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Gwen stepped away from the window and, for the fourth time, allowed the curtains to fall back into place. She fiddled with the stereo volume . . . again. Low enough to keep from waking Libby, loud enough to cover conversation. She couldn’t quite find the balance.

Mama shakes my shoulder. “Libby, Libby honey. You’ve got to wake up.” The bright light coming through the slit in my bedroom curtains hurts my eyes. I roll over and hug Winnie the Pooh close. Mama rounds the foot of my bed. “You know how your Uncle Nelson fusses if he has to keep the car running while they wait on us.” She throws the curtains back, filling the bedroom with sunshine. I squeeze my eyes shut, groan. “Come on.” Palms up, she raises her arms. “UP! Get dressed and

Uncle Nelson pulls up to the church’s side door so Grandmamma won’t have to climb steps. After dropping the back door of the station wagon open for us, Granddaddy points to Grandmamma’s walker. “Push that here, Half Pint,” he tells Pammy. He carry-drags it ’round the car to Grandmamma. At fifty-nine, she needs a lot of help, but Mama says old age isn’t her biggest problem. It’s the diabetes.

After the service, Gwen stood on the church’s wide top step, pretending to listen to Italian cream cake recipe details from Mrs. Smith, the lady who planned the church’s spaghetti dinners. Behind the elderly woman, on the ten-foot-wide concrete porch that extended the church’s full length, members of the congregation clustered, chatting in usual after-church fashion.

“Slow down, Mama.” My heels burn, rubbed raw by my new Mary Janes. I stop and look back to see if Nate has driven off. Besides these darn shoes, Mama not accepting Nate’s invitation to the lake and her suddenly telling me all the time to keep secrets has me irritable. We’ve never kept secrets. It’s near impossible in this family anyways. But ever since Nate came along, she’s wanted to be sneaky. With Aunt June being nosy and Granddaddy the way he is, I reckon I see why.

Me, Connie, and Pammy jump out the back door as soon as Uncle Nelson stops the station wagon in my grandparents’ driveway. At the curb, Mr. Willie, dressed in his Sunday best, gets out of the white car. When he sees everyone, he nods at Grandmamma. He never talks much and usually keeps his distance, but he always offers a smile to us kids. Mama always gets her own special hello from him, though. “Miz Gwen.” He tips his hat and almost whispers. She returns the smile.