The old lady squeezed her eyes shut, as though she’d just realized she had somewhere to be soon. A large bird landed on the weathered verandah railing. Ondine didn’t know what kind of bird it was, a sea bird of some sort. It perched there while the woman kept talking, as though it was waiting for her to pause. It was disturbing. The old woman’s voice was very loud now and she kept raising her hand. It was unnerving, although the bird didn’t seem to mind. Ondine felt impatient and considered interrupting to say she had to leave, that she had miscalculated her time. But now she was worried that if she interrupted the old lady she would be infuriated, or might have some sort of attack.

“Yes, Don’t come around no more is what my father told them, whenever they sent any of them do-goodies up here on the Lonely Road, up and over the Mountain and then halfways across before turning down the dirt road to our farm. Spies is what he called them all, the social workers, the police, even the preachers. Daddy said they should have been going after the whore who ran off, leaving Rose in charge of me and Hiram. That was what he called our mother. Wasn’t that a nice way to talk to your children? He was a mean old thing. I never talked so to my little girl.

“Rose was two years older than me and she was just a child herself but she seemed like a grown up, standing in front of us when our father would have a temper, shaking her finger at him. Everybody loved Rose, even our daddy. He was afraid of Rose, though. ‘Those sea-green eyes are full of secrets,’ he’d yell when she’d stand there admonishing him. ‘You’ve got salt water in your veins, but you’re a good girl, Rosie. I know you are. You wouldn’t do nothing bad to your father.’”

The woman opened her eyes then, and looked at Ondine and shook her finger. “You might see an old woman but inside, behind these eyes, I ain’t no old woman. That’s what you young people don’t understand. I know because I was young too once. Nothing ain’t ever clear until the end. Until it’s too late. My grandfather was a preacher and he said everything you do takes you to the place where you learn a lesson. When you learn the lesson then you can look back and see what all you went through was about. Ain’t no sense in moaning about what’s happening or why. You just got to survive it. And testify.”

She stood up and grabbed her cane, which had been leaning on the chair. She thumped the cane three times as though she were sending a signal. The bird flew away, letting out a few squawks as it lifted off the railing. “You better be careful what you ask me or I’ll be telling you what my daddy said, that you better not come around here no more, with your recorders and your notebooks. You’re lucky I’m not like Daddy. That’s what he would say and just like I said it now, hissing like a snake, curling the right side of his lip up when he said Missy. ‘Missy’ is a nice word but not how he said it. He could even make the names of flowers sound like horrible swear words and curses — violet, lilac, honeysuckle, peach blossom. He made all them words reek like shit.