40

I leave the bread on the table for Agatha.

“Where’d this come from?” she asks a few hours later as she lugs a bag of groceries into the room and sets it on the table. She’s wearing the hat.

“A l-l-l-little girl.”

I look through the grocery bag. There’s flour and sugar cubes and milk and oatmeal, no coffee.

I hand her the letter. She brushes it away.

“Read it for me,” she says, walking over to the counter for a knife. “I need glasses.”

I shake my head.

“You read all the damn time,” Agatha says, her voice sharp. “You read too much, if you ask me. Now I need a hand.”

The hell I will. Reading to myself isn’t the same as reading out loud. She knows that much by now.

She slices a two-inch chunk off the loaf, slathers it with molasses, and takes a bite. “I think it’s time I get something out of you readin’ so damn much. I can’t pay for no glasses right now.”

The knot in my throat tightens. I never know which feels worse, the anticipation of reading aloud or the shame when I do. I glare at Agatha.

She cuts another slice and pops it into her mouth. I look up at the mountain. If I leave now, how will my mother find me? I grab the note, pick it up. “ ‘Th-th-th-th ...’ ” I stop, gulp some air. “ ‘Thank you for the p-p-p-potatoes. I don’t kn-kn-know how we would have gotten through the w-w-w-winter. L-l-l-lydia.’ ” I throw the note on the table.

“Lydia always did make the best bread.” Agatha leaves the loaves on the counter and walks across the kitchen and out the back door.