“Well, what does this Virgil Stuckey say about what’s going on?”

“He said he thought it was time to alert Richard in Washington,” I explained. “Which your mother just did. She left him a message.”

“Just told him about the bodies and his mother being missing and his daddy hurt.”

Debbie smiled. “You’re right. That ought to do it, Mama.”

She sipped her coffee and tried to get comfortable. “I don’t think this baby is going to wait two more weeks. Can y’all see the way he’s knotted up on the side?”

That reminded me. I reached in my purse and handed Debbie the velvet bag that I had planned to take by her house the day before.

“A present from Philip.”

She put her coffee down and grinned. “Jewelry?”

“The family jewels.”

The look on her face was priceless when she pulled the neutercal from the bag.

“Oooh, what is this?” She held the prosthetic testicle in her hand. “It squishes and there’s something hard in it.”

“Let me see that.” Sister took the neutercal from Debbie. “Hey, this is a really great fake nut.”

“It’s called a neutercal,” I explained to Debbie. “You squeeze it when you’re in labor. Philip says the doctors in Warsaw swear it cuts labor time in half.”

“Give it here, Mama.” Debbie snatched the neutercal back, gave it a good squeeze, and laughed. “This is wonderful.” She squeezed again. “Oh, my, yes. I can see how this would work wonders.”

“Let me try it,” Sister said.

Debbie handed it over reluctantly. We were giggling when Tiffany came in. She had to have a squeeze, too, declaring it was just a fancy stress ball like Alabama midwives used all the time.

“Nowadays?” Debbie asked.

“I’m sure they do, cause they work. My grandmama was a midwife. She’d get everybody to save those little cotton tobacco pouches with the drawstring tops for her. You know, the ones for people who rolled their own cigarettes? She’d fill them up with grits. Put a marble in them.” Tiffany handed the neutercal back to Debbie. “Said it worked wonders.”

“I never heard of them,” Sister said.

Tiffany shrugged, a “city folks don’t know much” shrug.

She was right. There was a lot we city folks didn’t know. About snake handling, for instance.

“Where did you grow up, Tiffany?” I asked.

“Tuscaloosa. My daddy teaches chemistry at the university. But my grandmama who was the midwife lived near Sterrett. She and my grandpa had a farm, raised peaches mostly. Why?”

“I don’t suppose they ever ran into any snake handlers.”

“What?”

This time it was Sister who told the story. When she finished, Tiffany declared, “I can’t believe that. Poor soul.”

I wasn’t sure whether she meant the redheaded girl, Monk Crawford, or Virginia. I guess it didn’t matter.

“Somebody help me up,” Debbie said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”