the girl, and Grandma leaned forward to follow my line of vision, adding matter-of-factly, “That little Jordan girl. It will be a miracle if something terrible doesn’t happen to her before she’s grown.”
“What was she doing on the road?” I asked, ignoring the ire in her tone.
Grandma tipped her chin up and righted herself in her seat like a judge at a hanging trial. “Well, probably going after cigarettes for her granny. She’s a big fat woman and too lazy to get out of the house. Has emphysema so bad she can’t walk to the mailbox, but it doesn’t stop her from buying cigarettes.” She pointed a finger into the air and then at me. “And I’ll tell you what else. They take welfare. Spend it on cigarettes and potato chips. Just white trash—that’s all. That little girl’s been sent home from school for lice probably a half-dozen times.”
The thought made my skin crawl. “Where is her mother?”
Grandma huffed out a long sigh as if even telling the story were a waste of time. “Ran away to St. Louis and got herself pregnant by some Mexican or Indian or maybe even a Negro man. No one knows, and she didn’t either. Then she died on drugs and left that baby for her gran to raise. They’re just no better than white trash. Hurry up, Katie. I have to get to the grocery.”
“Where does she live?” I asked, keeping the car at a moderate speed. One near miss was enough.
Grandma craned forward to glance at the speedometer, huffed, then gave me a blank look in the rearview mirror. “Where does who live?”
“That little girl on the bike.”
“Oh,” she muttered absently, her mind obviously drifting. “Down Mulberry Road in an awful little hovel that ought to be condemned. Larry Leddy rents it to them, and he ought to be ashamed. Needs to be torn down. You can see it across the river bottom from our place. Katie, Land sakes, slow down. Do you know you went forty-five around that curve? No need to rush us into an accident.”
And so it went the rest of the way to town. Speed up, Katie. Slow down. Land sakes. Curve ahead. Joshua needs cereal, but no pacifier. And an occasional, The Jordans are white trash. Welfare ought to haul them away. Land sakes, what’s wrong with the world?
Chapter 4
F EW things smell worse than rotten vegetables. When we began our salvage operation in the back room of the grocery store, my mood matched the stench—completely foul. I set Josh’s carrier as far away from the smell as I could and reluctantly started sorting through some apples with one finger.
But as we went along, I started to see the humor in Grandma and me digging through bins of spoiled fruit and bags of rotten potatoes like a couple of vagrants. No one at work would ever believe this was how I had spent my vacation.
When Grandma found something good, she would cry out as if she’d discovered a gold nugget: “Ah-hah! Here is a perfectly good orange. Not a mark on it. Can you believe anyone would throw such a thing in the trash?” or “Um-hum, um-hum, look at how many good potatoes are left in these bags. I thought so. We can store these in the cellar and have them all winter. Terrible how much people will waste these days. In my day . . .”
Meanwhile, I sorted through bags of apples, trying not to laugh and not to breathe at the same time. When we were done, we had netted about a half-dozen oranges, slightly bruised; two bushels of apples, rotten only in places; some yellow stalks of celery; four cucumbers, shriveled on one end; and enough potatoes to feed an army.
Grandma was giddy. We would not starve over the long winter ahead, or go into debt to buy potatoes. She went into the store to thank Shorty, the grocer, while I loaded down the trunk of the old Buick, then picked up Josh and drove around front to wait for her. She was still inside talking, so Josh and I sneaked over to the hardware store to buy a can of paint and a brush for the utility room. I tucked it in the trunk under the
“What was she doing on the road?” I asked, ignoring the ire in her tone.
Grandma tipped her chin up and righted herself in her seat like a judge at a hanging trial. “Well, probably going after cigarettes for her granny. She’s a big fat woman and too lazy to get out of the house. Has emphysema so bad she can’t walk to the mailbox, but it doesn’t stop her from buying cigarettes.” She pointed a finger into the air and then at me. “And I’ll tell you what else. They take welfare. Spend it on cigarettes and potato chips. Just white trash—that’s all. That little girl’s been sent home from school for lice probably a half-dozen times.”
The thought made my skin crawl. “Where is her mother?”
Grandma huffed out a long sigh as if even telling the story were a waste of time. “Ran away to St. Louis and got herself pregnant by some Mexican or Indian or maybe even a Negro man. No one knows, and she didn’t either. Then she died on drugs and left that baby for her gran to raise. They’re just no better than white trash. Hurry up, Katie. I have to get to the grocery.”
“Where does she live?” I asked, keeping the car at a moderate speed. One near miss was enough.
Grandma craned forward to glance at the speedometer, huffed, then gave me a blank look in the rearview mirror. “Where does who live?”
“That little girl on the bike.”
“Oh,” she muttered absently, her mind obviously drifting. “Down Mulberry Road in an awful little hovel that ought to be condemned. Larry Leddy rents it to them, and he ought to be ashamed. Needs to be torn down. You can see it across the river bottom from our place. Katie, Land sakes, slow down. Do you know you went forty-five around that curve? No need to rush us into an accident.”
And so it went the rest of the way to town. Speed up, Katie. Slow down. Land sakes. Curve ahead. Joshua needs cereal, but no pacifier. And an occasional, The Jordans are white trash. Welfare ought to haul them away. Land sakes, what’s wrong with the world?
Chapter 4
F EW things smell worse than rotten vegetables. When we began our salvage operation in the back room of the grocery store, my mood matched the stench—completely foul. I set Josh’s carrier as far away from the smell as I could and reluctantly started sorting through some apples with one finger.
But as we went along, I started to see the humor in Grandma and me digging through bins of spoiled fruit and bags of rotten potatoes like a couple of vagrants. No one at work would ever believe this was how I had spent my vacation.
When Grandma found something good, she would cry out as if she’d discovered a gold nugget: “Ah-hah! Here is a perfectly good orange. Not a mark on it. Can you believe anyone would throw such a thing in the trash?” or “Um-hum, um-hum, look at how many good potatoes are left in these bags. I thought so. We can store these in the cellar and have them all winter. Terrible how much people will waste these days. In my day . . .”
Meanwhile, I sorted through bags of apples, trying not to laugh and not to breathe at the same time. When we were done, we had netted about a half-dozen oranges, slightly bruised; two bushels of apples, rotten only in places; some yellow stalks of celery; four cucumbers, shriveled on one end; and enough potatoes to feed an army.
Grandma was giddy. We would not starve over the long winter ahead, or go into debt to buy potatoes. She went into the store to thank Shorty, the grocer, while I loaded down the trunk of the old Buick, then picked up Josh and drove around front to wait for her. She was still inside talking, so Josh and I sneaked over to the hardware store to buy a can of paint and a brush for the utility room. I tucked it in the trunk under the
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