The Do-Right by Lisa Sandlin

is my grandmother . Jesus, how old do you think I am?”
    The blue-jean miniskirt said twenty, but a sag at the knees admitted to forty. This was Ida Rae the cousin, second cousin, whichever. Delpha nodded to her. “Grandmother, sorry. ’Bout my age, I guess.”
    â€œAnd how old are you?”
    â€œThirty-two.”
    The woman skated over on stocking feet, boots flapping, and attempted to hug Delpha, tipped some gin onto her blouse. “Oops! Thank you, sweetie pie. You and me’ll be friends. Will you be my friend, please?” The cousin’s head tilted to the side as she smiled, in a pose that must have been adorable thirty-five years ago. The gin protruded like a blade from her face.
    Delpha leaned back.
    â€œWarning you, you’re gonna get tired of her fast.” Ida pinched her nostrils together and rolled her eyes, gave a little trill. “But you—” She touched her head, slopping her drink from the glass. “Who rubs their own head? That was so cuuute . I’m Ida Rae. Tell me your name. Oh, wait, you know…doesn’t really matter. Watch out for Moselle, the day nurse. No matter how nice to her I am, she never likes me.”
    Blandly, drunkenly pleasant, Ida’s face crumpled for a second, as though crushed by a huge hand, and then expanded back into blandness. She didn’t seem aware of the change.
    Delpha continued to stand stiffly as the woman veered close and breathed into her face. “And don’t—do not , youhear?—be poking around my house. Bye, sweetie.” Ida Rae skated from the kitchen and collapsed into a bowlegged chair in the hall. After tugging the boots on, she clopped toward the marble foyer.
    The heavy front door shut. Delpha carried a tray up the broad stairs. She looked in the first bedroom, spied a spurt of white hair above a gullied forehead, cheeks grooved vertically, fretful little eyes and plucking hands. The sewer smell greeted her as soon as she entered. Delpha toted the soup back downstairs and returned with a rag soaked in warm water. She opened the large oak cabinet that served as a night table, found a set of sheets from one side, and a fresh diaper from the other, put these on the marble top of the cabinet, and closed up its two doors. She searched out a nightgown in a bureau drawer.
    â€œRoll on your side, Mrs. Speir.” Delpha helped her. “Hold up your arms now. Hold ’em up.”
    She peeled off the soiled nightgown, gathering it in her fingers so she didn’t spread the shit.
    â€œStay rolled now, Mrs. Speir.”
    Slid the diaper from between her legs. Look like a girl front side, hairless, white, sealed as an angel. The other side, no butt at all. Yoke of bone, puddle of skin from it.
    Jesus God, let me not live one hundred years .
    Took forty minutes moving slow to fix her up again, positioning, swabbing, drying, maneuvering on the diaper and the sheet under her. The nightgown. Then clean in a clean bed.
    Delpha bundled the dirty clothes and stuffed them in the washer downstairs, hit the button, and scoured her hands and on up her arms. She sniffed herself. Nope. Washed and sniffed again, still smelled shit. Washed each fingernail separate, knuckles, palms, inhaled up to the elbow, ah there was asmear on her rolled sleeve. Took off the blouse and scrubbed out the spot, buttoned it up, folded the sleeve higher, washed her hands. Done. She reheated the soup, carried it up on the tray, and set it on the broad old night table.
    The outer corners of Jessie Spier’s eyes, calm now, were wreathed in powdery, finely-crisscrossed skin. Thin lips, harshly downturned on one side, parted, and she let out garbled phrases.
    â€œMy name’s Delpha. Brought you mushroom flavor but if you like some other kind, you just say.”
    The forehead wrinkles deepened. Delpha repeated herself, but her patient scowled at her until she finally hollered, “Is mushroom soup the kind you