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A.K. shot Mrs. Avery shamefaced smiles.
    Luther adjourned court and as I started to join my family, who had headed out the rear door, Mrs. Avery stopped me.
    “I wasn’t speaking up for that trashy Starling boy, Deborah—he always was a problem—and I never taught your nephew. I only meant Raymond.”
    “I understand, Mrs. Avery, but they were equally guilty. Judge Parker couldn’t punish one much more severely than the others.”
    “I don’t see why not,” she said, her small head shaking from side to side in disapproval. “I really don’t see why not when Raymond’s such a nice boy, and that Charles Starling’s a wicked influence.”
    “Nevertheless—”
    “The day he quit school, he broke the antenna on my car and put a big long scratch right across the trunk. I know it was he even though Sheriff Poole couldn’t prove it. And all because he flunked my English class and couldn’t stay on the baseball team. As if it were
my
fault he wouldn’t do his work. And now here’s more willful vandalism. They really ought to send him to prison for a whole year. Give Raymond a chance to be with better boys.” She pursed her lips. “And I have to say I’m surprised and disappointed in your nephew.”
    “Me, too,” I admitted. “Maybe this will be a wake-up call for all of them.”
    “You mark my words, Deborah. This little slap on the wrist Charles Starling got will be like water off a duck’s back. He’s going to cause a lot more trouble for those boys before he’s finished. You wait and see.”
✡      ✡      ✡
    Out in the rear hallway, Charles Starling had lit up a cigarette. “They all stick together, don’t they?”
    A hank of yellow hair fell across his rabbity face and short angry streams of smoke jetted from his nostrils.
    “How come that nigger gets a suspended sentence and I get five weekends of jail time?” he snarled at Ed Whitbread. “Hey man, chill,” said A.K.
    Andrew put a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said sharply.
    Thankfully, Daddy didn’t seem to have heard it.

    I sometimes think back to that afternoon and wonder if it would have made any difference if I’d listened harder, taken more seriously all I saw and heard.
    “Probably not,” the pragmatist says comfortingly.
    “You can’t know that,” says the stern preacher. “Arthur Hunt might still be alive you’d paid more attention.”

4
    Church is a hospital for sinners,
Not a museum for saints.
    —Bear Creek United Christian
    Out at the farm that evening I asked Maidie, “How come you don’t make Daddy buy a dishwasher?”
    She gave the glass she was drying a critical squint and then slid it back into the hot soapy water for me to rewash.
    “I don’t need no dishwasher,” she said. “Not for the few little dishes Mr. Kezzie messes up.”
    “Oh, come on, Maidie. Daddy’s not the only person you cook for, and you know it. Some of the boys or their kids are over here almost every day.”
    “For dinner maybe,” she agreed, referring to the midday meal. “But not for supper. You and Mr. Reid, y’all the first in nearly a month and most times if it’s some of the family, the womenfolks shoo me out and clean up the kitchen theirselves.”
    “They better,” I said.
    Not that Maidie’s any Aunt Jemima who’d let them take advantage of her. She knows perfectly well how hard it’d be to find somebody to fill her shoes should she decide to leave, which, God willing, won’t happen anytime soon.
    She came to the farm more than thirty years ago, a shy and lanky teenager Mother had hired to help out temporarily while the woman I called Aunt Essie was up in Philadelphia helping her first grandchild get born. Aunt Essie found a widowed policeman up there and Maidie found Cletus Holt right here and both women settled where they landed. Aunt Essie was a generation older than Mother and died a few years after she did, but Maidie’s only got about fifteen years on me. She got over