Next day, having been to see Miss Eulah and drunk the first of my nasty cure, I knew I had to do my duty for Tully’s sake and tried to make the best of it. As I whistled my way along the road into town, fingering the cat’s-eye, I recalled all the times I’d walked that route when Scottie owned the store.

Scottie was sweet on GrandNam and gave me candy whenever we went shopping or a’callin’, as GrandNam was like to call it. Turned out, though, Scottie was owed too much, on account of his heart let folks buy on credit when they had no money for his hand. That’s what Daddy said.

So Scottie lost the store, and Mary Grace Newcomb’s daddy took it over. I don’t believe folks cared much for him, as he never gave credit or candy and seemed sweet on no one, not even Mary Grace, that part of which I can frankly understand.

Nope, nothin’ was as good as it used to be.

I climbed the raised walkway that ran in front of the store and kept the mud from coming over the threshold whenever we had a storm that made the creeks run their banks. Worn smooth from so many customer feet over the years, I wasn’t likely to get a splinter, and the planks, dark in afternoon shade, felt cool against my feet after the unseasonable hot dust of the road.

I walked in and blinked into the half-light, looking around like a noontime owl. “Halloo? Halloo?” Wasn’t I about sounding like an owl too?

But no one seemed to be in the store, and since I didn’t have any money, I didn’t dawdle looking around. Having been there plenty when Scottie owned the place, I went around back, to where the Newcombs lived, behind and above the store.

Knock, knock. Nothing. I tried again.

“Come in,” I heard faintly. Didn’t sound like Mister Newcomb. “Is that you, Eleanor?”

I knew I was in the parlor, but the room was dark with night creeping into the corners, and I had to fix my eyes before I could make out a rocker by the cold fireplace.

Someone—or some thing—was in it.

If I were the fearful type, I reckon I would’ve thought it a spirit, she sitting there all pale and weird, dressed like in white frosting, rocking. I’m not scared of a thing, but that made me pucker up a bit.

Her gloved hands near her lap kept in motion all the time, like spring butterflies. “Eleanor?”

I stepped forward and swallowed. “No, ma’am. It’s Possum Porter? Lem Porter’s girl?” I figured this was Miz Newcomb, mother of Mary Grace and not one flea’s ear’s worth of what I expected. I could not take my eyes off her head, where a hat bloomed like wedding cake. Giant cabbage roses waved as I stepped closer. Finally, I tore my eyes away to look at her face. Her eyes were big as toadstools. “I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Were you just now fixin’ to go out? Because I can come back another … ”

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “I don’t go out.” She looked around the silent, dusty room, which was filled with too much furniture, all of it looking uncomfortable. Was this how Yankees lived? “They would never let me.”

A couple of faded petals floated off the hat and settled around the hem of her skirts. I looked again at the hat, which she patted. “You admirin’ my chapeau?” she asked.

I had no idea what a shapo was.

Miz Newcomb leaned in and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Roosevelt is coming to tea. But my hair, I never know what to do with it. Thank goodness for Paris fashion, n’est pass?”

I shifted my feet trying to think of something polite to say.

“Have you heard from Eleanor?” Miz Newcomb asked.

Going on gut, that toad hopping from my throat again, I spouted. “No, but did you know Miz Roosevelt was the teacher of our own teacher, Miss Arthington?”

“ ‘No one can know all there is to know in the world.’ ” Her eyes and voice drifted like dandelion seeds before she noticed me again. “I wish I had shiny hair like yours!”

I was pretty sure my hair had at least a few foxtail stickers wove into it.

Her hands resumed their fluttering, and it came to me what it was. They moved like she was shelling; only you couldn’t see peas, which seemed to be going into a bowl, only you couldn’t see that either. Shelling peas for ghosts.

I shifted my feet, and my ears felt fuzzy. I never been around many spirits or crazy folk, so I wasn’t sure how to act. I tried to remember if GrandNam had a rule for it, as she had a rule for most everything I ever knew plus a lot I hadn’t gotten to when God called her.

Then I remembered the business I’d come for.

I held out the snakeskin. “This is for Mary Grace.”

Miz Newcomb squinted confusion, then put back her polite face. “Aren’t you sweet? What is it?”

That’s when I thought maybe something had made her go simple. How else to explain not recognizing a rattleskin you’re looking right at?

“Won’t you stay? I’m sure Mrs. Roosevelt will be here shortly. Of course, it’s a busy time for her. Franklin, Governor Roosevelt, is going to be president, you know.”

Sure, I knew the election was coming November 8th. Teacher told us. I knew that Roosevelt fellow was governor of New York, where Teacher was from. I knew he wanted the three Rs—not “reading, ’riting, and ’rithmatic” but “relief, recovery, and reform.” And I knew folks were tired of Mister President Hoover saying all the time that the worst was over, when each day seemed darker than the one before. Why, even Daddy was known to read the newspapers whenever he had call to be near one.

What I did not know is why one lady sitting in a rocker in the dark thought the wife of the next president of the United States might waltz in anytime for a cup of tea. Nothing Mary Grace had ever said about her momma made me picture this.

Before the flesh on the back of my neck had finished pickling, I had dropped the skin into her lap, and was out the screen door rounding the porch when I ran smack-plumb into Mary Grace. I believe it was the first time neither of us could find our tongues. I recovered mine first. “I was just leaving.”

From inside the house came yelling. “Eleanor, thank you so much for bringing me such a sweet little gift. I shall name it Sunshine. I’ll be so happy to celebrate your husband’s election. You must bring him next time.”

Mary Grace sputtered, “I can explain, I … she’s … ” I remembered who’d gotten me into this. Much as I wanted to dunk Tully in swamp water, I had promised my best friend and been duly paid for my task.

“Brotchoosumpin,” I blurted. “From Tully.” Then I took off. I wanted to see Scary Face’s reaction but not as much as I wanted to be anywhere else.