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the way she carried herself. I just knew she was the kind of person who drank tea with her pinkie sticking out. And even though she was at least six inches shorter than I was, she didn’t act short. Her personality was ten feet tall.
    â€œAnd I do seem to recall there being certain restrictions on the kinds of language one uses in speaking to one’s elders, when I was your age. Have those, too, fallen by the wayside?”
    This lady spoke like the books I read sometimes, in my quieter moods; she was like a character in one of them. Something about her made me calm down right away, and I began to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: embarrassment.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I said. “They haven’t.”
    â€œI am so relieved to hear it,” said the tweedy lady. “You must be Haley. I met your mother yesterday.”
    â€œYou’re—you’re the lady who brought Brother back home?”
    â€œYes, my dear,” she said, smiling for the first time. She stepped forward and held out a hand. “My name is Elizabeth Powell, and I’ve been away for a long time, but I’m home to stay. I do apologize for startling you. I thought you’d hear me come in. And may I say what a great pleasure it is to meet you?”
    We shook hands, me making sure first that mine was clean. She was that kind of lady—so well pressed I felt dirty just looking at her, and it didn’t help that my hind end was covered in horse shit.
    â€œPut ’er there,” I said. “Flash Jackson’s the name. Most folks just call me Haley, though.”
    â€œThen that’s what I shall do, if it’s all the same to you,” said Elizabeth Powell. “By coincidence, I knew a fellow named Flash many years ago. He was an excellent runner. I’m afraid speaking his name aloud brings up painful memories.”
    â€œWhy? What happened to him?” I asked.
    â€œHe was shot dead by the East Germans,” said Elizabeth Powell.
    Well, that was about the last thing I’d been expecting to hear. I must have looked like a fish, standing there with my mouth opening and closing while I tried to think of something to say, but she saved me the trouble.
    â€œYou are a sight. It’s my fault, too,” she said. “I’m afraid you look as though you’ve been fertilized , my dear. Shall we take you up to the house and clean you?”
    â€œYes indeed, we sure shall,” I said.
    I had only known Miz Powell for two minutes, you see, but already she was rubbing off on me.

2
The Man Who Wanted to Help People
    M iz Powell turned out to be the sister of another neighbor of ours, a neighbor I haven’t mentioned yet because she kicked the bucket about a year ago—that was old Emma Powell. Until recently I never even knew Emma’s last name, though I knew her all my life. We just called her Emma. That was unusual, considering how big folks around here are on Mister and Missus and other terms of respect-for-your-elders. Emma was kind of a recluse. Although she’d lived just up the road, I only met her a handful of times. Mother was always sending me up there with a few ears of corn or some raspberries from the garden, or whatever else we had too much of. Usually I just rang the bell and left them on her porch, because I’d learned from experience that Emma didn’t like to answer the door. I shoveled her out a few times in the winter, too, but I never stuck around to ask her for any money—you didn’t do that with neighbors, and besides I knew she probably didn’t have any money to speak of. Nobody around here does. It’s what you might call a depressed economy.
    There hasn’t been any money in farming for a very long time, as anyone can tell you who’s tried it, unless you happen to be a big farmer with hundreds of acres—and then you usually rely on government subsidies to get you through the rough spots. We