“No,” she said, uncertainly, and looked out the window at the new brick bank building across the street. She pointed at the bank, then slapped her fingertips on top of the money on the counter. “I go bank, they give me money, I come here, give you money, take flour home.”

Mr. McRae understood immediately. This was too confusing for the poor woman. Now, what should we do? “Okay, Martha. I’ll tell you what. You use this bread and these eggs to pay me for the things you buy here instead of with the money the bank gives you, okay?”

Her face clouded over in heavy thought.

“Do you need more flour?”

“Flour, yes.”

“And the rest of the things you usually buy?”

“Yes. And soap. And cluck peck.” She was proud of the name she made up.

He laughed. “Okay. You wait right here.”

He brought the groceries to the counter, added the plastic bags and three empty egg cartons. “Now, Martha. Listen carefully.” Mr. McRae waved aside a few customers who had come through the door, holding them off while he explained. “I sell you flour, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you go home and bake bread.”

“Yes.”

“Then you bring the bread here, and I will pay you for it with more flour and yeast and milk, okay?”

“Trade?”

“Trade. Exactly.”

“Okay!” She smiled at him crookedly, understanding at last. “You want more?”

“As much as you can bring me.”

“Okay!” She turned and smiled at the customers waiting in line. “Trade!” she said, grinning widely; then she took her sack and left the store.

She walked into the sunshine and the beginning heat of the day. She looked over to the bank, new and solid, on the corner. She should go talk to them. This was the first time she’d come to town without talking to them. She walked slowly down the street, conscious of the door coming up on her left, the door with the glass you couldn’t see through, the door with the shiny wall inside. She wished she had to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t, so she couldn’t stop. She kept going.

When she got home, ankle swelling and sore, Priscilla was there, with her haircutting scissors and a pitcher of cold, fresh lemonade. Martha put her sack of purchases on the counter by the sink and sat down at the table, pulling Priscilla down into the next chair. Her expression was intense.

“Mr. McRae and I trade.”

Priscilla’s tiny little features looked calmly on this gross older woman. Cutting Martha’s hair was a chore, but one she’d promised to her mother. Every month she would come and do Martha’s hair. She tried to make it as pleasant as possible, but Martha was quite disgusting. She was overdue, and the poor woman’s hair hung almost to her eyes.

“Trade?”