. The sparkler died down and Emory started to howl again. Conway held up a finger to him and put the lighter in Emory’s hands. He showed him how to light it, briskly drawing the tiny gear down with his thumb. With a few tries, Emory sparked the lighter himself. He was mesmerized by the orange flame and watched it with rapture. Then, Conway withdrew another sparkler and showed Emory how to light it. He handed the stick to Quee who festively waved it around for Millie. Conway withdrew another sparkler form the crate and handed it to Emory and everyone watched as Emory lit it himself. The three adults roared with celebration and Emory laughed and waved the sparkler, mimicking Quee.

“You better put that out, Mr. Emory. Misses see that and you gonna be in a world of trouble,” Quee said, conspiratorially,
“Misses wouldn’t know a good time if it bit her in the ass,” Conway said, picking up his drink again and wandering off toward the house.

* * *

“Ooooooeee, that Mr. Brodie is somethin’ else!” Lamont said, laughing and slapping one of the crates.

Quee laughed, too, bouncing Millie in her arms, “Shhhhh-eeee! He got Misses’ number, that’s for sure!”

“Can I get down, Quee?” Millie asked, trying to disentangle herself from Quee’s grip, “Can Emory and I go play in the sandbox?”

“Yes’m, but you stay right in that sandbox, you hear me? Don’t you two go wanderin’ off like last time.”

“No m’am, we won’t.”

“Momma Stance sure is mad at Mr. Brodie this mornin’,” Quee said, stepping closer to Lamont.

“Them women don’t like Mr. Brodie too much,” Lamont observed.

“He don’t seem to like them too much neither,” Quee said, “Don’t know why Mr. Brodie ever marry Missus. Seems to me he coulda gotten a much nicer girl in Athens. Someone at least prettier.”

“Well, you gonna know all about that soon enough, ain’t ya’, Quee?”

“I ain’t gonna pretend I ain’t nervous.”

“You gonna be the best nurse they is,” Lamont said, hoisting one of the crates of fireworks onto his shoulder, “why’s you nervous, Quee?”

“All them white women thinkin’ they’s smarter than me. Actin’ like just cause their Daddy’s payin’ for the school, they better than me.”

“You’ll show ‘em, Quee. You the smartest girl I know.”

“Mr. Brodie says not to look at it like he doin’ me any favors. He says that in the old times artists would have a patron, and that patron pay they bills and buy they supplies. He say he my patron. And I don’t never need to pay back my tuition or nothin’. But I’m gonna pay it back. I’m gonna pay back every cent cause I don’t want to owe nobody nothin’.”

***

Emory flicked the lighter and nothing happened. Emory flicked the lighter again and nothing happened. Emory flicked the lighter again and a flame shot up, then died down. He flicked the lighter again and nothing happened. His finger started to hurt so he put his finger in his mouth, and found a stick to play with. The stick wasn’t as much fun as the lighter, so he flicked the lighter again and the flame shot out and he put the flame to the stick like Daddy did and the stick became the flame, but then the stick got hot, so he dropped it. Then Millie started screaming.

***

Chapter Three: 1977

Bonita was washing dishes. The sink looked out on the yard and she could see Quee and Lamont talking and the kids playing in the sandbox. She wished Quee wasn’t so attracted to that Lamont. Quee was going places. Lamont, well, he was nice enough, but he was gonna die on this here property just like she herself was. Quee knew Lamont’s momma and daddy – they was good people just like Lamont – but ain’t none of them been to school. Bonita was valedictorian of the high school. Lamont didn’t even finish seventh grade. But what was she gonna do, go out there and break them up? That’ll make Bonita want him even more ‘cause that’s just the way the world worked. Better to stay quiet. After the summer, Bonita be going to college and she’ll forget all about Lamont.

Bonita continued looking out the window, thinking of nothing in particular but how hot it was outside and wonderin’ if Missus was ever gonna air condition this place. And that was when she saw it. It was as if someone had turned the sandbox into a fire pit. One minute, the children were playing, the next – there was a big orange and red ball where the children had been. She dropped the plate she was washing and raced to the yard. Lamont had seen it too. He stepped into the curtain of flame and came out with a charred little doll that neither screamed nor struggled.

Bonita’s shrieking caused everyone from the house to come running. Even Misses was there, though she wasn’t allowed out of bed. For a fleeting moment, all Bonita could think about was how Misses shouldn’t leave that little infant alone by herself. Lamont still held Millie as if she was an offering. When Misses saw her daughter, she grabbed the body from Lamont and held her against her breast. Quee could see that the girl was nothing more than a shell, her dark hair and sweet face were replaced by the charred and melted features of a baby doll. There was a tiny part of her yellow jumper that was still intact and suddenly, Quee was reminded of when her own mother had passed and the way her fingernail polish looked on the dead hands that would never hold a baby or a Bible again.

Bonita howled along with the other women. It was an involuntary sound, a primal surge that had been passed down from the first cave woman who found her young ravaged by tigers. It was Millie, dear Millie who was one of the sweetest children Bonita had ever cared for. And poor Bonita. Bonita loved that child as if she were her own. Conway tried to take his daughter from Missus and she all but growled in protest.

“Louisa,”said Conway calmly, “there ain’t nothin’ we can do now. Let’s put her in the bedroom and call Murchison’s.”

“No, she’s not dead, Conway. She’s not dead. Call the fire department, call for an ambulance. They can save her. She’s not dead.”

Quee watched as Conway hesitated a moment. The fire had burned down, so there was no reason to call the fire department, Quee thought. But calling Murchison’s did seem very final.

“I’ll call the am-blance,” Quee said, turning toward the house, “the hospital gonna know what to do.”

That evening, after the ambulance took Millie’s body away, Missus was back in bed. She’d been given a sedative at the hospital and Bonita wished the doctor had given sedatives all around. She’d been forced to give Quee a home remedy of ground nutmeg and milk and honey until she finally fell asleep. Emory had disappeared after the accident, so Conway and Lamont had gone out to find him. Darkness was encroaching and neither the child nor the search party had turned up. Momma Stance and Mawmaw Amelia sat in the den in front of a fire. Certainly, it was much too hot for a fire, but Momma Stance insisted that Bonita build one anyway. Auntie Blake rounded out the circle, furiously knitting as if her needles could repair the damage of the afternoon.
Bonita came in and set the tea service in front of them. Momma Stance was, of course, the calmest of them all. She wore a pair of Halston wool trousers, a muted blouse, a wide-brimmed straw hat rested superfluously on her head.

“I’d like to know exactly how this fire started,” she said, brandishing her teacup almost convivially. Auntie Blake nodded in agreement, Mawmaw Amelia sat up to hear, then slumped back down again.

“I mean, it’s not as if this child just erupted in flame,” Momma Stance continued.

Auntie Blake shivered and said, “It’s God’s will. The Lord wanted that sweet baby by his side.”

Momma Stance cut her a look and continued, “Obviously, Emory got ahold of some matches. But that boy can’t even buckle his belt, so how in the world is does he know how to use matches?”

“Maybe it was more like the burning bush,” Auntie Blake offered, clicking the needles together more furiously.
Momma Stance narrowed her eyes in Auntie Blake’s direction, “this is no time for tea,” she said, gulping the last from her cup, “Bonita? Bonita!” she yelled in the direction of the kitchen, “fix me a bourbon.”

“Yes m’am,” Bonita said, meandering to the bar and clinking ice cubes. She brought the drink to Momma Stance.

“Use the crystal, please,” Momma Stance said politely, handing the drink back to her, “I’m not Conway, running around with these damned tumblers.”

Bonita returned to the bar and transferred the drink to a highball class that looked like a contrived ice sculpture.

Momma Stance took the drink and downed it as she had the tea.

“Tell you what, Bonita, why don’t you just set the ice and the bottle over here. Make things easy on yourself.”

Bonita filled a decanter of bourbon and a bucket of ice. She set another glass on the tray in case Mawmaw Amelia wanted a drink as well. She knew from habit not to put a glass down for Auntie Blake.

Momma Stance swooped down on the tray and made and tossed back another drink, this time without ice.

“I guess that wasn’t very civil of me, was it, Bonita?”

“It’s as civil as one can expect given the circumstances,” Bonita said.

“Would you like a drink, Bonita?” Momma Stance asked.

The question was not so very odd. Bonita had been working with Momma Stance’s family since she was fourteen. She and Momma Stance had grown up together and had actually shared their first drink together as teenagers when they snuck a bottle of whiskey from Daddy Jenkins’s cabinet.

“Yes, Connie, if you don’t mind I think I will.”

“Bonita, you’re the only one with sense in this family. What do you think happened out there?”

Bonita shook her head, morosely.

“You think it was some act of God that would cause such a thing?” Momma Stance knew exactly what Bonita thought, of course, but she wanted a co-conspirator against Auntie Blake and knew Bonita wouldn’t refute her.

“I don’t know, m’am,” was the best Bonita could muster.

“I mean, what kind of God would let a young child die so horrifically? Tell me that.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Auntie Blake mumbled under the clacking of her needles.

“I mean, what kind of God would want an innocent young thing like Millie to burn like a pig on a spit?”

Her intention was to goad Auntie Blake, but it was MawMaw Amelia who sat up to argue, “you hush your mouth right now, Constance,” the eldest women said, “you never been one to follow the word of the Lord, but that don’t mean the rest of us feel the same way. It was an accident, plain and simple. Can’t blame nobody, least of all God.”

“Amen,” Auntie Blake muttered.

MawMaw Amelia settled back into her chair and began to fall asleep. Momma Stance rolled her eyes and turned her accusations away from God to the members of His flock who had actually been present.

“Then I guess if it wasn’t God who gave her those matches it was maybe Lamont,” Momma Stance said, pouring another glass of bourbon for herself and one for Bonita, “Or maybe it was that dumb Conway. I warned Louisa not to marry him; I said Flag Darby was a much better choice. But Flag was too ugly for her. So what if he’s so ugly he’d make a freight train take a dirt road? Flag now owns half this town and what does Conway own? This bottle of bourbon, and that’s about all.”

“I don’t think Lamont would’ve given a child matches,” Bonita ventured timidly.

“Then it was Quee?” Louisa was started in slur.

“No m’am. I think you know as well as I do that Quee loved them children like they was her own. Quee’d never do such a thing.”

“No, you’re right, Bonita. Quee has more sense than most members of this household. You and Quee both. That’s why my Daddy loved you all so much. My poor, poor Daddy. If he was here, this never would’ve happened.” Momma Stance’s eyes threatened to well up with tears, but she damned the flood and turned her attention to the bottle, “One more then I think it’s time to retire.” She splashed the bourbon into her glass and licked the side where some had spilled. She attempted to affect a countenance of sobriety, but her head started to loll over to the side and soon she was asleep. Bonita took the glass from her hand and cleared the tray. It was best if it looked like nothing had happened.

***********

Bonita felt a little wobbly as she ambled down the stone walkway between the Big House and the Little House where she and Quee lived. On the ridge, she could see the embers glowing from a cigarette in the dark. She left the path and found Lamont dismantling the unextinguished fireworks and putting them in the flatbed of the truck.

“Lamont,” she whispered so as not to startle him. “You talked to Mr. Conway, yet?”

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice hoarse, “I talked to him when he got back. Little Millie’s dead.”

“I know she is. I know she is,” Bonita said, nodding even though Lamont couldn’t see her.”

“We shoulda never let Mr. Emory light that sparkler,” he murmured.

“Now you tell me exactly what happened out here this afternoon.” Bonita said.

“Mr. Conway didn’t mean no harm. He thought it’d be fun to show Emory how to light a sparkler.”

“Now you pay mind, boy and tell me exactly what happened. And I mean exactly.”

“Just like I said, Mr. Conway showed Emory how to light a sparkler with his matches. Little Emory loved it.”

“Did he take them matches back?”

“Back from where?”

“Back from Mr. Emory.”

“Oh, I don’t recollect. But guess’n from what happened, I’d say he didn’t.”

“And they wasn’t your matches?”

No ma’m, they was Mr. Conway’s. ‘Guess we all shoulda known better than to let Mr. Emory light a sparkler hisself. But we all thought it was nice, the way Mister Emory watched that sparkler, his eyes all big, laughin’ and carryin’ on. ‘Guess we all just forgot he had the matches.”

“Don’t you go sayin’ that, Lamont. Don’t you say anything of the kind, you hear me?”

“What you mean, Miz Aiken?”

“If anyone asked you what happened – the Sherriff, Missus, Momma Stance – anyone, I want you to come get me before you make a peep, you understand me, boy?”

“I guess so.”

“Aint no guessin’ about it. Guessin’ is what got all ya’ll into this mess.” She gathered herself and turned back toward the path, “Don’t you talk to no one, Lamont. I’m serious about that.” She went off toward the little house where she hoped Quee was still sleeping.

“Why would they be callin’ the sheriff?” he called after her, “It was an accident.”

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” was all she said in return.

*************************

The next day, the sun shone brightly in open defiance of the Brodie tragedy. Bonita was up first and she bathed and dressed to go about her duties. There were two other children to feed and a house full of adults who would be expecting breakfast, death or no death.

Quee still slept soundly in her room. Bonita didn’t want to wake her. Bonita, herself, experienced that first moment of realization upon opening her eyes. It was like putting oil in a bowl of flour. For a moment, the oil rests on top, but then slowly, it sinks. And there’s no way to separate that oil and flour again. She wanted to put off her own daughter having that morning epiphany for as long as she could. Quee would be expected to work today. They were now employed in a house of mourning and that meant double the amount of chores. But it wasn’t the sadness that Bonita dreaded waking Quee to. Like a sage, Bonita could see down the path, around its curves and over its hills. And she didn’t like what she saw.

She went into Quee’s room and gazed upon her baby, a grown woman with gorgeous skin and braids fanning out from her beatific face. She thought, strangely, of Quee’s eyeballs. She had heard once that, unlike feet or fingers, eyeballs didn’t grow. A baby’s eyeballs would be the same eyeballs she’d have as an adult. Bonita liked thinking of those eyes under Quee’s lids. Beautiful brown eyes that had not changed in eighteen years. Her legs had gotten longer and her breasts had gotten bigger, but those eyes were the same. As she looked at her daughter, Bonita could hear the buzzing of the lights in the silence. It was a rare sound, one Bonita used to treasure when Quee was young. It meant that the day was done and she had a moment to herself. But soon it would mean that her own baby was gone.

Bonita decided to let Quee sleep. Whatever needed to be done, she could do it herself, at least for the morning.
It was 10:30 and the house was still quiet. There was an otherworldly lack of sound considering what had happened the day before. It unnerved Quee. She got out the pans, taking care not to make any unnecessary noise. The longer she could prolong the calm, the better. She opened the back door to gather eggs in the henhouse when she heard it, the shriek like a baby being born, the roar of a human being ripped from the warmth of the womb. Missus. And obviously, Momma Stance didn’t bother to get up to be with Missus when awakened. The image of oil and flour hit Bonita again and she rushed up the back stairs to Missus’s room.

“No, no, no, no!” The pleading was guttural, harkening back to the centuries of mourners who had seen their children killed in wars and floods and firecracker accidents.

“No, no, no, no!” The woman wailed. Bonita charged in and grabbed the American flag quilt from the chair. She wrapped it around Missus’s shivering body and held her as she had when the woman was a child.

“Bonny, Bonny, Bonny!” she whispered into Bonita’s shoulder, “Bonny, why?”

“I don’t know, Missus, I don’t know.”

“My little girl. Bonny, my little girl,”

“Shhhhh, shhhh,” Bonita could feel the tears in her own eyes, “you lay back and let me go make you some tea.”
She continued to clutch Bonita and Bonita held her tightly.

“Do you think it hurt? Do you think she was hurt? What could’ve gone through her little mind? Oh, Bonita.”

“No, Missus. She wasn’t hurt. God wouldn’t let her hurt.”

“Then why would He do this?”

“Because she was an angel,” Bonita said, believing it, “she was too good for this here Earth and He wanted her with Him.”

“Yes, He wanted her with Him,” Missus repeated. “Where’s Conway?” she asked, finally pulling away. “

“I don’t know,” Bonita answered.

“Well, is he in his bedroom?” she asked and Bonita could hear a familiar note of acrimony in her voice.

“I’ll check, Missus.”

“And it might be a good idea for you to get breakfast started,” she said, composing herself.
“Yes m’am.”

“Where’s my dressing gown? Where’s Quee? There’s going to be a house full of people here today and I need my dressing gown.”

Bonita plucked the robe off the back of the door and held it open for Missus. “Quee be around presently.”
“Send her up here.”

Bonita headed back downstairs and picked up the phone.

Chapter Four 1977

It seemed that the whole town had heard of the Brodie tragedy. The day after an accident or death, it was customary to quickly drop off a casserole or a bowl of ambrosia, then pay one’s respects at the wake. But sympathizers to XXXX found the Brodie women propped up in the living room like children on Christmas morning. They remained in their nightdress well into the afternoon, too busy receiving the regretful to have time to change. Even Momma Stance wore a hibiscus-colored Dior nightgown that made the dust on the floor scurry when she walked.

Bonita juggled dishes of tuna casserole and Tupperware cake plates. She raced around, filling glasses with iced tea and brewing coffee. Occasionally, one of the Brodie women would ask her where Quee was, but mostly, they were consumed with tears and hankerchiefs. Bonita had gone back to the Little House to rouse Quee, but again, she was sleeping so tranquilly, Bonita couldn’t bear to wake her up. So, she trudged back up the hill and began the process again of answering the doorbell, refilling the cookie platter, and making sure Momma Stance’s iced tea had more than a splash of bourbon. She heard a car pull up, not to the front drive, but to the back garage. Conway. He entered the mudroom dragging a set of golf clubs behind him.
“Bonita,” he said, setting the bag down in a small closet, “don’t let Missus see these, okay?”

She shook her head and followed him into the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“They in the living room. They be asking about you.”

“I’m sure they have. If anyone says anything, tell them I was at Murchison’s checking on the arrangements.”

“Yessir.”

Conway marched into Bonita’s kitchen and began to refill his tumbler with ice. “You got any Jack stashed in here?” he asked.
“No sir, it’s in the bar with everything else.”

He shrugged, went to his golf bag, located a silver flask and poured the contents into the tumbler.
“How ’bout some Coke-Cola?”

She fished a plastic bottle from the pantry and started to open it when he took it from her, “I got that, Miss Bonita,” he said, “now, tell me what’s going on in the other room.”

“The Herrings, the Willetts and the Vanns all come by. Mrs. Godbee is in with them right now.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go wash up. Remember, out little secret,” he said, gesturing to the golf clubs.

Bonita nodded somberly, but didn’t respond. She guessed that all people handled sorrow differently. And of course Mr. Conway was sad. Unless…but there was no way he could know of Missus’s secret. Only she and Missus knew. And besides, yesterday he saw the life of a little girl end. He watched her die. No, Bonita surmised, Conway hadn’t had a sober moment in days. When, or even if he did sober up, the sorrow would come crashing down on him, just as it would on Quee when she woke up. And at that, Bonita decided it was indeed time. She went into the other room to check on the women, then she drifted down the path to the Little House.

When Bonita opened the front door, she was surprised to see Quee up and dressed. She was sipping a cup of coffee and looking out the window.

“Momma,” she said evenly.

“Quee, baby.”

“She dead?”

“Yes, Quee."

“That’s what I thought. What’s going on at the Big House? Them bitches drunk and carrying on like the fools they is?”

“Now, Quee,”

“They find that stupid Emory?”

“Yes, they found him last night.”

“They send him up to Milledgeville?”

“They gonna take him tomorrow.”

“Hope they lock him up and throw away the key.”

“Now Quee, that little boy can’t help that he got the demons.”

“That’s a bunch of horseshit and you know it, Momma. He may not be able to help it, but they shoulda kept him at Central a long time ago. Doctors were crazy to ever let him out.”

“Quee, he was getting better.”

“Yeah, so much better he lights his sister on fire. I hope he dies up there in Milledgeville with all the other crazies.”

“Quee, I know you’re sad, and I understand that, but that boy is a child of God, just like his sister, and while you still living in my house, I ain’t gonna have you talking like that.”

“This house ain’t even yours Momma. They let you live here. They tell you when to wake up and when to go to bed. You eat they food, you wear their hand-me-downs.”

“We gonna start that again?”

“We gonna start it and start it and start it as long as you livin’ on they property and fooling yourself that you ain’t a slave.”
“Okay, Quee, I know you’re upset, but I’m not gonna have you actin’ like this some Roots plantation. As far as I know, you ain’t gone to college yet and you still gettin’ a paycheck. So, when you’re done feelin’ sorry for yourself, you get on up to the Big House and get to work, you hear me?”

And for the third time that day, Bonita hobbled up the path to the Big House.

*****************

In the kitchen, Bonita grabbed the coffee pot and took it to the living room to bring Mrs. Godbee a refill. When she entered the room, Mrs. Godbee was gone and the family had moved their chairs into a conspiratorial circle. They became quiet when she walked in.

“Bonita, where is Quee?” Missus asked her.

“She at the Little House gettin’ somethin’ but she be up presently.”

“Could you send her in when she arrives?” Missus said and there was a formality to her voice that made Bonita suspicious.
“I’m right here,” Quee said behind her.

“Ah, good, everyone is here,” Conway said uncomfortably, “Quee, Bonita, why don’t ya’ll pull up a couple chairs? You want something to drink?” he asked rising and going to the kitchen.

“This isn’t a cocktail party, Conway,” Momma Stance said.

Conway said nothing, but floated out of the room to the kitchen.

“Quee, could you tell us exactly what happened yesterday, to the best of your recollection?” Momma Stance said.

“My recollection is quite accurate,” Quee said, “what do you want to know?”

Momma Stance bristled at Quee’s response. “Just start at the beginning, Quee.”

Bonita began to feel very hot. The Brodies had designed this room after a trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville. The curtains were a heavy, flowery brocade, like an azaelea bush that sagged under the weight of its own blooms. Bonita felt as if she were mummified in the velvet upholstery chair. There was a painting of two children playing in a garden of tulips and forsythia and dogwoods that overtook most of the wall. Bonita always hated that painting.

Conway tripped back in the room with a coffee cup in his hand, but he didn’t ask Quee to pour from the carafe that she had set on a lace doily.

“Bonita?” Momma Stance suggested with an eyebrow raised.

“Conway was settin’ up for the fireworks. We was all watchin’. He showed a sparkler to Emory. And that’s it.”

“How do you think Emory got the lighter?”

Conway remained silent in the corner. ‘Say it baby, say it,’ Bonita chanted to herself.

“He probably got it outta Mr. Conway’s pocket. That boy is tricky.”

“Don’t you talk about Emory that way!” Missus interjected.

“Amelia, calm down and let’s get to the bottom of this,” Conway whispered from across the room.

Bonita cut him a look. She didn’t like his words or the way he used them.

“Quee, why weren’t you watching the children while they were in the sandbox? Where were you, exactly?”

Bonita sensed trouble, “That’s enough, Connie,” she said, “now if this is going to turn into some courtroom, we gonna get Mr. Hines down here.”

“Calm down, Bonita. There’s no need for lawyers. We’re just having a friendly family discussion. Quee?”

“Mrs. Jenkins ,” Quee said, taking on a formal tone, “you know as well as I do, having raised two children yourself, that kids are gonna play where they gonna play. Now, I ain’t sayin’ that I let them go down to the river by theyself, or go in the front street whenever they get a hankerin’. I always make sure them kids are where I can see them. They play in that sandbox all the time cause it’s safe. And I was no more than fifty feet away from them, as I always am.”

Quee turned toward Amelia as if she were an actor and only the two of them existed on stage, “Missus, I’m truly sorry for the accident. You know I loved that little girl like she was my own, but what happened out there was an act of God that can’t be blamed on nobody.”

Bonita wanted to jump up and clap.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Quee continued, “Unless you tell us otherwise, I believe there’s gonna be a wake and there’s a lot of things Momma and I need to prepare.”

The family said nothing as Bonita and Quee left the room.

**************

The women worked all day making biscuits, ham, potato salad, deviled eggs and cookies. They cooked on instinct and without consulting each other. The foods were the same that their parents and grandparents had made for similar times. They finally took a break when the sun threatened to set at 8:30.

“Come on, Momma,” Quee said, “I need to see.”

Bonita walked with her daughter to where the sandbox had been. The grass was scorched black as if God had been finger painting on the lawn. Quee bent down and touched the charred blades.

“Momma, it ain’t fair.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“That little girl…why couldn’t it been dumb ol’ Emory?”

“Now Quee, you better stop talkin’ that way. Mr. Emory can’t help the way he is. And God took Millie because he needed her by his side and that’s just the way it is.”

“She probably woulda turned out just like the rest of ‘em anyway.”

They turned and started walking down the path to the Little House. Bonita became aware of just how tired she was.
“What do you mean?”

“You said yourself that you’n Momma Stance were friends when you were younger. But you can’t be friends with them. They too mean and hateful. And Millie probably would’ve been the same way, bein’ raised around them, becomin’ homecoming queen, gettin’ in a sorority and findin’ some snotass man to marry her.”

There was no moon, so Bonita and Quee didn’t see Conway at the edge of the path where the fireworks had been.
“BonitaQuee,” he said, startling them.

“Mr. Conway, what you doin’ out here?” Bonita asked.

“I need to talk to Quee.”

Bonita felt a shiver even though the night was balmy. She knew what he wanted, but continued walking anyway. She stopped when she was shrouded by the dark, yet still within earshot.

“Quee, honey –” Conway started.

“I know what you gonna say, so don’t even say it,” Quee said.

“I tried, honey, I tried.”

Quee said nothing. Bonita’s skin crawled at the term of endearment this man was using with her daughter.

“They think you gave Emory the lighter,” he continued.

“And you didn’t tell ‘em otherwise?”

“Now Quee –“

“You a rat, Mister Conway. I thought you was different. I thought you had a heart up in you, but you ain’t nothin’ but a rat like the rest of them.”

“Quee, watch yourself, now.”

“I ain’t gonna watch nothin’ ‘cause I don’t work for you no more, so what does it matter. You know damn well where Emory got that lighter. From your own hand –“

“Now, that’s not quite how it happened, Quee,” Conway said, raising his voice.

“Yes it is. It’s exactly how it happened. But you ain’t got the balls to tell yo wife and mother-in-law that you was so drunk you don’t remember even giving him the lighter. You probably don’t even remember showing him how to use it, that’s how much of a drunk son-of-a-bitch you is. You killed your own daughter, who may not even be your daughter in the first place and now you tryin’ to blame it on me. You yellow, Conway, that’s your problem. You yellow all over.”

Bonita couldn’t see Conway, but she feared for her daughter. She knew Conway had been drinking throughout the day and his moods were impossible to predict.

“I shoulda never offered to help a girl as impertinent as you. They all told me you’d be ingracious. That you were entitled. I chose to ignore that, but, I guess they were right.” Conway turned and walked up the path. Bonita rushed to her daughter’s side.

“Let him go,” she whispered, “he’s just tryin’ to be hateful. Let him go.” Bonita put her arms’ around Quee’s rigid soldiers and walked her to the Little House. She could feel Quee’s anger give way to sadness, and she wished she could silence the wailing as she rocked her daughter’s body.

*********************

The Toombs County Courthouse had been built in 1964 and looked like something out of a Lego set. It was a flat building bolstered by holly bushes that looked as bored as the building. The inside smelled of institutional food and commercial floor cleaner.

Marion walked her mother up the four small steps to the doors. Her arm was acting as unnecessary support for her mother and she wanted to shrug it off, but didn’t dare. It wasn’t only her sense of propriety, but the fear of her mother’s acrid tongue that forced her to keep the arm where it was.

“Marion, slow down, for heaven’s sakes,” her mother said, picking her way up the steps, even though, as Marion knew, she could walk perfectly well on her own. Her mother had aged before her time, her hair was graying and she cut it short and close to her head. But even though she battled with illnesses of her own invention, she kept her carriage erect and had adopted Momma Stance’s fashion sense. Amelia wore the decade-old St. Laurents and Nipons cast off by Marion’s grandmother. The couture was still beautiful, albeit a little less fashionable. And although Amelia was a handsome woman, Marion rarely felt pride in her presence. Amelia’s weight on Marion’s arm felt like an old handbag and her wool St. John jacket scratched Marion’s skin, who only wore a t-shirt in the 85-degree weather.

“Mother, couldn’t you have just mailed these papers in?”

“No, I could not, Marion. I need a notary. Besides, I do not trust these people with important documents. You have to watch their every move or nothing will get done.”

They arrived at a counter guarding a woman in a long blue-jean skirt and an oversized wool cardigan.
“May I help you?” she asked dutifully.

“Yes, I need to make a name change. The paperwork is all right here,” Marion’s mother said, patting her large – and in Marion’s opinion gaudy – Vera Bradley handbag.

“May I see it?” the woman asked.

“Are you the person who will be able to make the change?” Amelia asked.

“No…I…I have to check the paperwork to make sure it’s complete.”

“It is most certainly complete. Now where do I go?”

The woman was too flustered to argue, as most people rarely argued with Amelia. Instead, she pointed down the hall, “Public Records, two doors on the right.”

“Yes,” Marion’s mother said by way of thanks and draped the handbag over her arm as if it was a stole.

Marion looked at her mother quizzically. “Who’s name are you changing and why?”

“Please don’t start a scene here, Marion. Let’s just put this in front of the right people,” she said with a glare back at the receptionist.

“I’m not making a scene, Mother,” Marion said, “I would just like to know what you’re up to.”

Marion’s mother started walking down the hall by herself, further proof to Marion she only needed assistance when it was convenient for her. Marion trailed along, not wanting to be a part of her mother’s newest caper.

The Office of Public Records was barricaded by a closed half door topped with shatterproof plexiglass. A round hole had been cut into the glass and there was a small opening at the bottom for the exchange of documents. Marion knew her mother detested barriers of any sort, and indeed Amelia got right up to the hole and managed to put her whole mouth in it.
“I need to speak with someone regarding a legal name change,” she said.

“Back away and I can help you,” a sturdy black woman said from the other side of the door.
“You don’t seem to understand,” she repeated, over-enunciating with her mouth still pressed to the hole, “I need to speak with someone regarding a legal name-change.”

The implication of this statement was that the woman she was talking to was not the person who had the power to assist her, and this was exactly what Amelia intended. Marion watched the whole scene with disgust, yet refused to end it by taking the envelope form her mother and conducting the business herself, as she so often did. She had to see what her mother was up to first.

“I understand that,” the black woman said, clearly affronted, “I can hear you perfectly fine if you step away from the window. You got your paperwork?”

“Yes,” Marion’s mother said, her mouth still to the hole, “I will be happy to hand it to the person who can assist me.”

The black woman looked at Marion’s mother with a mixture of bemusement and hate. The woman didn’t budge and neither did Marion’s mother. Marion decided to break the stalemate.

“Mom, give me the envelope, and go sit in that chair,” her mother did was she was told, getting what she wanted all along.
“I apologize for my mother,” Marion said, handing the woman the envelope through the slot.

“She kinda crazy, ain’t she?” the woman said. Marion felt a moment of familial defensiveness, but let the comment pass.

“Okay, so you wanna change the name of Emory Brandt Brodie to Christy – no middle name – Brodie?” the woman asked.

“What?” Marion exclaimed, turning to her mother.

“I’m changing Emory’s name,” she said with finality.

“What are you talking about? His name is Emory.”

“No, it is Christy. At least it will be once these people get their act together.”

“Mother, you can’t just change someone’s name!” Marion said.

“I most certainly can; I’m his mother.”

“You gonna change a boy’s name to a girl’s?” the woman behind the glass asked, looking skeptical.

“It's a family name. Now you get that paperwork to the right people.”

“I am the right people,” the woman said, “but I dunno if I can make a change like that. What if he don’t want his name changed to a girl’s?”

“It is immaterial,” Amelia said, “he is a crippled boy and he is not able to make such decision son his own.”

“You’re gonna change the name of a crippled boy to a girl?” the woman behind the counter asked, motioning for some of her co-workers to come over, “naw, I dunno if I can do that. Rhea, go ask Mister Barnard if we can change boys’ names to girls’,” she said, instructing one of the women near her.

“Mother, you can’t do this,” Marion pleaded, “why do you want to punish him this way? Besides, it’s a complete waste of time and money. No one’s going to call him that.”

“Mr. Barnard say you can change a name to whatever you want as long as it don’t imply fraudulent intent,” the woman called Rhea said, sitting down importantly next to the clerk.

“You say he’s crippled?” the clerk repeated, “naw, I ain’t gonna process that.”

“You most certainly are,” Amelia said, standing up and pressing her mouth into the hole again. Then she turned to Marion, “if your brother insists on wearing dresses and carrying around dolls like a girl, then we will give him the name of a girl.”
“Woo!” the woman called Rhea exclaimed, “he wearin’ dresses?”

“It’s a hospital gown,” Amelia said glaring at her, “Mother, let’s go home and have this conversation over lunch. I think Bonita’s making chicken cutlets and rice.”

“Not to mention he’s carrying around those dolls everywhere he goes,” Amelia continued, “’Has a tantrum whenever someone takes it away. That boy does not deserve to carry on the name of your great-grandfather.”

“What kinda dolls?” asked one of the other woman behind the glass who was thoroughly enjoying this break in her workday.
“It’s not important,” Marion snarled.

“Let me see this Mr. Barnard, you’re talking about,” Amelia demanded.

“You don’t need to see him,” Rhea interjected. I’ll process your paperwork. You got everything in here?” she asked, rummaging through the folder. “We gonna need his signature.”

Amelia glared at the woman, “My son is not able to sign. I’m his guardian; I signed for him.”

“You gonna have to ask Mr. Barnard about that,” the first woman said, miffed that the task had been taken away from her.

“No I don’t. There a line for a guardian to legal sign and she signed. I’ll be sure this gets goin’ right away.”

“Thank you, I certainly appreciate that,” Amelia said, her voice as sticky as a crushed caterpillar.

********

The next day, Marion drove to Central Hospital. She went in the front of The Powell Building that looked like a giant marshmallow had been placed on its roof.

“Misty,” she said to the girl working the reception desk.

“Hello Marion, here to see your brother?”

“Actually, I have an appointment with Dr. Tilman.”

“He ain’t gonna help you without your momma present.” Misty said.

“Oh, I think he will.”

“You’re so responsible for your age. I wish my daughter was as responsible as you. I’ll buzz him right away.”

Dr. Tilman seemed very old to Marion. He was balding and wore slacks that were too tight at his pot belly and a lab coat with his name embroidered on the breast.

“Miss Brodie?”

She followed him to a large office, appointed with oversized cheap cabinets and faux Oriental rugs. Levitz decoration, Momma Stance would’ve said. He motioned to a leatherette chair and Marion sat down. He wordlessly cocked his head to one side by way of asking her to begin.

“Dr. Tilman, I’m sure you’ve met my mother.”

“Of course,”

“Well, you probably have figured out that she can be a bit, well, assertive.”

“Nothing wrong with a woman who knows what she wants.”

Marion’s heart sank, but she continued, “yes, well, she wants to change Emory’s name. And I’m not sure this is the best thing for him.”

“What does she want to change it to?” he asked curtly.

“Christy.”

“Family name?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look, Miss Brodie, this is not uncommon in any way. Many feel that when a family member has been admitted to a hospital such as this one, it is good to give that family member a fresh start. A name change might be exactly what is called for.”
Marion scowled at him, “you’re joking.”

“Quite the opposite. Look, your brother is suffering from impairment,” he opened a manilla folder and began to scan it, murmuring to himself, “developmental trauma disorder…affected cognition, perception, interpersonal relationships…extreme lack of motor and language development…some psychotic anxiety and depression…evidence of schizophreniform disorder and predicative psychotic symptoms in childhood and adulthood…continual stimming with a favored prop, in this case….a doll…
“Miss Brodie, your brother is so wrapped up in his own world of delusion, that it’s really not going to affect him either way what his name is. As long as he’s not suicidal, harming other patients, and carrying on the normal functions of eating, drinking…it’s really the best we can hope for.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Marion said.

“Miss Brodie, it is also completely normal for a family member to be in denial about the prognosis of a patient. At this point, I think it would be a good idea if your mother made an appointment for you with Mrs. McCart, our social worker. Now, I apologize, but this meeting has made me a bit late for rounds and I have a whole ward of patients who are expecting me.”
He held the door to his office open for her, “and don’t forget to have your mother call Misty to set up an appointment with Mrs. McCart.”

Marion was just young enough to be intimidated by titles and cheap furniture. So, she gathered her bag and went out the open door.

“Misty,” she said, as she approached the front desk, “may I have a visitor pass to see my brother?”

“It’s all ready for you,” Misty said, presenting her with a word cardboard tag.

*********

The Walker Building was red brick with front doors twice the size of any man and windows like stained glass with the color drained from them. In some ways, it reminded her of Park Hall at UGA and Marion always wished she were going there instead to visit Emory. She presented her pass to the front desk security guard and followed the turquoise hallway to the great room.
The Central State campus were designed to foster a sense of tranquility in the patients. The land rivaled any of Olmstead’s parks – pastoral and endless, and the red brick buildings could’ve been 19th century law offices or general stores. The clear kaleidoscope windows were intended to create a sense of calm with natural light, but they had an opposite affect on Marion and the light made her feel anxious. On cloudy days she felt it would be better to have no windows at all.

“Emory,” she said as she approached him from the back.

“Oh, hi there!” he said too loudly.

“Hi, what are you up to?” he had a phone book open in front of him.

“Just reading, how was your week?”

“Good, good. And yours?”

“Fine, now, we need to have a little talk.”

“Okay, well, tell me what you did this week.”

“Not much, I went to OT, you know, stuff like that,” he trailed off, “now, here’s what I need, it’s not a list, but it’s some things I need you to look into.”

“What’s OT?” she asked trying to avoid his endless to-do lists of menial tasks.

“Occupational Therapy. Now, listen to me –”

“I made a dinner plate,” a patient named Bernard interjected as he walked by.

“Hello Bernard,” she said to the hulking man.

“Do you have any Mountain Dew?” Bernard asked standing over her. Some spittle had dried around his mouth.

“Not today, no.”

“Well, let me know if you get any.”

“Marion!” Emory said tapping the air with stiff fingers that were like petrified tree branches, “pay attention, will ya?”

A few more of the patients pulled up chairs closer to her and some of the schizophrenics marched endless circles around the group like herding dogs. When someone came to visit, it was a big day.

“Okay, Emory, what were you saying?”

“There’s some things I need you to do,”

“I thought we agreed that you’d stop giving me to-lists and that we’d enjoy our time together instead,” she said firmly.

“This isn’t a to-list!” he insisted, “it’s not!”

“Okay, then –” she was at a loss. Mrs. Summers, Emory’s social worker, had told the family not to give in to Emory’’s chore-requests, but there was little to talk about otherwise.

Bernard loomed nearby, happy to have someone to talk to, “We made a pie plate, too. In OT.”

“That sounds nice, Bernard. Emory, did you make a pie plate?”

“Yes, now, I was wondering if you had some change on you.”

“Or some Mountain Dew,” Bernard chimed in.

Emory began to circle his head back and forth in frustration and tap his fingers to his mouth.

“Go sit down,” he said to Bernard, “I need to speak with my sister in private.”

Bernard was not offended, and simply moved his chair a few inches back.

“Now where, were we?” Emory said.

“You were telling me what you made in Occupational Therapy?” she offered.

“A pie plate,” Bernard murmured from behind her.

“Oh, I remember, you got any change on you?” Emory asked her, still tapping his fingers to his mouth.

“For what, Emory?”

“I need to use the phone.”

“You’re not allowed to use the phone.”

“I need it in case there’s an emergency.”

“Emory, come on, you know you’re in trouble because you called that librarian – what’s her name – twenty times in an hour. There’s no way they’re going to let you near a phone.”

“Her name’s Hazel,” Emory said, giggling.

“Okay, Emory,” she said, losing control of the conversation. There were certain names and words that launched her brother into a world of tapping and rocking and giggling. Once he got started, it was hard to bring him back. ‘Inappropriate behavior,’ Mrs. Summers had called it.

“Say 'Sweet April',” he said, reaching for her.

“Emory,” she warned.

“Give me kissy.”

“Emory, if you don’t shape up, I’m leaving.”

“Say ‘Sweet April’ first.”

Sensing a change in the air, Bernard stood up and loomed over her again, and the schizophrenics began to make tighter circles around them.

“Emory, tell her to get me some Mountain Dew,” Bernard bellowed.

Strangely, she wasn’t alarmed by any of this, but took control of the situation in a way no one had taught her, “Bernard, go sit down. Greg and Kevin, back up,” she said to the schizophrenics, “And Emory, stop saying that. Let’s try to have a normal conversation.”

Everyone did as they were told. Emory silently tapped his doll against his mouth. After a moment, he spoke up, “Hey Marion?”
“Yes, Emory.”

“Can you get me another Bionic Woman doll and keep it at the house? I’m worried that this one’s head might fall off again.”
She sighed, “It’s not going to fall off, Emory. Now, Emory, you need to listen to me. I need to discuss something important with you.”

“Is it bad?” he asked, his voice rising in panic and his head lolling back and forth faster.

“Of course not,”

“Whew. Well, go ahead.”

“Now, I want you to remember that no matter what–your name is Emory, okay?”

“I know that.” He said as if she was stupid.

“I know you know; I just want you to remember it.” She was struggling to explain without making him anxious.

“Okay,” Emory said, seizing his chance to change the subject, “now, I need you to do some things for me in return.”
“In return for what?” His quid pro quo drove her crazy.

“I just need you to remember that my Speak and Spell needs batteries. And while you’re at it, my tape recorder sounds a little funny.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said, bored by the same conversation they had every week.

“Okay, and don’t forget to get new batteries. You didn’t happen to bring any with you, did you?”

“No, Emory.”

“That’s alright. And can you look at my Bionic Woman doll and make sure the head isn’t going to fall off?”

She took the doll from him and pretended to twist the head into place. “Emory, did you ever think about maybe carrying something else instead of a doll?” she ventured.

“No!” he answered as if she had proposed he drive a fire engine around the room with lizards hanging off the back, “you’re not going to take this away are you?”

“Of course not, I just think you could find something a little more – appropriate to your age – that’s all.”

“This is fine,” he said, holding the doll at an angle in front of her, “now, when can you get me those new batteries?”

“I’ll get them next weekend,” she said, wearily.”

"That’s fine!” he said.

“Okay, Emory, I have to get going,” she said, rising from the chair, “Now you remember, no matter what anyone else calls you, your name is Emory.”

“All right. And don’t forget those batteries!” he said. She roughly hugged him, then left him in a pool of sunlight, rocking and tapping the doll to his mouth.



Chapter Next

1997
The door to the house on Pearl Street was stuck. When this happened, it necessitated him putting his weight against it and pushing with his shoulder. He had done this so many times, the paint was chipping off and the wood was warping, but he dared not lock the door. He got it open, put his wallet and keys on the counter and turned on the TV. A repo man was after the Aerostar, so he had traded the van with his daughter for the old Chevy. The best part of the Caprice was the way you had to lift all your weight off the seat to start it if you didn’t have the seatbelt fastened. And Conway never wore a seatbelt.

He fixed a drink and settled into his chair for the show about the hot girl who kills vampires. He was sad that Marion no longer wanted to watch TV with him, or discuss shows like Melrose and 9021. College had made her more like her mother and he missed the little girl who would ride around town with him making up stories. Marion had become as selfish as that bitch, Amelia. He was dying in this rented shack, cooking eggs off a hot plate with no job and no prospect of one. Could Amelia maybe reach into the family coffers and pull out a little bit of money to get him through? Of course she couldn’t. She sat on that big old plantation, barely even visiting their son at Central, without a care in the world but shopping, and volunteering and she couldn’t even come up with a couple hundred dollars to help our her ex-husband.

Conway shifted in his chair and downed his drink, then sucked on the ice cubes. He’d promised himself he’d wait until after the show to make another one, but thinking about his ex-wife got him heated, so he poured a little bit more Canadian Mist this time with a splash of Coke. What did it matter; he had nowhere to be tonight except in bed. He liked to go to bed early and wake up at 5:00. Always did. That didn’t change even though he didn’t have a job. He’d find something sooner or later. His neighbor, Harley (who was also very cute, too bad she had a boyfriend), told him that the Flowers company was hiring drivers for their bread trucks. It was perfect for old men who liked to get up early, she teased. He liked a girl who knew how to tease. Regina wasn’t so good at it. ‘Got hurt too easily when he made fun of her young age, or her Elton John boots. Speaking of, he promised Emory he’d get him that Elton John CD for his birthday. Now where was he going to find the money to do that? You’d think his mother would handle that kind of thing. Or his sister, who had gotten very high-falutin’ lately. He wondered if his ex-wife was putting money in Marion’s bank account and if he cold get a loan. Not for the CD. That didn’t cost a whole lot, but for the rent that was due in a week. He bet Marion had it and it was just a matter of asking. Besides, he’d given her a car. She owed him.

He woke up to the opening music of Martin, a dumb show if there ever was one. But that