A Place Called Wiregrass Read Online Free Page B

corners of the half-closed zipper.
    They didn’t look like convicts, her mama and daddy. But then again, in the picture Cher didn’t look like the smart girl she was. In fact, she didn’t look like a girl at all, just a bald six-month-old leaning on her daddy’s tattooed arm. Her little ears displayed two tiny gold balls. I told Suzette piercing a baby’s ears was trashy, and now I was holding the celluloid proof. Suzette had her brown hair parted on the side and, looking into her wide brown eyes, there was no denying she was Cher’s mama. The blue plastic background with smoke drifting from the chimney and snow on the ground looked weird with them in the foreground. Why were they all dressed in short sleeves? And it probably was the dead of winter when they had the picture made. Most likely at the grocery store or some other unplanned place. No wonder when I found that picture in a kitchen drawer back in Cross City, I promptly threw it in the trash.
     
    The first week with Miss Claudia was a settling-in time. By Friday, I knew my way around the place, and it didn’t seem quite as huge as it had before. Her regular friends came and went from two to four o’clock. My pick was a real sweet black lady. The tiny woman with round glasses stopped by mostly on Tuesdays. I decided she must be one of the late housekeeper’s relatives still keeping check on Miss Claudia. Rich people always seemed to have hired help who were just like family. But I refused to be put in that category. This was just a way to keep up with the bills, I reminded myself every day when I pulled up the long concrete driveway.
    Richard got on my last nerve, as I predicted he would. Icall it the “Short Man Syndrome.” All he’d do is talk big about how much money he made in stocks and how he used to own racehorses. So much for Mr. Big Shot—he couldn’t even keep an appointment without his eighty-year-old mama reminding him.
    Only once did he start to get out of hand. I was washing the dinner dishes and had half tuned out his lecture on the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle when I felt the digging glare. My back was to him, but I could picture him leering at me from the kitchen table. Still in uniform, I knew he was looking through my cheap polyester slacks at my panties.
    “It’s a pure shame my mama don’t live closer by. She just loves interesting stuff like you talk about,” I said, turning to him with the crystal tea pitcher in my hands. “I bet she’d be after you, seeing how y’all about the same age.” When he scrunched his face and retreated to his garage apartment, I couldn’t help but get tickled. The idea of Mama, whose hair was shorter than his, ever going on a date with a nerve patient was hilarious. She’d stomp on his nerves like a bull in a china store. Before I knew it, the chuckle erupted, and I slapped my soapy hand over my mouth. For a second I felt lighter. It was the first time I had laughed since leaving Cross City.
    Ladies from First Methodist paraded through the afternoons at Miss Claudia’s. I let each enter through the big white door with the brass door knocker. Big or skinny, with gray or dyed-blue hair, they all had the same little turned-down smile that I decided must be required with the Methodists. A woman by the name of Elizabeth was the worst. I’d say some pleasantry like, “How you doing today?” She’d just turn her ash-blonde head ever so slightly and give me a tired smirk. And I know the worn smile was not because she’d been cleaning house all day, but instead was her way of saying, “Who do you think you are talking to me, White Trash?” without exercising her voice.
    The good thing about Prune Face—the pet name I secretly gave her—was she never stayed long. Soon she’d appear in the living room again, with her brown Bible in tow. After I closed the door, I’d watch from the living-room window as she got into her big Chrysler. I imagined her sitting in a metal chair the following