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dessert because I had two slices of wedding cake, but then I see Beanie take a strawberry cheesecake from the fridge and know I must have a piece.
    “What color am I?” asks Beanie as she stands at the counter with a knife in her hand.
    “You are a mixture of everything.” Dovie’s words are warm.
    She nods. “I am a product of a black father, Hispanic mother, and great-grandfathers who were Chinese and French. I should be welcome everywhere because I am every woman.”
    Dovie starts to hum “I’m Every Woman.” Beanie laughs, her left eyebrow twitches, and then we all have a generous slice of cheesecake.
    As we place dishes in the dishwasher, Beanie tells us she went for a job interview at the local Wachovia branch and “feels this might be my ticket to employment.” She describes how the manager interviewing her kept sniffing and that finally Beanie offered her not only a tissue but some of her allergy medication.
    “I helped her with what she needed and now I hope she’ll help me.”
    “Do you like bank work?” I ask.
    Beanie laughs. “I like having money in the bank. Right now my disability check is not big enough to keep me in underwear.”
    “Disability?” After I say it, I wonder if it’s rude to ask why Beanie is on disability.
    The phone rings, and since I’m standing beside it, I answer. Little, a woman who’s been living with Dovie since Thanksgiving, has finished her shift at Wendy’s, her bicycle has a flat tire, her head hurts something awful, and she needs a ride home—quickly, before any other parts of her world cave in. “We’ll be there,” I tell her because I know that’s exactly what my aunt would say to her.
    Under a moonless sky, the three of us pile into the cab of Dovie’s pickup with the cracked windshield and begin the drive to the Wendy’s where Little works.
    We park in a spot by a florescent light that flickers off and on like a Christmas tree. After five minutes, a short, middle-aged woman with a round face and a crop of curly blond hair comes from the restaurant toward us. She’s balancing a cardboard carrier in her tiny hands.
    Beanie rolls down her window. “What you got?”
    Carefully, Little hands her the cardboard through the window. The contraption holds three yellow cups with lids. “Frostys for you,” says Little.
    Beanie steadies the milk shakes on her lap. “Going to fire you,” she warns, “if you give food away.” She pops a straw into the lid of one of the cups.
    Little smiles, the gap between her two front teeth extensive. Squeezing into the back with me, she says, “Who says I’m giving food away? These, I found in the trash can.” She speaks slowly, each word a feat to get out of her lips.
    What I know about Little is that, growing up, she was constantly interrupted when speaking. Apparently, due to her speech impediment, it took her a while to get her thoughts out, and her six siblings and parents were not patient. Dovie and Beanie have learned to be patient, and Little seems to like that.
    Little rests her head against the windowpane. From her uniform, the aroma of fried food fills the car. “I thought eleven o’clock would never get here.” She eyes me and says with a smile, “Good to see you, Sammie Girl.”
    Beanie hands me a Frosty. Then she sips from another. “Pretty good for dumpster food. And trust me, I would know.”
    Beanie was homeless for a few weeks before she found sanctuary at Dovie’s house. She claims that all she had to her name at that time were her cloudy reputation, a stale loaf of pumpernickel bread, and a folded dollar in her shoe.
    I shove a straw into the hole in the plastic lid and take a small taste. The coolness of the contents is soothing against my dry throat.
    As Dovie pulls her truck out of the deserted fast-food restaurant’s parking lot, she passes her milk shake behind her to Little. “Take a sip.”
    “Oh, no,” says the woman. “I don’t want to get sick from dumpster food.”
    Laughter and