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parted in the middle, glinted jet in the lamplight.
    “I’m writing a book,” said Heed, a smile of satisfaction lighting her face. The posture she’d assumed to manage the interview changed with the mention of her book. “It’s about my family. The Coseys. My husband’s family.”
    Junior looked at the portrait. “That him?”
    “That’s him. It was painted from a snapshot, so it’s exactly like him. What you see there is a wonderful man.” Heed sighed. “Now I got all the material, but some things need checking, you know. Dates, spellings. I got each guest book from our hotel—except for two or three, I think—and some of those people, not many but some, had the worse handwriting. The worse. But most folks I seen had perfect hands, you know, because that’s the way we was taught. But Papa didn’t let them print it the way they do now, right alongside the signature. Didn’t need to anyway, because he knowed everybody who was anybody and could recognize a signature even if it was a
X,
but no
X
-type people came, of course. Our guests, most of them, had gorgeous handwriting because, between you and I, you had to be more than just literate, you had to have a position, an accomplishment, understand? You couldn’t achieve nothing worthwhile if your handwriting was low. Nowadays people write with they feet.”
    Heed laughed, then said, “Excuse me. You have no idea, do you, what I’m talking about. I get excited is all, just thinking about it.” She adjusted the lapels of her housecoat with her thumbs, readdressing herself to the interview. “But I want to hear about you. ‘Junior,’ you said?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well now, Junior. You said you can do anything I want, so you must have worked somewhere before. If you’re going to help me with my book I need to know—”
    “Look, Mrs. Cosey. I can read; I can write, okay? I’m as smart as it gets. You want handwriting, you want typing, I’ll do it. You want your hair fixed, I’ll fix it. You want a bath, I’ll give you one. I need a job and I need a place to stay. I’m real good, Mrs. Cosey. Really real good.” She winked, startling Heed into a momentary recall of something just out of reach, like a shell snatched away by a wave. It may have been that flick of melancholy so sharply felt that made her lean close to the girl and whisper,
    “Can you keep a secret?” She held her breath.
    “Like nobody you ever knew.”
    Heed exhaled. “Because the work is private. Nobody can know about it. Not nobody.”
    “You mean Christine?”
    “I mean nobody.”
    “I’ll take it.”
    “You don’t even know what the pay is.”
    “I’ll take the job. You’ll pay. Should I start now or wait till tomorrow?”
    Footsteps, slow and rhythmic, sounded in the hall.
    “Tomorrow,” Heed said. She whispered the word, but it had the urgency of a shout.
    Christine entered carrying a tray. No knock preceded her and no word accompanied her. She placed the tray on the desk where Heed and Junior faced each other and left without meeting a single eye.
    Heed lifted the casserole lid, then replaced it. “Anything to annoy me,” she said.
    “Looks delicious,” said Junior.
    “Then you eat it,” said Heed.
    Junior forked a shrimp into her mouth and moaned, “Mmmm, God, she sure knows how to cook.”
    “What she knows is, I don’t eat shellfish.”
       
    The second floor had none of the fussy comfort Junior found on the third. Here a hallway, two plain bedrooms, a kind of office, and a bathroom equaled the entire square footage of the room above, where Junior had spent two hours trying to read the woman who was now her boss.
    It should not have taken that long but the taste of hot, home-cooked food so distracted her that she forgot. She was near the end of a second helping before she began to watch for the face behind the face; and to listen for the words hiding behind talk. It was Heed’s fork play that finally pulled Junior’s attention away from her own