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from the glider. “I’m going to make us some tea,” she said, lifting Jody in her arms. “Charlie, you keep Mother company.”
    Time passed. The Reverend Poundstone grew angry: grace would not wait forever. Between the two panels of the awning Charlie could see a narrow strip of sky.
    Miss Semple reappeared carrying a tray. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. She set the tray on the table and settled back on the glider. The tray held a china teapot, three cups, and a plate of cookies.
    Charlie considered. If he refused the tea, he might not get a chance at the cookies.
    “Okay,” he said.
    Miss Semple poured the tea and added milk and sugar.
    “Thank you,” said Charlie. The tea burned his tongue and tasted like soap. Inside the scratchy pants his legs were slick with sweat.
    Miss Semple offered him the plate. “Would you like a cookie?”
    “Yes’m.” He took one and put the whole thing in his mouth. It was small and hard, covered with powdered sugar. Once the sugar melted away it tasted intensely of lemon.
    Miss Semple lifted Jody onto her lap. She grimaced. “Oh dear,” she said. She looked down at her dress, now smudged with wet. “Somebody needs a change.” She set Jody on her feet and took her by the hand, into the kitchen. “We’ll be right back.”
    Charlie glanced at the old woman. Her eyes were closed, her lips wet with saliva.
    “Wait no longer,” urged the Reverend Poundstone. “The moment of salvation is at hand.”
    Charlie reached for the plate. He set it on his knees and ate the cookies two at a time. He ate until his teeth hurt and his lap was dappled with sugar.
     
    T O B IRDIE , Harry Doyle looked large and wealthy. His hands were soft and clean. His fat pink face was impeccably shaved, the smooth skin of his neck pinched by a white shirt collar. He reminded her of her father.
    “How do you do,” said Birdie.
    She let him shake her hand. She was more nervous than she would have imagined. The mere fact of dressing herself, riding the bus downtown. She hadn’t worn stockings in months. In her wallet she carried three dollars.
    “Have you done secretarial work before?” he asked. He was director of classified advertising at the paper.
    “Yes.” She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “My husband had a parish in Missouri for two years. I was the church secretary.” It was largely true. She’d typed up the church bulletin each week, kept track of who sold raffle tickets in the spring.
    “Minister,” said Doyle. “He have a church now?”
    “He’s an assistant chaplain at the college.” She allowed herself a smile. She’d had a little wine before she came, to help her relax. It was her first glass in two days.
    Doyle looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. “You ever studied typing in school?”
    “High school,” said Birdie. That was an actual lie. She’d disdained the commercial classes, chosen art and music over bookkeeping, French over shorthand. She’d learned typing on her own, on an old manual her father kept in the basement.
    “This here’s your typing test,” said Doyle. “You type eighteen words a minute.”
    Birdie smiled again.
    “I’m afraid I can’t hire you,” said Doyle. “Fifty words a minute would be the minimum.”
    Birdie leaned forward in her chair. The vinyl seat made a rude sound beneath her. “I’m out of practice,” she said. “I could go home and practice and come back in a month or two.”
    “That’s fine,” said Doyle. “You do that, Miz Kimble.”

    A T THE CORNER she caught the bus, deserted at that hour, just her and an old colored woman who blew her nose in a checked handkerchief. Oh well, Birdie thought. Better not to dwell on it. Better to enjoy the remarkable feeling of riding alone on a city bus in the middle of the afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she was truly alone, no baby tugging at her, no little boy asking where the bathroom was. A week had passed since the county woman’s