Martha nodded hard, shaking her head of hair that was way too long. “I buy flour, take bread.”

“Oh.” Priscilla’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re trading with Mr. McRae. How nice. I’ve seen your bread, Martha. You make a lot of it.” She looked at the clean, bare countertop. Oh, God, I hope she isn’t taking him that moldy stuff.

“Good bread.”

“I’m sure it is. Let’s do your hair, okay? Then we can have some lemonade, okay?”

“Okay!”

Martha put her head into the tub, let her hair be shampooed, expert, practiced fingers massaging the scalp. It felt good; even in this awkward position, she tried to relax. Priscilla rubbed some sweet-smelling balm into her head afterward, then rinsed it with warm water. Martha sat still, out on the porch in the heavy wooden chair, watching the little curls fall into her lap as her hair was snipped short again, while Priscilla chatted on about nothing Martha could follow. Then she ran her fingers through Martha’s new short locks, fluffing it, and took the towel from her neck to dust her off.

“All finished!”

They went inside for lemonade. Martha smacked her reddened lips. “Pris. Teach me this?” She pointed at the glass.

Priscilla was taken aback. Martha had never asked her for anything before. Not in all the years she’d been coming to cut her hair. “Sure. Come, I’ll show you the lemon tree.”

They walked outside through the weeds, Martha moving more slowly, limping on her sore ankle, keeping her dress from catching all the burrs. Behind the littered concrete foundation that used to be the barn was a little green tree with plump yellow fruit.

“Pick the yellowest and the fattest, see?” Priscilla showed her. Martha lifted up her skirt and filled it, like a basket. She carried it with pride back to the house where Priscilla showed her how to cut and squeeze the lemons, mix the juice with sugar and water. “Easy, eh, Martha?”

“Easy. Yes.” They grinned at each other, freckles scampering over Priscilla’s pert and fresh nose. Martha felt her own numb, meaty outgrowth ringed by scars, and the laughter fled. She reached a finger out and touched Priscilla’s face, ran her touch lightly over the bridge of her nose, feeling her own face with her other hand.

“Like that, huh? Maybe I’ll will it to you.”

“Will?”

Priscilla was instantly sorry she’d been so flip. “You know, will. Like it’s yours when I die.” She let Martha’s fingers roam over her face.