Annie Mae was looking forward to the end of this school year. It had been difficult, but prayers had pulled her through. Her husband, Shelton, must be bursting with pride from his grave. Frank was finding his way to college without the football scholarship they had counted on. Frank had stayed out of the protest walkouts his friends had organized. She knew it was because of her; he didn’t want her ever to have to pick him up at the jail again. The job he had gotten at the funeral home wouldn’t be enough to pay for college, but she saw how determined he was. He’d manage somehow.
Walking through her living room with her dustcloth, she picked up her wedding picture. Frank was a lot like his father. Shelton was one of a few army veterans from the Korean War who believed his town was ready for change. Fred Peterson was another. Annie Mae put the picture back when her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t have time to be sad.
Saturday mornings were hers. Today she was the only one home. Up since dawn, she had just finished cleaning the kitchen. Her daughters didn’t understand why she polished the top of the refrigerator every week, but that was how she liked it—no dust balls would ever float down into her cooking.
Annie Mae took care of several white families’ cleaning and ironing all week, and she had her own four children to look after too. The day was hot, and she promised herself a tall glass of iced tea on the porch when she was finished with her chores.
Frank had left the house early to drive the hearse for a funeral. Sissy had taken Rachel and Baby James over to the horse farm to see the newest colt. Shelton’s cousin Penelope had invited them to come early and stay for lunch.
Penelope had inherited the family farm and the horses from her grandmother and namesake. She visited regularly but lived and worked in Manhattan, where she sold real estate properties to professional Negro families. She had found her way out of their small town years ago but never forgot where she came from. Penelope employed a caretaker and his family to manage the farm.
Annie Mae heard the mail truck and the familiar slams of seven roadside mailboxes as the postman rushed through the delivery. She decided to take a break. On the way down the shady driveway to collect her mail, she plucked a few weeds from her flower bed. When she pulled open the hinged door to the box, a crisp white business-size envelope rested on the top of the pile. She took it out to read the return address of the parish school board and saw the formal, typed recipient’s name: Mrs. Annie M. Woods.