a weathercock.
It would have been faster for Mama and Genny to cut across the square. Grace Street began catty-corner to the museum. But Genny had an errand, and they wanted to see what was cooking at the diner, so they made their way around the square’s perime-ter. They passed the Dollhouse Store; they could see through the big front window that Bernese was with a customer.
Henry Crabtree’s bookstore was in the shop right beside Bernese’s, and Genny and Mama stopped there. Genny had ordered a book of quilt block patterns, but Henry told her it hadn’t arrived yet. He was one of the few people left in town who were around my age; most residents of Between were over fifty. Henry was my close friend, and he was good to my family and watched out for Mama and Genny on the weekdays when I was in Athens.
Genny, who was often twitchy and diffident around men, flat adored him. He was soft-spoken, and his low-pitched voice was like balm on her nerves, soothing and cool. Mama liked him, too, so they paused to chat, telling him I was expected in town on Saturday instead of Friday.
“Because of her divorce, you know,” Genny said in a confi-dential tone, her eyes gleaming. My mother released Genny’s signing hands to send her forefingers shooting triumphantly away from the corners of her mouth.
“ ‘Finally!’ Stacia says,” Genny interpreted. She gave her hands back to Stacia, so Stacia could feel the conversation. “I know divorce is wrong and all, but just between us and the little birds?
We’re glad. We don’t like that boy,” Genny said, signing at the same time.
Henry straightened his immaculate cuffs and quirked one black eyebrow at them. “Me neither,” he said.
They said their goodbyes, and Genny and Mama continued on to the diner. The special was written on a blackboard sign by the front door. Genny signed to Mama that it was Trude’s god-awful Turketti.
Mama made a sour face and signed, Soup at home?
Genny hesitated, trying to choose between the evils of walking by the dogs and Turketti. At last she nodded her hand and they walked on, past the row of three kitschy antique marts and then Isaac’s house.
Crabtree Gas and Parts was directly across from the square, on Philbert. The gas pumps and the dilapidated country store faced the square, and beside it two mechanics’ bays yawped open like black mouths. The parts yard was behind the store, and humps of twisted slag metal and junk were visible over the store’s low roof. Philbert Street was the border that separated the town square from the Crabtrees’ squalid holdings. It was a different world across the street, and Bernese was not alone in thinking the complex was an eyesore.
Genny and Mama left the square and crossed to the corner of Grace and Philbert. The gas station was on their left, and there wasn’t anything to the right but a sloping shoulder that led into a ditch full of kudzu. Beyond that was nothing but rolling Georgia wilderness awash in loblolly pines and scrub. The sidewalk ran parallel to the fence that surrounded the parts yard. My two little squashy marshmallow ladies, joined at the hip, stepped up onto the sidewalk and went tootling down the length of the fence.
Mama held Genny’s elbow in her left hand, her right hand swinging her cane to check her path. Genny took three teeny bird steps for every long, careful stride of Mama’s, and the white cane tapped out the rhythm of their walk. In their print dresses and orthopedic shoes, they were completely innocuous. But as they walked, the male dogs appeared, one slinking out from under an old Chevy, the other easing his head from behind a rusted-out refrigerator.
The Bitch came out of nowhere. Genny did not see the dog until she loomed up beside them at the fence about halfway to the gate. The Bitch bared her teeth in a menacing parody of a grin, and the males growled so deep in their chests that Genny felt it as a vibration of the air more than she heard it. They moved
It would have been faster for Mama and Genny to cut across the square. Grace Street began catty-corner to the museum. But Genny had an errand, and they wanted to see what was cooking at the diner, so they made their way around the square’s perime-ter. They passed the Dollhouse Store; they could see through the big front window that Bernese was with a customer.
Henry Crabtree’s bookstore was in the shop right beside Bernese’s, and Genny and Mama stopped there. Genny had ordered a book of quilt block patterns, but Henry told her it hadn’t arrived yet. He was one of the few people left in town who were around my age; most residents of Between were over fifty. Henry was my close friend, and he was good to my family and watched out for Mama and Genny on the weekdays when I was in Athens.
Genny, who was often twitchy and diffident around men, flat adored him. He was soft-spoken, and his low-pitched voice was like balm on her nerves, soothing and cool. Mama liked him, too, so they paused to chat, telling him I was expected in town on Saturday instead of Friday.
“Because of her divorce, you know,” Genny said in a confi-dential tone, her eyes gleaming. My mother released Genny’s signing hands to send her forefingers shooting triumphantly away from the corners of her mouth.
“ ‘Finally!’ Stacia says,” Genny interpreted. She gave her hands back to Stacia, so Stacia could feel the conversation. “I know divorce is wrong and all, but just between us and the little birds?
We’re glad. We don’t like that boy,” Genny said, signing at the same time.
Henry straightened his immaculate cuffs and quirked one black eyebrow at them. “Me neither,” he said.
They said their goodbyes, and Genny and Mama continued on to the diner. The special was written on a blackboard sign by the front door. Genny signed to Mama that it was Trude’s god-awful Turketti.
Mama made a sour face and signed, Soup at home?
Genny hesitated, trying to choose between the evils of walking by the dogs and Turketti. At last she nodded her hand and they walked on, past the row of three kitschy antique marts and then Isaac’s house.
Crabtree Gas and Parts was directly across from the square, on Philbert. The gas pumps and the dilapidated country store faced the square, and beside it two mechanics’ bays yawped open like black mouths. The parts yard was behind the store, and humps of twisted slag metal and junk were visible over the store’s low roof. Philbert Street was the border that separated the town square from the Crabtrees’ squalid holdings. It was a different world across the street, and Bernese was not alone in thinking the complex was an eyesore.
Genny and Mama left the square and crossed to the corner of Grace and Philbert. The gas station was on their left, and there wasn’t anything to the right but a sloping shoulder that led into a ditch full of kudzu. Beyond that was nothing but rolling Georgia wilderness awash in loblolly pines and scrub. The sidewalk ran parallel to the fence that surrounded the parts yard. My two little squashy marshmallow ladies, joined at the hip, stepped up onto the sidewalk and went tootling down the length of the fence.
Mama held Genny’s elbow in her left hand, her right hand swinging her cane to check her path. Genny took three teeny bird steps for every long, careful stride of Mama’s, and the white cane tapped out the rhythm of their walk. In their print dresses and orthopedic shoes, they were completely innocuous. But as they walked, the male dogs appeared, one slinking out from under an old Chevy, the other easing his head from behind a rusted-out refrigerator.
The Bitch came out of nowhere. Genny did not see the dog until she loomed up beside them at the fence about halfway to the gate. The Bitch bared her teeth in a menacing parody of a grin, and the males growled so deep in their chests that Genny felt it as a vibration of the air more than she heard it. They moved
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