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were kept there—crying out for their families, beaten to the bone, starved and wailing to be spared, and I thoroughly needed to see for myself.
    Just now, though, dinner was on the table, and from my side, I lorded over the pork chops with boiled potatoes, candied carrots, and dumplings. I was beside myself—surely Claudie had never seen such a spread. I was anxious for my guest to try everything. Our good manners and a loaded table must be a rare delight for her, and I behaved as though I’d cooked every morsel. Auntie had baked a cake for the occasion. Uncle Cunny was there too, having dropped by in time to lick frosting from the bowl. Tonight he held Auntie’s chair for her and touched her shoulder before he seated himself at the head of the table—things I never saw him do on a Sunday. And the rain came down. It beat on the window over the sink and the big parlor panes.
    I was thrilled for Claudie. There were so many people in the Maytubbys’ house, they took turns at the table. I was welcome there, but always seeing the short supply of things—a bowl of boiled peas with no snaps, and a long, thin corn bread—I politely helped myself to a spoonful. Waiting at home, I knew, would be thick slices of bread and butter, and Auntie’s homemade apple butter.
    Today, our table was set with Auntie’s best blue dishes.
    But when we sat, Claudie went on standing behind her chair. My big and solid Auntie spoke. “Would you like to sit down, Claudie, sugar?”
    “She doesn’t get to, at her house,” I said, by way of explaining. “They don’t have enough chairs to go around.”
    Claudie looked at the army of bowls on our table, pinched her lips together, pulled out her chair, and perched on its edge like a bird on a wire. Then Uncle asked a blessing, plain and simple.
    “Yes, Lord,” Auntie said softly, when he was done. I said, “Amen.” Claudie’s eyes were big, and she said nothing.
    “You ever see so much food?” I asked her, heaving a great sigh.
    “I never did,” Claudie said. “You got more folks coming?”
    “Nope.”
    Because she was our guest, Auntie asked first for Claudie’s plate. “Would you like a little of everything?” Auntie asked.
    “Well—” Claudie said.
    While Auntie and Uncle heaped up spoonfuls for Claudie, I grinned like a fool. Claudie fingered her spoon and looked at it and set it back down, her mouth twisting, and when Uncle laid her plate in front of her, I thought she might bolt.
    I wondered why she didn’t take her fork and dig in.
    Auntie’s voice was soothing. She asked after Miz Maytubby—was she taking her medicine regular—and how was that handsome Denver Lee doing now that he was back at school?
    “Right well,” said Claudie.
    “Child,” said Auntie, screwing the lid off a jar. “Would you like to try my homemade chow-chow?”
    Claudie said nothing.
    “Goes real fine with the chops,” Auntie said.
    “Claudie don’t know what chow-chow is,” I said.
    “That’s all right,” said Auntie, giving me a look. “Not everybody’s got a taste for it.”
    “She don’t know pork chops either. Or candied carrots.”
    Uncle murmured into his paper napkin, “The word is doesn’t , Miss Clea. Not don’t .”
    “But Claudie says don’t .” I was trying like all molly hell to make her feel welcome.
    Silence fell on our table while Claudie stared at her carrots,then took one up in her fingers and closed her big teeth around it.
    “Not like that,” I said, laughing. “With your fork.”
    “Clea June,” Auntie said. “The Lord made fingers before he made forks,” and with that she plucked up a new potato and popped it into her mouth. She smiled at Claudie. This was certainly not the first time we’d sopped up cream gravy with biscuits, or cleaned bones with our teeth. But it was the only night that we ate a whole meal with our hands.
    Claudie couldn’t seem to get enough. Uncle passed her the chop plate and more potatoes. I marveled that she could put