Having no children or grandchildren of her own, Miss Marva had decided to take me under her wing. Discovering my only good dress was too short and small, she offered to make me a new one. I spent an hour happily sorting through the stacks of discount fabric she kept in her sewing room, until I found a bolt of red cloth printed with tiny yellow and white daisies. In a mere two hours Miss Marva had run up a simple sleeveless dress with a boatneck top. I tried it on and looked at myself in the long mirror on the back of her bedroom door. To my delight, it flattered my adolescent curves and made me look a little older.

"Oh. Miss Marva," I said with glee, throwing my arms around her stalwart form, "you are the best! Thank you a million times. A zillion times."

"It was nothing," she said. "I can't take a girl in pants to church, can I?"

Naively I thought when I brought the dress home that Mama would be pleased by the gift. Instead it set off her temper and launched her on a tirade about charity and interfering neighbors. She trembled with anger and hollered until I was in tears and Flip had left the trailer to go get more beer. I protested that it had been a present and I didn't have any dresses, and I was going to keep it no matter what she said. But Mama snatched the dress from me, stuffed it in a plastic grocery sack, and left the trailer, marching to Miss Marva's in high dudgeon.

I cried myself sick, thinking I wouldn't be allowed to visit Miss Marva anymore, and wondering why I had the most selfish mother in the world whose pride meant more than her own daughter's spiritual welfare. Everyone knew girls couldn't go to church in pants, which meant I would continue to be a heathen and live outside the Lord, and worst of all I would miss the best potluck in town.

But something happened in the time that Mama was gone to Miss Marva's. When she returned, her face was relaxed and her voice was peaceful, and she had my new dress in hand. Her eyes were red as if she'd been crying. "Here, Liberty," she said absently, placing the crackling plastic bag into my arms. "You can keep the dress. Go put it in the washer. And add a spoonful of baking soda to get rid of the cigarette smell."

"Did you... did you talk with Miss Marva?" I ventured.

"Yes, I did. She's a nice woman. Liberty." A wry smile tipped the corners of her mouth. "Colorful, but nice."

"Then I can go to church with her?"

Mama gathered her long blond hair at the nape of her neck and secured it with a scrunchie. Turning to lean her back against the edge of the counter, she stared at me thoughtfully. "It's certainly not going to hurt you any."

"No. ma'am," I agreed.

Her arms opened, and I obeyed the motion at once, speeding to her until my body was crowded tightly against hers. There was nothing better in the world than being held by my mother. I felt the press of her mouth at the top of my head, and the tender shift of her cheek as she smiled. "You've got your daddy's hair," she murmured, smoothing the inky tangles.

"I wish I had yours," I said, my voice muffled against her fragile softness. I breathed in the delicious scent of her, tea and skin and some powdery perfume.

"No. Your hair is beautiful. Liberty."

I stood quietly against her, willing the moment to last. Her voice was a low, pleasant hum, her chest rising and falling beneath my ear. "Baby, I know you don't understand why I was so mad about the dress. It's just.. .we don't want anyone to think you need things I can't get for you."

But I did need it, I was tempted to say. Instead I kept my mouth shut and nodded.

"I thought Marva gave it to you because she felt sorry for you," Mama said. "Now I realize it was meant as a gift between friends."

"I don't see why it was such a big deal," I mumbled.

Mama eased me away a little, and stared into my eyes without blinking. "Pity goes hand in hand with contempt. Don't ever forget that, Liberty. You can't take handouts or help from anyone, because that gives people the right to look down on you."

"What if I need help?"

She shook her head immediately. "No matter what trouble you're in. you can get yourself out of it. 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...'"