some form of devilment?
The Daddy's Girls were not kind to those outside their clique. Tammy's pregnancy, when it became obvious, had been the source of several comments and jokes, but it had not even rippled the surface of the world where the Daddy's Girls lived. Some of the girls had been catty and cruel, but Tinkie had not been active in that number. Still, obliviousness can be a form of torture to those who live in exile.
"Your hands already look like a scrubwoman's. Soakin' 'em in that hot water's only making 'em worse."
Jitty had slipped into the kitchen. "I don't suppose you're offering to help?" I asked.
"Stay clear of the past, Sarah Booth. There's nothing you can do to change it."
"I was just thinking how the past shifts. It's one way when you're there, and completely different when you remember it."
"Thinkin' is a dangerous thing for women in your family. It leads to those deep, down, and dirty blue funks, and you know where those can take a woman." Jitty walked to the kitchen window and looked out into the clear afternoon. Beyond the sycamore trees was a stand of cedars that marked the Delaney cemetery.
I didn't want to think about my dead relatives, so I asked her, "Who do you think is the father of Claire's child?" Jitty knew as much as I did. Maybe more.
"Someone handsome. Claire is a looker."
That was true, but nonspecific.
"I can't remember ever seeing Tammy talk to a boy." As far as I knew, she'd gone home to tend her grandmother every day after school. The truth was, Tammy could have been carrying on with Brad Pitt and I wouldn't have had a clue. Our friendship was a daytime thing. Her evenings, I had assumed, were spent with Granny.
"The way I see it, don't matter who Claire's father is. That's not your concern. What Tinkie wants to know is about his white family. She's not interested in the colored branch, if there is one."
"Only because she doesn't know it exists," I pointed out.
"Why complicate a simple job?" Jitty nodded slowly as agreement lit my eyes. "No need to tell Tinkie everything you dig up. I think you should make a trip to Knob Hill."
"The house is empty."
"You could interview the help. Surely they had folks workin' for them. Gardeners, maids, mammies. Folks with that kind of money gone have somebody to do the daily chores."
It was a good idea, but I hated to give Jitty the credit. She was already too bossy. I checked my watch. It was after three, a good time for a visit. The tryptamines from the turkey would be kicking in and folks might be more receptive to a probing visit from a stranger.
"I think I'll take a drive." I picked up my keys and sauntered to the door.
"Don't go out that door!"
Jitty wanted her pound of flesh--to make me admit I was taking her suggestion. I jerked open the door, intent on evading her. Harold Erkwell blocked my escape.
"Sarah Booth," he said, his voice smooth and refined. "I was wondering if you might join me for a bit of fresh air. I thought we'd go for a drive."
Harold. I had an appointment with him. I suddenly remembered an old story about a man named Daniel Webster. It did not have a happy ending.
The reprieve from my financial woes was utterly temporary. I couldn't afford to alienate Harold completely. An intelligent woman knows that the management of the male is an art, but damn, manipulation was so time-consuming, and I had important things to do.
"That sounds lovely," I said, smiling. As Aunt Lou-Lane said, "A girl can catch more flies with sugar than vinegar," and once they're caught you can smash them flat with ease.
Harold offered his arm and I pulled the door closed after me, ignoring Jitty's smirk.
He opened the door of his Lexus and seated me. 1 had to admire his impeccable manners. I had gone to college with girls who disdained manners. What fools they were. Manners are the cocoon that softens the journey from youth to maturity. Many a bad moment can be soothed with the balm of courtesy. I could appreciate Harold for his
The Daddy's Girls were not kind to those outside their clique. Tammy's pregnancy, when it became obvious, had been the source of several comments and jokes, but it had not even rippled the surface of the world where the Daddy's Girls lived. Some of the girls had been catty and cruel, but Tinkie had not been active in that number. Still, obliviousness can be a form of torture to those who live in exile.
"Your hands already look like a scrubwoman's. Soakin' 'em in that hot water's only making 'em worse."
Jitty had slipped into the kitchen. "I don't suppose you're offering to help?" I asked.
"Stay clear of the past, Sarah Booth. There's nothing you can do to change it."
"I was just thinking how the past shifts. It's one way when you're there, and completely different when you remember it."
"Thinkin' is a dangerous thing for women in your family. It leads to those deep, down, and dirty blue funks, and you know where those can take a woman." Jitty walked to the kitchen window and looked out into the clear afternoon. Beyond the sycamore trees was a stand of cedars that marked the Delaney cemetery.
I didn't want to think about my dead relatives, so I asked her, "Who do you think is the father of Claire's child?" Jitty knew as much as I did. Maybe more.
"Someone handsome. Claire is a looker."
That was true, but nonspecific.
"I can't remember ever seeing Tammy talk to a boy." As far as I knew, she'd gone home to tend her grandmother every day after school. The truth was, Tammy could have been carrying on with Brad Pitt and I wouldn't have had a clue. Our friendship was a daytime thing. Her evenings, I had assumed, were spent with Granny.
"The way I see it, don't matter who Claire's father is. That's not your concern. What Tinkie wants to know is about his white family. She's not interested in the colored branch, if there is one."
"Only because she doesn't know it exists," I pointed out.
"Why complicate a simple job?" Jitty nodded slowly as agreement lit my eyes. "No need to tell Tinkie everything you dig up. I think you should make a trip to Knob Hill."
"The house is empty."
"You could interview the help. Surely they had folks workin' for them. Gardeners, maids, mammies. Folks with that kind of money gone have somebody to do the daily chores."
It was a good idea, but I hated to give Jitty the credit. She was already too bossy. I checked my watch. It was after three, a good time for a visit. The tryptamines from the turkey would be kicking in and folks might be more receptive to a probing visit from a stranger.
"I think I'll take a drive." I picked up my keys and sauntered to the door.
"Don't go out that door!"
Jitty wanted her pound of flesh--to make me admit I was taking her suggestion. I jerked open the door, intent on evading her. Harold Erkwell blocked my escape.
"Sarah Booth," he said, his voice smooth and refined. "I was wondering if you might join me for a bit of fresh air. I thought we'd go for a drive."
Harold. I had an appointment with him. I suddenly remembered an old story about a man named Daniel Webster. It did not have a happy ending.
The reprieve from my financial woes was utterly temporary. I couldn't afford to alienate Harold completely. An intelligent woman knows that the management of the male is an art, but damn, manipulation was so time-consuming, and I had important things to do.
"That sounds lovely," I said, smiling. As Aunt Lou-Lane said, "A girl can catch more flies with sugar than vinegar," and once they're caught you can smash them flat with ease.
Harold offered his arm and I pulled the door closed after me, ignoring Jitty's smirk.
He opened the door of his Lexus and seated me. 1 had to admire his impeccable manners. I had gone to college with girls who disdained manners. What fools they were. Manners are the cocoon that softens the journey from youth to maturity. Many a bad moment can be soothed with the balm of courtesy. I could appreciate Harold for his
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