he’s dumb.”
Tori felt her throat tighten. “He thinks he’s dumb?”
“Of course he does. It’s how he’s been treated since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Do you really think that’s why Martha Jane accused him so readily?”
“She wouldn’t be the first,” Rose mumbled as she preceded Tori down the hallway toward the back of her tiny cottage. “Even when he was in school, kids would blame him when things went missing from their book bags.”
“But why?” Tori asked, her feet slowing as they reached the door separating them from the subject of their conversation.
“Because he was different. He moved different, spoke different, acted different. And different in our world means wrong .” Rose grabbed hold of the doorknob, then stopped. “That’s something you know firsthand, isn’t it, Victoria.”
And she did. When she moved to Sweet Briar she was different. She spoke differently, dressed differently, and acted differently in a town where everyone spoke, acted, and dressed the same.
Like Kenny, she had been the unknown in a sea of known and, hence, a perfect murder suspect when the town’s former sweetheart turned up dead shortly after Tori’s arrival.
She got it. She really did. And it made her heart ache for the mentally challenged man scooping up sticks on Rose’s patio.
The mentally challenged colored man . . .
Shifting the tray to the opposite hand, Tori covered Rose’s hand with her own. “Nina said something the other day that got to me. And after what just happened I have to wonder if maybe she’s right.”
“She thinks his color is the issue?” Rose waved a dismissive hand in the air then reached, again, for the door. “Martha Jane is racist, of that I have no doubt. But her racism isn’t confined to the color of someone’s skin. It’s anything that makes a person different. Kenny just happens to have two strikes against him in her eyes.”
A gust of warm air whooshed into the house as Rose opened the door, the sun’s rays playing across the stone patio. “Look who’s here, Kenny.”
The thirtysomething man looked up, one hand clasped around a piece of rope while the other held tight to an unruly bundle of sticks.
Extending her free hand outward, Tori smiled. “Hi, Kenny. I’m Rose’s friend, Victoria. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
A shy smile tugged at the man’s thin lips, sending his dark bushy eyebrows upward. “You’re the book lady, aren’t you?”
She set the tray down on Rose’s picnic table. “I work at the library in town, yes. Do you like to read, Kenny?”
His smile disappeared. “I used to. When Ms. Winters was my teacher.”
Rose reached out, rested a reassuring hand on Kenny’s broad shoulders. “He’s a good reader, he just lacks confidence. But we’ll find it one of these days, won’t we?”
Kenny kicked at a stick on the ground, his cheeks drooping as a piece of stonework lifted with his toe. “Ms. Winters, I’m s-sorry.” Dropping to a squat, the man set the stone back in place, his hand shaking as he worked. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, Kenny.”
Sensing the sadness in Rose’s guest, Tori gestured toward the table and the tray of dinner plates. “I brought lunch with me, Kenny. Enough for you and me and some of the workers. Would you like some?”
The man looked up, a hint of surprise evident in his eyes as he looked from Rose to Tori and back again.
“Of course he’d like some.” Rose’s voice, clear and firm, cut through the melody of chain saws and hammering in the distance. “Kenny has been keeping me company all morning and I’m sure he’s worked up quite an appetite. Talking to old people can do that, I reckon.”
Jumping to his feet, Kenny took hold of Rose’s hand. “Ms. Winters t-takes g-good care of m-me.”
Tori lifted a plate from the tray and handed it to Kenny. “From what I hear, you take good care of Ms. Winters, too.”
A flush rose up in Kenny’s
Tori felt her throat tighten. “He thinks he’s dumb?”
“Of course he does. It’s how he’s been treated since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Do you really think that’s why Martha Jane accused him so readily?”
“She wouldn’t be the first,” Rose mumbled as she preceded Tori down the hallway toward the back of her tiny cottage. “Even when he was in school, kids would blame him when things went missing from their book bags.”
“But why?” Tori asked, her feet slowing as they reached the door separating them from the subject of their conversation.
“Because he was different. He moved different, spoke different, acted different. And different in our world means wrong .” Rose grabbed hold of the doorknob, then stopped. “That’s something you know firsthand, isn’t it, Victoria.”
And she did. When she moved to Sweet Briar she was different. She spoke differently, dressed differently, and acted differently in a town where everyone spoke, acted, and dressed the same.
Like Kenny, she had been the unknown in a sea of known and, hence, a perfect murder suspect when the town’s former sweetheart turned up dead shortly after Tori’s arrival.
She got it. She really did. And it made her heart ache for the mentally challenged man scooping up sticks on Rose’s patio.
The mentally challenged colored man . . .
Shifting the tray to the opposite hand, Tori covered Rose’s hand with her own. “Nina said something the other day that got to me. And after what just happened I have to wonder if maybe she’s right.”
“She thinks his color is the issue?” Rose waved a dismissive hand in the air then reached, again, for the door. “Martha Jane is racist, of that I have no doubt. But her racism isn’t confined to the color of someone’s skin. It’s anything that makes a person different. Kenny just happens to have two strikes against him in her eyes.”
A gust of warm air whooshed into the house as Rose opened the door, the sun’s rays playing across the stone patio. “Look who’s here, Kenny.”
The thirtysomething man looked up, one hand clasped around a piece of rope while the other held tight to an unruly bundle of sticks.
Extending her free hand outward, Tori smiled. “Hi, Kenny. I’m Rose’s friend, Victoria. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
A shy smile tugged at the man’s thin lips, sending his dark bushy eyebrows upward. “You’re the book lady, aren’t you?”
She set the tray down on Rose’s picnic table. “I work at the library in town, yes. Do you like to read, Kenny?”
His smile disappeared. “I used to. When Ms. Winters was my teacher.”
Rose reached out, rested a reassuring hand on Kenny’s broad shoulders. “He’s a good reader, he just lacks confidence. But we’ll find it one of these days, won’t we?”
Kenny kicked at a stick on the ground, his cheeks drooping as a piece of stonework lifted with his toe. “Ms. Winters, I’m s-sorry.” Dropping to a squat, the man set the stone back in place, his hand shaking as he worked. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, Kenny.”
Sensing the sadness in Rose’s guest, Tori gestured toward the table and the tray of dinner plates. “I brought lunch with me, Kenny. Enough for you and me and some of the workers. Would you like some?”
The man looked up, a hint of surprise evident in his eyes as he looked from Rose to Tori and back again.
“Of course he’d like some.” Rose’s voice, clear and firm, cut through the melody of chain saws and hammering in the distance. “Kenny has been keeping me company all morning and I’m sure he’s worked up quite an appetite. Talking to old people can do that, I reckon.”
Jumping to his feet, Kenny took hold of Rose’s hand. “Ms. Winters t-takes g-good care of m-me.”
Tori lifted a plate from the tray and handed it to Kenny. “From what I hear, you take good care of Ms. Winters, too.”
A flush rose up in Kenny’s
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