The Woods at Barlow Bend by Jodie Cain Smith Page B

rather than having my own to tell. As each guest finished, Daddy worked the register, making sure that every penny was accounted for, and I returned to the kitchen to help Miss Henrietta wash, dry, and put away stacks of dirty dishes.
    After Meg and the boys left for school and the guests were off to work, Daddy and I would sit down to breakfast. Every morning, without fail, Daddy laid out the day’s chores for me. A woman named Ruthie came by every other day to change the linens on the twelve guest beds in the little hotel, but most of the other tasks were my responsibility. Daddy dictated the lunch and supper menu as I made a list of any items needed from the corner market. He also reminded me of the rotating cleaning schedule, which I knew by heart: Tuesdays and Saturdays, we mopped the floors; Wednesdays, we dusted all surfaces; and Thursdays, we wiped all windows and sills. The floors were swept and the indoor bathrooms, one on each floor, were cleaned daily. Meg, Billy, and Albert would all pitch in with the list after school because most of my day would be spent in the café, prepping lunch and dinner, washing dishes, waiting on customers, and wiping down tables after each service.
    M y reprieve came on Fridays when the Tuscaloosa Bookmobile came to town. The bookmobile was a large, older model black wagon. Behind the cab, the rear sides folded down to reveal hundreds of books. The first time I saw the bookmobile’s sides fold down, I couldn’t believe how many books were waiting on the shelves for me. A bookmobile didn’t stop in Frisco City, so I had never seen one before. Miss Hendrix’s collection paled in comparison to the treasures before me. Each week, I returned my picks from the week before and checked out at least three new novels, mainly romances and mysteries. Both librarians knew me by name and marveled at how quickly I tore through the pages.
    At night, afte r I put Billy and Albert to bed, made sure the dining room downstairs was set for breakfast service, and the kitchen was spotless, I liked to lie in my little bed and read. I was always tired to the bone, but my mind raced with my new responsibilities as café waitress, hotel maid, and mother to two young boys and a girl who believed wholeheartedly that she was all grown up at twelve years old.
    I crave d the distraction I found between the musty pages of my books. Each contained the possibilities of new friends and formidable enemies, desperate circumstances and paradise settings, all in sharp contrast to my humble and mundane existence in the hotel. The fourth and top floor of the small hotel I called home was a far cry from the luxurious suites I read about in my novels.
    I liked to lie in bed and read, but Meg demanded, night after night, that I turn off the little lamp that barely lit our room.
    “Hattie, turn off that dreadful light right now! I am plum exhausted and can’t sleep with it shining in my eyes!”
    Meg ’s whining made finishing a novel in the comfort of my bed impossible. In order to keep the peace, I turned off my lamp and tried to force myself asleep. Some nights, I was successful, reciting prayers from our church in Frisco City in my head until I drifted off, but other nights, most nights, no amount of tricks would work. As soon as I closed my eyes, Momma’s face would appear. Her blue eyes and bright smile sparkled in my mind. I could hear her laughter, full and contagious. Some nights, I could almost feel her lying next to me, the warmth of her body pressed against my side as we squeezed together in my tiny bed.
    On the nights when I miss ed her too much to lie there in silence; when I felt the pain of her absence welling up in my throat; when the loneliness that her death created seemed to take my breath away; I snuck downstairs. Quietly in the dark, I would go to the kitchen first. My favorite late night snack was corn bread crumbled in a glass of milk, but crackers in milk would also do if the corn bread had all