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You just work hard, and use your mind. You’ve got such a good mind—” She paused to clasp my face in her hands, my cheeks compressed in the warm framework of her fingers. “When you grow up I want you to be self-reliant. Because most women aren’t, and it puts them at everyone’s mercy.”
    “Are you self-reliant, Mama?”
    The question brought a wash of uncomfortable color to her face, and her hands fell away from my face. She took a long time about answering. “I try,” she half whispered, with a bitter smile that made the flesh prickle on my arms.
    As Mama started to make dinner, I went out for a walk. By the time I reached Miss Marva’s trailer, the afternoon, fierce and kiln-hot, had drained all the energy out of me.
    Knocking at the door, I heard Miss Marva call me to come in. An ancient air conditioner rattled from its berth on the window frame, spurting cold air toward the sofa where Miss Marva sat with a needlepoint frame.
    “Hey, Miss Marva.” I viewed her with new respect in light of her mysterious influence over my stormy-natured parent.
    She motioned me to sit beside her. Our combined weights caused the sofa cushion to compress with a squeak.
    The TV was on; a lady reporter with neat bobbed hair stood in front of a map of a foreign country. I listened with only half an ear, having no interest in what was happening in a place so far away from Texas. “‘…heaviest fighting so far occurred at the emir’s palace, where the royal guard held off Iraqi invaders long enough for members of the royal family to escape…concern over thousands of Western visitors who have so far been detained from leaving Kuwait…’”
    I focused on the circular frame in Miss Marva’s hands. She was making a seat cushion that, when finished, would resemble a giant tomato slice. Noticing my interest, Miss Marva asked, “Do you know how to needlepoint, Liberty?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Well, you should. Nothing settles your nerves like working on needlepoint.”
    “I don’t have nerves,” I told her, and she said I would when I was older. She put the canvas in my lap, and showed me the way to push the needle through the little squares. Her vein-corrugated hands were warm on mine, and she smelled like cookies and tobacco.
    “A good needlepointer,” Miss Marva said, “makes the back side look as good as the front side.” Together we bent over the big tomato slice, and I managed to put in a few bright red stitches. “Good work,” she praised. “Look how nice you pulled the thread—not too tight, not too loose.”
    I continued to work on the needlepoint. Miss Marva watched patiently and didn’t fuss even when I got a few stitches wrong. I tried to pull the strand of pale green wool through all the little squares that had been dyed a matching color. As I stared closely at the needlepoint, it appeared as if the dots and splashes of color had been strewn randomly across the surface. But when I pulled back and looked at it as a whole, the pattern suddenly made sense and formed a complete picture.
    “Miss Marva?” I asked, scooting back in the corner of the springy sofa and hooking my arms around my knees.
    “Take your shoes off if you’re going to put your feet up.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Miss Marva…what happened when my mother came to visit you today?”
    One of the things I liked about Miss Marva was that she always answered my questions frankly. “Your mama came here breathing fire, all riled about that dress I made you. So I told her I meant no offense and I’d take it back. Then I poured some iced tea and we got to talking, and I figured out right quick she wasn’t really mad about the dress.”
    “She wasn’t?” I asked dubiously.
    “No, Liberty. She just needed someone to talk to. Someone to sympathize about the load she’s carrying.”
    That was the first time I’d ever discussed my mother with another adult. “What load?”
    “She’s a single working mother. That’s about the hardest thing