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hair. She slipped out the front door and stooped at the edge of the woods to pick a handful of wildflowers.
    The faintest light of day appeared as a jagged scar, and Jodie imagined the row’s narrow clay road, snowy-white cotton blooms sparkling like fireflies of an evening. In that moment, like all the times before, her mama stepped from the bus and smiled at her. Hey, sugar, Mama’s home.
    Jodie released the wildflower petals, and Jewel Taylor’s sarcastic laughter rose to gather them. She was at last to sing the blues.

Seven
    A unt Pearl’s months of diligent letter writing to north Florida county sheriffs, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Red Dozier, finally paid off in the form of a phone call. Over supper, she offered, “Mr. Dozier has agreed to come for a visit. And he sounded real nice on the phone.”
    Jodie shrugged.
    Aunt Pearl fidgeted with her spoon, her brow gathered. “Soon, I believe. Though he didn’t say exactly.”
    Red had his certain charm with women, but if her aunt had bothered to ask, she could have told her he was plenty good at showing up, but even better at disappearing. It was all right with her if Aunt Pearl meant to squeeze money out of Red. She fretted often enough that her weekly pay of thirteen dollars as a telephone operator wasn’t enough to cover their expenses.
    T hree months later, Aunt Pearl returned from the mailbox, a one-page letter clutched in her hand. She stopped beneath the oak and called up to Jodie.
    â€œLetter says he’ll be here Saturday.” When Jodie didn’t answer, her aunt continued on into the house, pulling the door closed between them.
    Living with Aunt Pearl was as boring as Lawrence Welk’s accordion solos, but she’d grown to welcome its predictability. For that reason, Jodie had gritted her teeth against boredom, done her chores without bitching, and kept her mouth shut. She gave up baseball for basketball, a game she could play alone, shooting baskets at a clay court whenever she could avoid the older boys.
    However, she’d continued to steal comics, and had become even bolder, stuffing pulp detective novels into the waist of her jeans whenever the half-blind storekeeper was distracted. Aunt Pearl couldn’t know Jodie projected herself into the fictional heroics, imagining the pleasure of winning the favors of beautiful girls. About the same time she began touching herself in ways that caused her breath to come rapidly and her body to convulse in strange pleasure. These feelings, while thrilling, left her confused, even ashamed in those moments when her aunt insisted she must grow up differently. She took differently to mean she wasn’t to take up what Aunt Pearl hinted were Jewel’s “whorish habits.” Yet nothing she said was enough to cause her to stop what she was doing.
    A unt Pearl got up from the supper table, scraped her untouched food into the bucket for her neighbor’s backyard chickens, and turned back to Jodie.
    â€œMy goodness, child. Aren’t you one bit happy? Don’t you want to see your daddy?”
    â€œHe’s never claimed as much. And just because Jewel accused him doesn’t make him guilty. He wasn’t the only big, curly haired man she … she screwed.”
    â€œSweet Jesus, Jodie Taylor. Hush your shameful mouth.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as if she feared eavesdroppers. “You must not vilify your poor dead mama that way.”
    â€œThat’s not what I did.” She’d never run Jewel down, but the truth about Red was anybody’s guess. How many times had her mama laughed and teased, “Tom, Dick, or Harry,” to efforts at pinning her down. She’d gone along with her mama, though not knowing felt nothing like a joke. It was only after Red stopped coming that Jewel had branded him guilty. Then, it was clear Aunt Pearl wasn’t interested in knowing the truth.
    â€œLord, child, your mama