“Yeah, I know that mama of yours is stubborn as hell,” she says, shaking her head, “but I’m gonna make her take my money. I don’t ask for no charity from nobody. You know that.”

“Yes, I know, and I’ll tell her.”

“Good. Tomorrow, I mean to go see them folks at the social security office and see what’s what. This is the second time they been late with my check. They lucky I got the Jesus.”

“I’m in school when they are open, so I can’t come, but if you need someone to go with you, I can ask my mom or someone at See Us. We have a list of volunteers who do stuff like that. Just let us know, okay?”

She smiles warmly and says, “You all are so nice over there. I don’t know what we’d do without See Us and your mama. That woman is the heartbeat of this place.”

I try to ignore the fresh wave of guilt that washes over me as I open Ms. Hightower’s fridge and put in the carton of milk.

“Are you coming to the march?” I ask.

“Humph, just try to stop me!” she says. “And I got the ladies from my Bible study to come too.”

“Bible study” is really a weekly card game played with six women who live down the street. They drink wine, gossip, and play a cutthroat game of poker. But whenever one of them wins, they shout, “Yes, God!” so I guess it’s kind of like church . . .

“Well, if that’s all, Ms. Hightower, I think I’m gonna go . . .”

“Oh no, you gotta eat something.”

“I’m not really hungry,” I confess.

“No, but you will be later. You too skinny. It’s them magazines, giving y’all a complex. Go on and take some pie,” she says as she walks over to the counter.

“You know pie is all sugar. It’s not good for diabetics.”

She waves off my warning, per usual. “Oh, hush. I know I got the sugar. I been had it forever. You don’t have to remind me. Now, I ate good yesterday. So I can eat bad today. And besides, I prayed on the pie. God won’t let it harm me.”

I want to tell her that that’s not the way diabetes works, but I know she will do as she pleases.

So I don’t say anything. I just take a small piece of pie and go sit at the table. She pours herself a glass of Hennessy and sits next to me. We inevitably begin talking about the pictures on the wall, and that, as always, leads to her Patti LaBelle and the Bluebelles story.