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fine warp of women, including Puny, and Dooley’s mother, and now Adele.
    “Thank you!” he said, meaning it.
    Adele stood with her thumbs tucked into her belt, appearing for a moment to be hired security. She had come straight from the station in her uniform, wearing a Glock nine-millimeter on her hip. The sight of Adele, who was the new hotshot coach of the Mitford Reds and also the grandmother of three, never failed to astonish and impress him.
    “Don’t worry about a thing,” said Adele.
    He was almost inclined not to.
    “Right!” agreed Avis. “I’m th’ only one that’ll drive my delivery truck, except for Lew Boyd’s cousin, who’s fillin’ in on Saturdays. Anyway, I’m goin’ to work your boy’s butt off this summer. He won’t have time to get in trouble.” In a spontaneous burst of camaraderie, Avis slapped him on the shoulder.
    The mayor barged up and slapped him on the other shoulder. He nearly pitched into the Wurlitzer, which was now playing “One Mint Julep.”
    “Run out on us, then,” said Esther Cunningham. “See if I care.”
    “You don’t need me anymore. After praying you into office eight times in a row, you’re hanging it up and going off with Ray in the RV.”
    Esther narrowed her eyes and peered at him. “I guess you know about th’ hurricanes they get down there.”
    “I do.”
    “And th’ heat . . .”
    Would they never hush . . . ?
    A muscle twitched in the mayor’s jaw. “We’ll miss you.”
    “We’ll miss you back,” he said, putting his arm around his old friend’s well-cushioned shoulders. He hated this goodbye business. He’d rather be home yanking a tooth out by a string on a doorknob, anything. “Are you laying off the sausage biscuits?”
    “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said.
     
    Esther cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Somebody unplug th’ box!”
    Omer squatted by the Wurlitzer, which couldn’t be shut off manually, and pulled the plug.
    “Must be Uncle Billy’s joke,” said Gene Bolick, getting up from the stair step where he was sitting with Mule.
    Mule sighed. “I hope it’s not that deal about th’ gas stove! I’ve heard that more times than Carter has liver pills.”
    “Here’s one for you,” said Gene. “What’s a Presbyterian?”
    “Beats me.”
    “A Methodist with a drinkin’ problem who can’t afford to be Episcopalian.”
    Mule scratched his head. He had never understood jokes about Episcopalians.
    “Come on, everybody!” yelled the mayor, her voice echoing in the vaulted room. “Joke time!”
    Uncle Billy stood as straight as he was able, holding on to his cane and looking soberly at the little throng, who gave forth a murmur of coughing and throat-clearing.
    “Wellsir!” he exclaimed, by way of introduction. “A farmer was haulin’ manure, don’t you know, an’ ’is truck broke down in front of a mental institution. One of th’ patients, he leaned over th’ fence, said, ‘What’re you goin’ t’ do with y’r manure?’
    “Farmer said, ‘I’m goin’ t’ put it on m’ strawberries.’
    “Feller said, ‘We might be crazy, but we put whipped cream on our’n.’”
    Uncle Billy grinned at the cackle of laughter he heard.
    “Keep goin’!” someone said.
    “Wellsir, this old feller an’ ’is wife was settin’ on th’ porch, an’ she said, ‘Guess what I’d like t’ have?’
    “He said, ‘What’s that?’
    “She said, ‘A great big bowl of vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce and nuts on top!’
    “He says, ‘Boys howdy, that’d be good. I’ll go down to th’ store and git us some.’
    “Wife said, ‘Now, that’s vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce and nuts. Better write it down.’
    “He said, ‘Don’t need t’ write it down, I can remember.’
    “Little while later, he come back. Had two ham san’wiches. Give one t’ her. She looked at that san’wich, lifted th’ top off, said, ‘You mulehead, I told you t’ write it down, I wanted