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of bacon and coffee instead of that supper. Not that I drank coffee, but my mother did, and sometimes, lately, so did Carry. I didn’t drink it, but I loved the smell. When accompanied by bacon, it always smelled like weekends.
    â€œYou’re up!” my mother said as I came into the kitchen, still in my blue pajamas. “I was beginnin’ to think I was gonna have to go in there and pull you out by your feet.”
    I sat at the table just as she slid a plate with bacon, two fried eggs, and two pieces of freshly toasted white bread in front of me. She went back to the stove for the skillet full of fried potatoes and dumped some beside my eggs. “Caroline!” she called out over her shoulder, pausing with one hand in an oven mitt clutching the handle of the hot skillet and the other hand grasping the spatula.
    There was absolutely no response from Carry’s bedroom down the hall.
    â€œCaroline!” my mother called out again, but still my sister didn’t answer. “Now, she might be in need of more than just a little feet pullin’ soon,” my mother said, giving me a few more potatoes before returning the pan to the stove. She disappeared down the hall toward Carry’s bedroom, which was right across from mine. “Caroline!”
    I didn’t bother waiting. Nothing tastes worse than cold eggs, at least that’s my theory, and it was good enough to allow me to dunk my toast into my yolks without feeling even a pang of guilt for not waiting for my mother and Carry to come to the table. I was on my second or third bite when I heard the backdoor open and someone come into the house.
    It wasn’t unusual for people to come visit, especially Sunday mornings before church. Because my mother was a police officer, she had good relationships with many of the townsfolk; many of them was just like family. So it also wasn’t unusual for someone to show up and walk in without knocking first. I figured maybe it was Miss Crystal from next door come over to borrow some eggs or maybe a cup of milk or sugar. Miss Crystal was always coming over to borrow something. It was almost as though she never actually did any shopping for herself, she just got her groceries off people living on the street.
    Turned out, though, that I was wrong. I had forgotten what my mother said the night before about Uncle Henry coming to stay awhile and so I was pleasantly surprised to see his round, pink face when he came into the kitchen.
    â€œLooks like I made it just in time for breakfast!” he said, the lights reflecting off his glasses and the teeth of his big grin. He was wearing a gray baseball cap with the brim pushed high on his head, and a white knitted sweater. I liked Uncle Henry a lot. He lived down in Mobile. Normally, we got to see him only a few times a year—mainly at Christmas. But he retired a year and a few months back, so I guessed we’d probably be seeing more of him now. I sure hoped so.
    From her room, Carry yelled that she had no intention of going to church—loud enough that Dewey might even have heard it at his house way up the street. Uncle Henry gave a look of surprise. A few minutes later, Carry came bustling down the hall, preceded by her sour mood and followed by my mother. Carry was partially dressed, wearing a baggy white school sweatshirt, but she still had her pink pajama bottoms on. Her hair was naturally curly and she generally kept it perfectly brushed (especially lately) with clips behind her bangs, but this morning it was a blond nest of tangles. With a harrumph, she thumped down into the seat across from me, her arms crossed, her blue eyes staring at the pine tabletop somewhere between me and her.
    My mother sighed, then seemed to notice Uncle Henry for the first time and her expression improved dramatically. “Hank!” she said. She walked over and hugged him, kissing his cheek. Uncle Henry was actually my mother’s uncle, which, I