to the store.

I wonder,

Who wrote that

sign for Miss Freeman?

One of her grown boys?

A neighbor?

I would have done it

for her

had I known.

Can’t beat two for twenty-five cents

with a stick,

Momma says.

She finds a little

nightshirt with a puppy

on the front

for my sister.

I want her out of

those hospital clothes,

she says,

talking to herself.

I’m lucky and find shorts

almost the second we walk in.

A pocket is missing,

but what do you expect

for twelve and a half pennies?

Momma and I

get in line behind

a man whose arms

are filled to overflowing

with clothing.

When he reaches the counter

he pulls out his wallet,

thick with money.

Miss Freeman sees us behind

him.

Ms. Chapman,

she says with a nod.

Hope.

I nod back.

Then,

How you doin’, mister?

Terrific,

he says,

and smiles a full-toothed grin.

I’m sure he

bleaches his teeth

they are so white.

Or maybe he’s a dentist.

But

what would a dentist

be doing in here with a

big ol’ stack of used clothes?

Let’s count this up,

Miss Freeman says,

gathering things by twos.

Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, a dollar.

Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, two dollars,

she says.

Momma eyes the man.

I know why, straight up.

All that money.

Miss Freeman keeps counting.

Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, four dollars.

Twenty-five, fifty, . . . .

Soon she’s up to eight dollars.

Momma leans close to the man.

You have a big ol’ family,

don’t you?

she says.

I work with orphans,

he says,

shifting till he faces

Momma.

And you are?

he says to her.

Orphans?

Miss Freeman says.

She smiles.

Let me throw in a few things free.

She piles clothes

onto the man’s stuff.

You good man,

Momma says,

never giving her name.

That only comes

with repeat business.

I look away.

I can see what

Momma’s doing and it worries me.

We’re supposed to see

Lizzie today.

Sometimes,

when this happens,

when she meets someone,

I end up sitting in the car

for hours

waiting for Momma

and whoever

to come out of

whatever room they’ve

chosen.

Still,

we’re close enough to home.

I’ve seen Miss Freeman walking

to work.

I can walk it too.

But what about Lizzie?

Ten dollars and seventy-five cents,

Miss Freeman says.

And I didn’t count some of it.

Will you tell the children

it’s a gift from me?

Orphan man nods,

hands her a twenty.

Yes, ma’am,

I surely will.

Miss Freeman grins.

Momma moves in close to

the man.

Let’s see,

Miss Freeman says,

and she starts counting

out change for him.

Add their things too,

orphan man says,

and puts the nightshirt

and my shorts on top

of his pile.

I’ll take care of this,

he says to Momma.

Now there,

Momma says,

touching him with her

fingertips.

You don’t need to do that,

she says.

The added twenty-five cents

throws Miss Freeman.

She blinks

a couple of times