In the weeks after we moved into town, in the parking lot at Furr’s Cafeteria, on the telephone with Aimee’s school, and in line at the DMV while I waited to have the address changed on my driver’s license, I found myself saying, I beg your pardon? Or, I’m sorry but I don’t think that is true at all. Mrs. Bobby Ray Price wanted to chat about what she called this ugly business while we waited together in the Piggly Wiggly checkout line. Aimee was whining for some new candy she said was going to explode in her mouth. I listened to Mrs. Price talk for a few seconds and shook my head. Bullshit, I was thinking. But I didn’t say anything.

By noon, we have iced Aimee’s goose egg and gone outside for some air. While I stand in the front yard with the baby asleep in my arms, Aimee sulks and draws numbers on the sidewalk with a stick of chalk. The baby sighs and paws at my right breast, but the pain is sudden and stark, so I shift him to the other side, thankful when he settles down and stays asleep. We see Suzanne Ledbetter first. She wears a pair of thin white sandals and white shorts that fall to the middle of her thighs. A straw tote bag is slung over her bare shoulder, and a sleeveless white blouse shows off her red hair and pale, freckled shoulders. She looks like she got a shower this morning, I think wistfully. When Suzanne spots Aimee and me, she waves and pats her tote bag. Ding Dong, Avon calling!

Mrs. Nunally pulls up in her old Chevy and joins us. Depending on which job she is going to, Mrs. Nunally usually wears a smock or an apron over her clothes, but today she wears a long black skirt and a light green blouse with sleeves that fall to her narrow wrist. A small name tag is pinned just above her left breast. She is on her way to Beall’s department store, where she works two afternoons a week. Mrs. Shepard told me that Mrs. Nunally stopped putting on makeup when she became an Adventist, but today she wears pale-pink lipstick and eye shadow that matches her blouse.

Well, look at you, Suzanne tells her. You look real pretty.

Goodness, Mrs. Nunally says, look at that baby’s hands. That’s a football player. The two women hover over the baby for a few seconds, making goo-goo eyes and blowing kisses. Suzanne plucks him from my arms and pulls him to her chest. Eyes closed, she sways back and forth for a few seconds before gently handing him to me. I think of my burning nipple and sleepless nights, and for a few seconds, I think about giving him back to her. Hang on, I would like to say. I’ll go fetch his diaper bag.

Where’s Lauralee? Aimee whines from the sidewalk, where she has been drawing a hopscotch board in a desultory way.

Swim lessons, Suzanne says. I’m picking her up in a little while to take her to dance school.

Mrs. Shepard stands in her front yard holding a water hose that is not turned on.

Is she okay? I ask Mrs. Nunally.

Suzanne leans in and lowers her voice. I heard Potter killed himself.

What? I say. Oh my God, no. It was a hunting accident. The baby sighs in his sleep and tries again to nuzzle, but the pain radiates from my nipple to my arm and I shift him to the other side.

Potter never hunted a day in his life, Suzanne says. That man couldn’t shoot an animal if he was starving to death.

Mrs. Nunally purses her lips and frowns a bit. I hope that’s not true, she says, for both their sakes.

When Mrs. Shepard starts across the street with her mason jar full of iced tea, Ginny’s girl appears from behind a long hedge that runs along the front of Mrs. Shepard’s house.

Debra Ann and Aimee stand in the front yard sizing each other up for a minute or two, then Debra Ann, who has scratched a mosquito bite so much her arm is bleeding, asks if Aimee wants to go ride bikes with her. No, I say. Y’all stay right here in the yard, please.

Oh, hell, Mrs. Shepard says. They’ll be fine.

No, I say sharply. Mrs. Shepard takes a long sip of iced tea and smacks her lips.

I have already thanked Suzanne for the casserole and Mrs. Nunally for the lemon cake. Now I thank Mrs. Shepard for her casserole, which, I noticed as I scraped it into the trash, still has a sticker with Suzanne’s name on it.

Oh, it’s my pleasure, honey. Ladies, she tells us, I know a little gal who’s looking for some babysitting jobs. She feels around in her pocket and pulls out three slips of paper, handing one to each of us. Here’s her phone number. Karla Sibley. I highly recommend her.

Suzanne looks at the piece of paper and frowns. And from where do you know this girl?

Church, Mrs. Shepard says without hesitation.

Oh? Suzanne says. Have you returned to church, Corrine?

I sure have, Suzanne! It’s such a comfort, since Potter’s accident.

I see. Suzanne narrows her eyes and shifts her tote bag to the other shoulder. Well, we are all praying for you at Crescent Park Baptist.

Bless your hearts, Mrs. Shepard says.

Mrs. Nunally frowns and turns toward Suzanne. How are you feeling?

The pregnancy didn’t take, she says, her cheeks flushing red. But I’m fine! We’ll try again in a few months.

Oh no, Mrs. Nunally says.

You have lots of time, says Mrs. Shepard. You are only twenty-six years old.

Thank you, Corrine, but I’m thirty-four.

Really? Because you don’t look a day over twenty-six—Mrs. Shepard pauses and glances at Mrs. Nunally—Do y’all mind if I smoke?

I’m sorry, I say to Suzanne.

Don’t be sorry, she says. I have a beautiful, talented, and smart daughter. And look here, at what else I have! She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a handful of Avon samples—perfume and face cream, eye shadows, even tiny lipsticks—and hands them to us.

Mrs. Shepard passes hers to Mrs. Nunally without looking at it and pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her blouse. When she exhales, the smell is so warm and rich that I want to pluck it from between her fingers and suck with all my might.

Are you still preparing for the trial? she asks me.

Yes, I am. I shift the baby again from one side to the other and glance over at Aimee. She and Debra Ann are sitting under the dead tree, talking intensely and looking over at us from time to time.

Suzanne leans forward a bit and swats at the cigarette smoke. I’ve heard that the girl’s uncle is attempting to blackmail Mr. Strickland’s family.

That is absolutely slanderous, I say before I can stop myself. That is just a terrible thing for anybody to say.

I didn’t say it was true, Suzanne reminds us. Y’all know how rumors spread.

We sure do! Mrs. Shepard laughs out loud, a big, off-key, honking sound that reminds me of the homely sand hill cranes I left behind at the ranch. She arches eyebrows that, thankfully, she remembered to draw on this morning and takes several steps back from the group to blow her cigarette smoke away from the baby.

That does indeed sound slanderous, Mrs. Shepard says, but what do you expect from a bunch of bigots?

Suzanne rucks up her lips and sucks in some air. Well, you can speak for yourself, Corrine, because I’m no bigot, but— She stops for a few seconds and looks around the group for some acknowledgment that her statement is true—Suzanne Ledbetter is no bigot. But Mrs. Shepard and I are silent, and Mrs. Nunally has already started walking toward her car, saying, You ladies have a nice afternoon. Suzanne excuses herself and begins to walk slowly, as if a little lost, down the street. Upon arriving at her house, she makes a big show of checking her mail and yanking a couple of dandelions that had the nerve to make a home in her St. Augustine. Finally, she grabs a broom off the porch and swipes at the sidewalk.

Mrs. Shepard, who apparently has nowhere else to be and nothing better to do, watches me nuzzle my son. He is new enough that I still want to sniff at him from time to time, just to know he’s mine.

New baby, Mrs. Shepard says. Only thing that smells better is a brand-new Lincoln Continental. Let me have a little sniff? She holds the cigarette behind her back, leans forward, and breathes my son in. Girl, she says, I don’t miss the dirty diapers, and I sure don’t miss the sleepless nights, but I miss this smell.

I tuck the blanket under the baby’s chin and look at her. You should have seen Gloria Ramírez. He beat the living daylights out of her. The baby jerks in his sleep, his mouth opening and closing. I lean closer and lower my voice. Mrs. Shepard, it was like an animal had got at her.

Please, call me Corrine.

Corrine, I say, Dale Strickland is no better than a feral hog. Worse, actually. They can’t help themselves. I wish they would put him in the electric chair, I really do.

She drops her cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and nudges it off the curb with her foot. We both watch the smoke rise off the filter while she immediately lights another and considers her words. She smiles and tickles the baby’s chin. I know it, honey. Let’s just hope they get a half-decent judge. You going to testify?

Yes, I am. I can’t wait to tell them what I saw.

Well, that’s good. That’s all you can do. Let me ask you something, Mary Rose. You getting enough sleep?