“I got a letter one time that said the FBI wanted my Social Security and other information. I started to write it and send the letter in, but my wife here”—the man poked the arm of a women seated beside him—“she said no, not before we checked with our lawyer. He said that no legitimate agency like the FBI would send me a letter asking for that kind of information. Correct?”

“That is correct.” The lawyer picked up a sheet of paper.

“What about people trying to fix your house for you?” someone asked. “When did you say scammers target people about home repairs?”

“Home repair scams are most prevalent in the spring. Some of you know that from recent personal experience.”

A cough. A nervous giggle. A laugh. Many heads nodded.

A few more questions and the meeting came to an end. For those people, mainly women, in and about Covington who had been victims, the scammers had cashed their checks or pocketed their cash immediately and vanished. Fortified with information and lists of do’s, don’ts, and phone numbers, all that their unwitting victims could do now was return to their homes and try not to dwell too much on the mistakes they had made.

Ida, hiding her gullibility and monetary loss from her family and friends, acted smug and felt guilty. A few days after the meeting at the church, she fell ill. It began with a cold that settled in her chest. When June failed to hear from her mother, who phoned her every morning and sometimes at night, June stopped by.

The shades were drawn throughout the downstairs of the house, and except for a floor fan, the air hung as still as swamp air on a late-summer day. Ida lay on the couch in the living room shivering and covered with a blanket. June touched her hand to her mother’s forehead.

“Mama, you’ve got you a fever. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I figured it would pass,” Ida murmured. “And it will, if you’ll go away and leave me be. I’ll lie here and sweat it out.” Her rasping cough belied her protestations.

June pulled the blanket off her mother, and Ida turned away and covered her chest with her arms. “Don’t do that, June. I’m right chilly, can’t you see?”

“I see, all right, and we’re going to Doc Johnson right this minute, Mama. I’ll go upstairs and get you some fresh clothes, and we’ll brush your hair and put some powder on you.”

“Bring the Johnson’s baby powder. I fancy that better than the sweet-smelling stuff May got me for my last birthday. Used it once. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what gave me this cough.”

June rolled her eyes. “It’s more like your cold’s dropped into your chest, and you know you’re given to bronchitis, Mama.”