chest, big as a map.

I know it here,

she says.

And I’ve seen things.

Momma is real quiet.

So am I.

Outside, the night

is quiet too.

It’s like everything listens,

waits

to hear what Momma will

say.

You need help, Ms. Chapman,

Miss Freeman says,

and I gasp.

But Momma’s eyes narrow.

She stays quiet.

Then when she speaks, her

voice is low

as Miss Freeman’s was.

You don’t know nothing,

you fat bitch.

Momma closes the door

with a click.

Miss Freeman says louder,

There’s something, Ms. Chapman,

I know it.

I know it in my heart.

Momma leans on the door.

She looks at me then says,

So that’s what’s under

all that fat. A heart.

She stands there,

leaning against the door

a long time,

lets out a shaky laugh.

Then she says,

Get to bed.

And I go, thinking,

Too many changes

going on here.

Thinking,

My momma is scared.

70.

Next morning

is Sunday.

Momma watches Miss Freeman

move off down

the road,

her dress fluttering

around her big

white calves.

When she’s out of sight

Momma says,

We’re moving, Hope.

You got four hours

to pack up whatever

you and Lizzie care about.

What?

I say.

What?

We’re getting the hell

outta here,

Momma says.

I don’t need

that woman spying on us.

But she’s my friend,

I say.

I don’t give a

damn who she is,

Momma says.

I don’t want to go,

I say.

Momma throws things

into boxes and suitcases and pillowcases

and even pots and pans.

She’s packing us up.

No, no, no,

I think, but

I say,

I like it here.

This is our place.

We have to be here

for when Liz

comes back.

Momma doesn’t listen.

She just packs.

And storms around.

I think about

Miss Freeman.

Her babysitting us

when we were little.

Her being there

when Daddy didn’t come home.

Her watching me and Liz

from her picture window

to make sure we were safe.

Making us dinner.

Checking on me.

Now she knows something.

Something that has scared

my momma.

I don’t want to go,

I say.

But just like that,

we’re gone

from this

little old house

I have known my whole

life.

Gone from my

shared room

and the smells of Lizzie

and the kittens out back

and our club.

Stuffing the mattresses

in the trunk

of our car,

tying things in

and on

and over

like

The Beverly Hillbillies

and like that,

we’re gone from Miss Freeman

who knows something.

71.

We end up

moving closer

to Mari.

In a two-bedroom trailer set up

on concrete blocks

not that far from the Wal-Mart

not even a half mile

from our old

home.

We won’t be here long,

Momma says.

This place isn’t permanent,

Momma says.

That fat busybody

drove us

from our home,

Momma says.

She clicks her tongue.

This place is so small,

she says,

looking at the

fake kitchen cabinets

and the orange carpeting

and the green linoleum,