The scowl on Nora Dowling’s face deepened. She tilted her head to inspect me. A frown of pain furrowed in her brow. I knew what she was thinking: So this is what my own minister brings me, a baby.

“You’ll find he’s a good worker,” Raymond said confidently. “And he knows why he’s here. He either has to make some money for college or go back to the farm. I think he had enough of that last year.”

I could hear the unfamiliar sounds of the kitchen—the murmuring of voices, the swishing and clicking of the swinging doors leading into the dining room, the dull bell-ring of pots and pans, the fragile glass-against-glass pinging. I could feel the heat of the stoves and ovens. A scent of rich foods swam in the trapped air.

Nora Dowling crossed her arms and continued to stare at me with disappointment. A boy my age, maybe older, passed too close to her carrying a tray of dishes and she glared at him irritably. Then she turned to face me. “So, what is all this college for? What will you do with it? Be a man of the cloth like your brother?”

“Plenty of time to make that decision,” Raymond said quickly. “He’s a very talented artist. That may be his calling.” He squeezed my shoulder. I was glad he was touching me.

Nora Dowling sighed again and rolled her eyes dramatically. Her face changed from scowl to resignation. She had made a promise; she would keep it.

“Well, there’s work to be done,” she said. She dismissed Raymond with a look. “Come back for him around eight.”

“I’ll be here,” Raymond replied. His hand rubbed across my shoulder, signaling me that I would be all right and that he would return. “Do a good job,” he said to me. “We’ve got to show them that Southerners know how to work.” Then, to Nora Dowling: “We’re grateful to you.”

Nora Dowling tried a smile, but it did not fit her face.

Raymond left through the side door—in a rush, I thought. He did not look back.

“Did you have lunch?” Nora Dowling asked.

I swallowed and lied: “I had a sandwich at my brother’s house. We stopped by so I could see my sister-in-law, Linda.”

She rolled her huge shoulders and I thought of Coy Helms. “They’s Yankees all over the place up here,” Coy had warned. He had no idea how right he was.

“A sandwich is not lunch,” Nora Dowling proclaimed. “You need food. Come.”

She led me to a table near the side door and motioned for me to sit. She did not introduce me to anyone, and no one approached me. But I knew they were watching. I could feel their eyes. Their eyes were bullets.

In a few moments Nora Dowling returned with a bowl of soup. “Kartoffel suppe,” she said.

“Thank you.”