However carefully you have crafted your story, be willing to revise radically.
THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE starting time the following Tuesday, Teresa arrived to help prepare for the writers’ return. She went straight to the kitchen and put on a full pot of coffee, then brought a tray with cups and sugar and creamer over to the table where Dee had stacked her copies of the manuscripts. When everything else was settled, she took her seat, with her notebook, near Mama.
J. D. Sandifer was there first, accompanied this time by his wife, Pauline.
“I come along to keep Alice company,” Pauline said to Dee. Turning to Mama, she explained, “I come by to see you at the hospital, but you was in ICU, so I couldn’t get in.”
Came, were, Dee thought, but smiled politely and nodded.
Mama, who seemed less than thrilled with the idea of Pauline’s chatty companionship, replied, “We just need to sit in a corner and be quiet and let Dee Anna do her thang.”
Margaret, the retired reporter–turned–romance writer, brought a bouquet of irises from her yard in a glass vase. “I hope you didn’t find my prose to be as violet as these flowers,” she said to Dee.
Frances, the family-saga writer, walked in right behind her. “Oh, Margaret, I never found your work to be violent.”
“Purple in style, Frances,” Margaret said, and in an aside to Dee added, “She’s a little hard of hearing.”
Wendell knocked on the door precisely on time, a satchel of background documents for his Civil War epic in hand. “Eighteen hundred hours on the dot,” he said, and took a seat at the table between JoAnn and Cynthia. As Wendell pulled a sheaf of papers from his satchel, JoAnn commented to him about the barriers to research posed by Texas’s privacy laws, and the pair launched into an impassioned discussion of the issue. Cynthia chimed in, mentioning the new restrictions on libraries after 9/11.
At ten after six, Cynthia announced above the chatter of the group, “Well, let’s go ahead and get started . . . I don’t think Summer is coming.”
“What do you mean?” said Frances. “It was in the high eighties today.”
Margaret turned to Frances. “No, she’s talking about that girl from the Subway.”
“Nope, I’m here!” Summer stumbled into the room amid aromas of garlic, grease, and sweat. “The Big Spring girls’ soccer team stopped in on their way from a tournament, and we just cranked out thirty-three sandwiches in thirteen minutes.” She pumped her fist in victory, and the group nodded in admiration.
“Okay,” Dee said, “gather your chairs around the table. Glad everyone could make it. Now, have any of you ever taken part in a writing workshop before?”
The group went silent, and no one moved a muscle except for Pauline, who whispered something to Mama, who promptly rolled her eyes in Dee’s direction.
"Well,” offered Margaret, “we just look over each others’ drafts and talk about what we liked, but no one really feels qualified to critique, if that’s what you mean."
“No? Then I want to set some ground rules. First, has anyone here had a book on the New York Times best seller list?”
They all chuckled and shook their heads.
“Anyone at the top of the Amazon rankings?”
More laughter.
“All right,” Dee said, “that means no one’s an expert, and that includes me. So there are seven of you, and I want you to comment on one another’s work as readers, not writers. For the moment, don’t even get into grammar, punctuation, and all that. Just concentrate on the story. Does it grab your attention right from the start? Is there a conflict that cries out for resolution? Do you find the main character intriguing? What about the supporting characters?”
“Makes sense to me,” said J. D.
“So. By now we’ve all read these excerpts, and we probably realize that the passages come from different places in longer works—some are taken from the beginning, but others jump into the middle, so see if you can make sense of the writing without the benefit of context. I want you to take each piece of writing on its own terms.”
Dee concluded, “Most important, just remember that judgment is subjective, and not everyone will like everything—but treat the work of your fellow writers with respect. So if most of us say, ‘It bothered me that the boy didn’t get the girl,’ give it some serious thought, but also bear in mind there might be six other readers who would say, ‘I was glad the boy didn’t get the girl.’”
Dee removed a stack of single sheets from a manila folder. “Here’s a copy of what my students like to call Dr. Dee’s Rules for Writing. They think they’re being funny. But what we do during the semester is to consider every piece of writing in light of these guidelines—and figure out in what ways they are relevant, and in what ways they aren’t. Many of these will be obvious to you even if you’ve never taken a writing class. ‘Show, don’t tell.’ Sound familiar?”
Heads nodded all around.
“Now, we’re going to shuffle that pile of excerpts on the kitchen table, and I will pick at random and read a few pages of each one aloud,” Dee said. “We’ll do it this way to avoid putting anyone on the spot. Just imagine you’re listening to an audiobook. Afterward we’ll discuss our reactions. You can claim your writing or remain anonymous, as you wish. Let’s start.”
Dee drew a packet out of the bunch and leaned against the tall kitchen stool to read. When a man lusts for a woman, she began, while a few in the group suppressed snickers, it starts in the gut, and then kind of works its way down to the toes and back up again, sort of settling at the top of his chaps. Brendan O’Malley realized he had fallen asleep in the saddle not because of the sound of cattle bawling, but when he woke up dreaming about Daisy from the dance hall.
Dee caught sight of Pauline Sandifer glaring at J. D. from across the room. She quickly scanned ahead and found safer sentences.
The smell of rain was in the air and lighting crackled across the dawn sky. Wilbur was already awake and breaking down camp. They knew they had to make Durango tonight with the herd if they had any chance of getting to Montana before September.
Wilbur’s horse, Biscuits, knew the routine as well, and steadied himself for Wilbur’s pack. There was something about a horse that comforted a man in the way a woman never could, the cowboy thought.
Pauline glared again.
The two cowboys urinated on the fire to douse it.
J. D. sort of slunk down in his chair, and Dee forced herself to keep a straight face. Mama gestured for Teresa to press her lift chair button. “Pauline and me are going to my bedroom to watch Dancing with the Stars.” Pauline nodded indignantly as she and Teresa helped Mama out of the room, and Teresa returned to sit on the sofa and listen intently.
“If writing was easy,” Dee said to settle the group, “everyone would be an author. Sometimes you have to take a little heat for your art.” Dee finished reading to the end of the page. “Remember, hold your thoughts and we’ll discuss in a few minutes. By the way, that one was titled ‘Biscuits and Me.”
She picked another excerpt. “The Last Summer,” from the pile.
You never know when The Last Summer will be, Hope thought, as she took the eye dropper from the hospice worker, and put some water into her mother’s mouth. How quickly the cancer had stolen the season from them.
But the Big C, as Mom had called it, hadn’t taken the memories. These days had been the best days of Hope’s life, with long walks and long talks. She and her Mother had declared a cease-fire of sorts, and simply spent their time, cooking and eating, laughing, watching bad TV, and doing a little bit of drinking—the doctor had said red wine would be good for Mom’s blood pressure.
When they found out that the time they had left was days not months, every night, Mom had Hope make a list of “questions to be answered now not later.” At first the list was very serious, about wills, and memorial service preferences, and then it got silly, such as “Who was the first boy you ever kissed?”
Hope fought back tears as Mom murmured in pain.
By the time Dee reached the end of the submission, all of the writers except JoAnn—who looked around impatiently—had sat back in their chairs, subdued with sadness. Dee saw Frances reach over and pat Margaret’s hand under the table. She was grateful that the next packet she drew out was upbeat and humorous, lifting the collective gloom. Nonetheless she appreciated how deeply the writers paid attention to each piece. They would really have the potential for helping one another, and she was glad to help get the ball rolling for them.
Dee read the remaining excerpts, and with the exception of the scene in which the robots waxed romantic, none of the manuscripts was greeted too harshly by the group. Even in the extreme cases fellow writers stuck to the rules and offered helpful criticisms.
“I know we had to rush through sort of fast,” said Frances. “But I got a lot out of it. I can’t wait to get back to my computer and revise my scene.”
Summer added, “I never really understood about limited omniscient point of view. I think I’m starting to get it now.”
“Too bad you’re leaving us so soon,” Cynthia said to Dee.
“I’ll think about you all when I’m back in North Carolina,” Dee replied sincerely. “I wish you luck.”
Wendell shook her hand. “It’s been great to have a pro among us.” Dee accepted the compliment graciously, glad that he appeared unfazed by the comments she’d written on his draft. Or maybe he just hadn’t had time to digest them yet.
Frances assured Dee that she would think about rewriting her brother’s story in the third person.
J. D., who had gone to retrieve Pauline, was lingering with her in the back bedroom, where they were still talking Mama’s ear off after the rest of the writers had bid goodnight.
***
After the Sandifers departed and Dee straightened up the dining room, she went in to check on Mama—who was sitting straight up in her bed, still in her day clothes, snoring away, arms propped on a pillow in her lap. Dee turned off the television, removed Mama’s glasses and placed them on the nightstand, brushed her hair back from her forehead, and helped ease her into a more comfortable position before turning off the light. What a day it had been for them both—and they had more to come as the end of the week approached.
Dee gathered her workshop materials into her briefcase and took out Friday’s airline ticket. She noted a reminder on her calendar to drive into town and check in online for her late afternoon flight. She’d arranged with Ruby Lee and Barge to catch a ride to Dallas, where they had plans to visit the market and stock up on merchandise for the store.
Dee took her suitcase from the closet. She would do all her laundry tomorrow, and also write up a full report of notes on Mama’s care and medications for anyone who might be helping out next. She made out a list neatly in her notebook: Update Mama’s address book with new phone numbers. Send a thank-you note to Cynthia. Give Rob a call before she headed back (and remind him that she’d need him to drop off her cap and gown at her office after graduation on Saturday). E-mail Penny and Buddy her flight information. Tell Abby her anticipated arrival time and gate at Logan. Get her heavier jacket from home and add it to her suitcase. Thursday morning would be taken up with Mama’s appointment in town with Dr. Kim, so it would be best to have everything in order well before then. Dee wanted nothing to detract from the precious few days she would have with Abby, or her stay at the visiting writers’ quarters in the Berkshires.
She had washed her face and slipped into her pajamas and was just about to turn off her own light when she heard the clang of the cowbell. She rose silently and stoically, went to Mama’s bedroom, helped her out of the bed into the bathroom, lowered her pants for her, and assisted her over the toilet. Charmin cleanup done and toilet flushed, Dee helped Mama into her nightgown and back to bed. They had developed a comfortable rhythm for a precarious and awkward situation. But thank God, she thought, they wouldn’t need to do it for much longer.
Lying awake a few minutes later and thinking back over the Write Stuff group’s interactions, Dee thought she heard a scratching sound at the front door. Yes, there it was again. And then she remembered—the big yellow dog who’d kept her company during her first nights alone in the house. She tiptoed down the hallway and eased the door open.
“Chester?” she whispered.
The dog responded with a friendly wag of his tail, and Dee couldn’t resist. “Come on in, you rascal. But you’re on your own again at daybreak, boy. Mama might send us both to the pound if she discovered you here!”
She’d leave here on Friday with some minor mysteries unsolved, she mused. Where did Chester belong, and why did he show up at such odd times? Who were Stacey’s family, who lived in the trailer at the bottom of the hill? Which of the Write Stuff members had written the cancer story, which one the abortion memoir? And a larger one: Who had run Mama off the road in the first place? She figured she would never know.
She set the alarm for five and drifted off to sleep, the satisfied dog lounging at her feet.
***
Thursday morning came sooner than either of them could imagine. “C’mon, Mama, your friend Dr. Kim is waiting!” Dee urged, when her mother was still sleeping soundly at eight-thirty. “Don’t you want to see how your bones are mending?” The sun shone valiantly through a thick layer of dust that hung in the air. The weather report said by afternoon they might see rain, but right now it was just dry, dreary, and windy. With Teresa on one side and Dee on the other, they dressed Mama and helped her down the steps into the car, a process that took a good ten minutes in the strong wind, but they drove into town in high spirits.
Dr. Kim took a long time examining the X-rays, holding first the left and then the right up to the light box and making notes on Mama’s chart. At last she spoke. Dee glanced over at Mama’s face and saw, in a single moment, everything Mama hadn’t said about what was riding on this checkup. She started to get an inkling herself.
“Mrs. Bennett, your bones appear to be knitting back together in the way they should—the pattern is good, and I’m pleased with that. I’m also pleased with your muscle tone—you must have been keeping up your exercises.”
Mama nodded warily.
“But it looks like healing is going to take a while longer. At the rate things are going, I think we will need to keep your wrists immobilized for another six weeks or so.”
Mama nearly fell off the examining table, and Dee reached to steady her. “Another six weeks!” Mama said. “But Dr. Taylor told us—”
“I know it’s not welcome news. I’m sure Dr. Taylor was looking on the bright side, and besides, orthopedics is not his specialty. It’s really very hard to predict how any individual will respond. We want you fully healed before you put any pressure on these joints, so you don’t reinjure yourself. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that?”
“What I don’t want is to keep on being dependent on somebody else for ever’ little thing,” said Mama petulantly. “I think I need a second opinion.”
“You are certainly within your rights to do that, Mrs. Bennett. I want you to be satisfied that your course of treatment is the right one—that'll be important in your healing. You could probably get in with a specialist in Lubbock sometime next week.”
Mama exhaled a long breath and looked in Dee’s direction. “Wouldn’t make no difference. Ain’t nobody to carry me clear to Lubbock.”
“But you have family so close by,” replied the doctor. “You are lucky.”
Dee was sure Mama didn’t agree. She was thankful at least that Mama had refrained from insulting Dr. Kim again and appeared resigned to the prognosis. What real choice did she have, after all?
Teresa, gauging Mama’s sullen expression when they returned to the waiting room, knew better than to ask for a report, but Mama said it all: “You’re stuck with me for another six weeks, T’resa, so I sure hope takin’ care of a broken-down old woman makes you happy.”
Mama declined the opportunity to stop for a milk shake on the way home, and they all sat in silence as Dee drove.
Dee mulled her own options in her mind. Rehab hospital? They’d already reached a firm no there. Penny or Buddy? Still not likely. For herself, six more weeks . . . that would wipe out nearly the entire fellowship period, not to mention the visit with Abby, and the airline reservations. It might even threaten her chances with her book altogether. Maybe the Berkshires staff would change the dates for her. She’d have to get creative—fast.
When they got back to the home place, Teresa offered to make sandwiches for lunch before Mama’s therapy session. But Mama refused, instead insisting on going straight back to bed. Dee and Teresa eased Mama down to the mattress, where she flung herself over so forcefully, face down on the bedspread, that Dee feared she’d do even more damage to her bones.
Dee didn’t stick around for lunch, either, but instead drove straight back to town, to the library. She flashed Gladys her temporary computer permit and logged on to the Internet.
With a bit of research she found that if she changed tomorrow’s Raleigh-to-Hartford ticket to depart directly from DFW instead, it looked like it would cost only a change fee plus two hundred dollars difference in fare . . . but the only available coach seat was on the 5:50 a.m. departure, and to get to Dallas in time, she’d have to leave almost immediately, rent a car one-way, maybe stay in a hotel for a few hours . . . and even assuming she could afford the extra hit on her budget, how would she get from the farm to the rental car office? She didn’t know anyone who could do that kind of favor on short notice.
Who was she fooling? She had to agree with Mama. It was no fun having to depend on others for help.
What if Buddy and Roxanne could come stay with Mama on some of the week nights, and Penny and her girls could drive out to Claxton on the weekends? There was Penny’s son Mark, the mechanic, but last they’d heard he was working on an offshore rig and wouldn’t be back till August. Teresa seemed dependable, and that covered three days a week . . . even Buck Turlock and his wife were nearby a lot of the time. Maybe Cynthia could pull some strings with Mitzi and her Helping Hands staff.
She weighed all the possibilities and came to a decision.
She let out a deep breath and composed an e-mail. Keith: Still in TX and won’t make it for graduation Saturday. Mother’s doing better but recovering slowly. I’ll work out later travel from here. In the meantime, let me know if any questions come up.
She hit Send, logged off, and went outside to make two calls to Massachusetts.
***
It wasn’t lost on Dee that it was now possible—for the first time in her life—to buy an alcoholic drink in Claxton. She just didn’t know where you might find one. She stopped in at the supermarket—the chain store with deli and pharmacy that had put the two local outfits out of business a couple of years ago—and bought a few items she knew were on Mama’s list.
At the checkout she asked the clerk, “Say, I’m new here . . . can you tell me where there’s a restaurant with a bar?” The young woman leaned around the partition that had kept Dee from seeing that she was well advanced in pregnancy and replied, “Well, I don’t think I can help you with that myself, but I’ll bet Jeff can tell you—hey, Jeff?” she yelled across to the cashier two lanes over. “Can you tell this lady where to find a bar in town?”
Jeez, thought Dee, everyone in the store thinks I’m a lush, at three in the afternoon. Jeff kindly came over to offer her a few suggestions. His best recommendation was Jesse Jane’s Roadhouse, to which he gave her directions. Dee thanked him, pulled her recently acquired sunglasses down over her eyes, and tried to maintain her dignity as she left the store.
***
Jesse Jane’s, a mile past the football stadium on the Sweetwater highway, did not exactly seem to be buzzing with excitement at that hour. Dee parked Mama’s car at the far edge of the dirt lot and, still wearing her dark glasses, strolled over and opened the front door. It was inviting enough . . . and blessedly cool and shadowy, just the antidote she needed against the stifling Texas heat. She could make out a long, wooden L-shaped bar at the back, with a mirrored wall behind it and shelves full of potations in tempting shapes and colors. A small elevated stage occupied the other back corner. There were ample café tables and booths, too—just the sort of place she might’ve appreciated on a cozy evening with someone special.
Today, though, she headed straight for the nearest barstool. She was the only patron at the bar, it appeared, and it wasn’t hard to get the bartender’s attention.
“What’ll you have on this fine afternoon?” the white-haired, middle- aged woman asked. “Not much of a crowd, with everybody getting ready to leave town for Memorial Day.”
“Vodka gimlet, please.” She pushed her sunglasses up over her head, using them as a hairband.
“Vodka we got. The second part, I’m stumped.”
“Oh,” said Dee. “It’s not hard. Do you have lime juice?”
“Sure. I serve the best margarita in town.”
“Well, make it with equal parts vodka and Rose’s lime juice, over ice, squeeze in a little fresh lime juice, and garnish it with the rest of the lime. Raymond Chandler made his with gin, but vodka will do nicely.”
“Raymond Chandler? He one of those Chandler boys that got busted with the meth lab?”
“Never mind. Just make it cold and quick.”
“Are you new in town, or visiting?” asked the bartender as she mixed the drink.
Dee thought about it. “No and yes.”
“Sounds complicated. I’m Jane, by the way. Welcome to Claxton.”
“I was actually born here,” Dee offered. “And I’ve been back staying with family for a while.”
“Oh, well, then, I don’t have to tell you what a new experience it is to have a drinking establishment in town. I moved down here from Lubbock when Caprock County approved liquor by the drink, and my partner and I renovated this vacant community center.”
“Nice,” said Dee, downing half the drink in one gulp. “Have you started to build up a clientele?”
“We have lots of regulars—roustabouts and oil crews, engineers, landmen, even a few bikers—but it’s really not a rough crowd at all. We have a live band and dancing on Saturday night and karaoke on Fridays. You oughta come check it out.”
Dee was about to demur when she heard the door open behind her and turned to see three figures silhouetted in the doorway. One of the men waved and called out to Jane as the group headed toward a dark booth opposite the bar.
“Speaking of, there are some of my guys now. Be right back.” One of the patrons changed course and came over to where Dee was staring down into her cocktail.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss November,” he said. Dee turned to see Max Miller, the photographer, elbow propped on the bar beside her. “What, did that one little modeling experience drive you to drink?”
“Listen, Mr. Miller, that was a pretty dirty stunt for my cousin to pull. If those photos show up on any parts-store wall—”
“Whoa, don’t get your chaps in a twist. I thought you were a very good sport. You rescued the show.” Dee felt herself blush and was glad for the dark bar. “What’re you drinking?” Max asked. “Can I buy you another?”
“Not unless you want to see me fall right off this barstool. It’s the first drink I’ve had since I came to Claxton, and I think it’s going straight to my head.”
“Bad day or good day?”
“Bad.”
“Mmm. Sorry. So . . . I’ve got to go wrap up some business with these fellows over here . . . you mind if I come back and join you?”
“Suit yourself. In the meantime, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” She raised her empty glass in a mock toast. “In Massachusetts, to be exact.”
Jane took the men their drinks and peanuts. After a short while Max begged off and took a seat beside Dee at the bar, where she was well into the third gimlet. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d ordered a Dr Pepper.
“Tell me about the bad day.”
She did, starting with the doctor’s news and Mama’s dejection and working backward to fill him in about the accident, and her research plans, and winding up with Mama’s dejection all over again. “When the doctor said she’d be in the casts for six more weeks, it’s like all the spunk went out of her. All the determination to get well.”
“But you’re doing exactly what she needs to keep her healthy and happy. You should be proud of that.”
“I might be, if I wasn’t so resentful about it . . . and still wondering how I can have my cake and eat it too. I tried to change my summer plans, but no luck so far. And my sister and brother have their own obligations. We thought . . . well, I don’t know what we thought, but it’s clear that Mama can’t be left alone at any time. Even with everyday tasks, she requires help, and if an emergency happened, day or night, she’d really need someone there. I think if we moved her to a nursing home she’d just wither up and die. And I’d have her haunting me for the rest of my life.” Dee, becoming aware she’d been rambling, suddenly looked down at her watch. “Speaking of . . . omigosh, it’s past six, and Teresa’s ride gets there at five—omigosh, I’m late. She’ll kill me if she’s not already dead.”
“Teresa who?”
Dee had a fleeting realization that she’d been vague about her antecedent. “Mama! I am in so much trouble . .
“Let me drive you. You’ve had four of those—and I’ll bet they’re a lot heavier on the vodka than the ice.”
“You right ’bout that,” she slurred. “If you’re sure, c’mon, while I’m still in shape to give you directions.”
They pulled up in the driveway at seven, the sun still high in the sky and the hot wind still steadily blowing. Teresa’s father was waiting in his pickup with the windows rolled down. But the heat outdoors was nothing compared to the temperature in Mama’s kitchen.
Alice was standing at the sink, cradling her immobilized arms, rocking back and forth and staring out the window, when Max led Dee through the side door. “Where on God’s green earth have you been, Dee Anna Bennett?”
“I had a lot of things to care of. To take care of,” said Dee. “Miller— Max—was nice enough to bring me home.”
“From where, a distillery?” When Mama got agitated and tried to use her arms, she looked to Dee just like the robot on Lost in Space. Dee giggled and then began to hiccup.
“I don’t see the humor in this a-tall,” said Mama, fuming. “Teresa, you can go on home. We’ll be fine.”
“You sure, Mrs. Bennett? I can stay if I tell my father.” She looked at Dee as if to seek permission.
“No,” Mama said. “You’ve put up with quite enough for one day. Go on.”
Dee stumbled over and collapsed on the red leather couch. Max said to Mama, “She really has had some hard things to deal with today, Mrs. Bennett, and it sounds like you have too. I can come out tomorrow and pick her up to get your car, after she’s feeling better.”
“After she’s sober, you mean. I am so ashamed. You’d better go now too.”
“Yes, ma’am—if you’re sure you’re okay.”
“I’ll be fine. I can manage.”
***
Dee woke with an aching in the side of her head like someone was beating it with a brick. She opened one eye—the sun was shining brightly, but then, it had been shining the last time she remembered, too. She tried to move but found she was weighed down . . . she felt around to discern that she was covered by a heavy cotton quilt. She was on the red couch, still in last night’s clothes and shoes. No wonder she was sweating already.
She ventured opening the other eye and could see Mama, erect in her chair, also wearing her same clothes from yesterday. What day was it, Friday? Right. She should be going over her checklist one last time, and waiting at the door for Ruby Lee. Tomorrow morning the Raleigh College faculty and graduates would be lining up for graduation on the lawn. And afterward—according to her airline ticket—she’d be on a plane headed north.
Dee stirred and tried to push the cover back.
“Got your suitcase packed? Mama asked acidly. “Or maybe you’re too hung over to care.”
“Mama . . .”
“I know I’ve gotten to be too much of a burden to bear. You just go on—you just call Penny and tell her to start lookin’ into them assisted living apartments. Hand me that phone there. And I’ll tell Ruby Lee you might need extra time gettin’ ready. She’ll be here in a half hour.”
“Mama,” Dee said, pulling herself slowly upright, “you don’t have to do that.”
“Well, if nobody else is gonna look after me, I’m gonna have to look after myself.” Mama started to work herself up to a full-blown case of martyred self-righteousness. “It don’t matter if it means I have to leave this home place. Nobody cares about some old widow-woman. Might as well just throw us away.”
“That’s not true—”
“You kids got better things to do than to help your own family. All those years your daddy and I thought we was raisin’ you right, and now when there’s the least hardship, you run off on some lark, as far away as you can go.” Mama was on the verge of tears.
“Mama!” Dee practically shouted. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. I'll call Ruby Lee. I’m staying right here. I withdrew from the fellowship.”