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“You look like you’ve seen a
ghost.”
    “No, no.” Charlie shook his head. “Ghost
isn’t quite the word.”
    He couldn’t get Momo off his mind. He kept
seeing his gargantuan cousin-in-law bending over, picking up a
Hardee’s cup while serving his community-service sentence. In 1987,
Momo had pleaded no contest to charges of battery and making
terroristic threats after he punched out and threatened to kill a
white civil rights marcher during the second Forsyth County
protest. And now Charlie was burdened with the suspicion that the
racist thug had killed a man in the first march and gotten off
scot-free. Make it go away !
    While thoughts of Momo tended to diminish
Charlie’s appetite, the smell of fresh coffee revived it. As he
ate, he looked at the old lady in a threadbare burgundy robe across
from him at the rickety table; she’d pulled her hair up in a bun,
so she now looked semi-presentable, which was more than he could
say for himself. He studied her kitchen. The finish on the old
white curved-top Kelvinator refrigerator had worn to black around
the handle. She must have lived here forever, poor woman. He
guessed that all she had besides this fixer-upper house was her
demented dream to publish her late husband’s work. He hoped she
wasn’t thinking that the book would make her rich, because it
wouldn’t. He wasn’t even sure it was a book. After reading a
hundred pages, all he could say was that it appeared to be well on
its way to becoming a gigantic mess.
    “So you’ll do it?” she asked.
    “I’m sorry. What?” He stopped mid-chew and
looked down at his hand, which was resting on a check made out to
him—for twenty-five hundred dollars. “What’s this?”
    “A retainer. Or is it called an advance?”
    “For what?”
    “Editing Thurwood’s book. I’ll pay you twenty
dollars an hour and we split the royalties fifty-fifty. That’s what
he said to offer you.” She patted her hair. “Don’t worry. I’m not
in it for the money. We just need to get this done.”
    He sat there, mouth unhinged, looking like he
was about to swallow a rabbit whole. Finally, he managed to say,
“You should use this money to fix up the house.”
    “Oh heavens, I have plenty of money.”
Kathleen got up and went into her bedroom. After fumbling and
clunking around, she padded back into the kitchen holding an armful
of papers. She produced statements from brokerage houses, mutual
funds, and banks for his inspection.
    “You shouldn’t be showing me these things,”
Charlie said. However, he was curious, and after a polite
pause, started looking through the papers.
    Hmm . This certainly changed
things.
    “And two certificates of deposit in a safety
deposit box for fifty thousand each. I was hoping I’d be a
millionaire.”
    “Don’t forget to count your house,” Charlie
said.
    She leaned forward like a willing con victim.
“I own it, free and clear. How much is it worth?”
    “In Virginia Highlands?” He chuckled. “You’re
a millionaire, easy.”
    Her face filled with joy. “You’re good luck
already! You made me rich, just like that!” She snapped her
fingers. “As for the house, Angela—that’s my daughter, she hates
me, you should know—she gets it when I die.” Kathleen went on,
adopting a grumbling tone. “If I fix it up, she’ll have me
committed. She already keeps me prisoner here. Made me turn in my
driver’s license. She claims I’ll lose my car, but I think she
wants it for herself.”
    Charlie shook his head and smiled. “Come on.
She doesn’t hate you.”
    “You don’t know her. She only comes to see me
once a week. She’s got a girlfriend, a cute young thing. And I do
mean girl .” Kathleen frowned and shook her heard. “She
shouldn’t date her students. Thurwood wouldn’t have put up with
that. Don’t tell her I told you about the money. Anyway,” she said,
brightening, “I need a business write-off. A writer, anyway.” She
laughed, amused by her turn of phrase.