Three years after the murder, my father invited a lady to dinner. Although he knew little about cooking, and even less about fancy cooking, it was evident that this was someone he wished to impress. My brother and I had never eaten shrimp before, but dad  made a trip to the local provision company and brought home two dozen raw shrimp. He bought a six-pack of beer–more expensive than what he had ever purchased before, bread from the local bakery, and lastly, a trip to the grocery where he bought not only cheese and crackers, but enough greenery for a splendid salad, a whole chicken, baking potatoes and sauce for the shrimp.

       Serendipitously, dessert had been provided quite unexpectedly by Eddie Morrison’s wife Izzy–undoubtedly with the hope that Pat might share it with her, some night when Eddie was laboring at his night-shift job.  I was over nine now, and Teddy had become a strapping fourteen-year old. We were both pressed into service and among the three of us, we managed to complete the cooking, and cleaned up the kitchen in a fairly proper fashion.

       Inspecting his ears and neck, daddy admonished Teddy once again: “Teddy–march yourself back to the bathroom and this time, use soap and water, and if my next inspection doesn’t prove you’ve done so, I’ll come in and scrub for you! And Sunshine, for God’s sake, put on a clean dress. The one you’re wearing is spotted with everything we’re having for dinner,” he complained, while picking a piece of shrimp shell from my hair.

       After mother’s death, not too much attention had been paid to my  appearance.  My clothing consisted mainly of hand-me-downs from sympathetic neighbors, or a gift from Mike, who was now the manager of the Ladies Fashion Salon, at Pitts Department Store; however, two years ago, my father began bringing me an occasional package which contained a simple dress or two, and ordinary underwear which he himself had purchased at Pitts.

       In the afternoon, the weather turned windy and the sky was inky with dark and angry clouds. Forever after, when I saw raw shrimp in their shells of grey and black, I would be reminded of that day, and never again would I enjoy sitting on a porch of a summer evening watching heat lightning in the distance, nor hear the rumble of thunder without reliving the moment she came into our lives.

       Teddy and I peered out an upstairs’ window in time to see our dad scramble from the driver’s seat, fairly falling over his own feet to make it around to the other side of the car to help ‘Jo’ (short for Josephine, we later learned.) from the car. Just as she emerged, the rain began in earnest. Under the protection of his umbrella, she minced her way up the front porch steps in a dainty pair of black patent leather, pointy-toed shoes, with the highest heels I’d ever seen, and even then, I noticed that this lady only came to my daddy’s chin. She shrieked at each flash of lightening, covered her ears with every clap of thunder, and squealed while grabbing his arm “honey, if you don’ hustle me in, ma ’do’ is gonna be completely rooint!”

       By the time they reached the front door, we had made our way downstairs and after hasty and nervous introductions, the adults settled themselves in the living room, while Teddy and I served the shrimp and crackers, and Teddy produced two bottles of beer. It occurred to me that perhaps the lady didn’t know my daddy’s name, for it was ‘honey’ this, and ‘sweetie’ that, and it became quite clear to us that this was not going to be a once in a lifetime visit!  Jo politely asked in a long, drawly sort of way to “faaetch me a tumblah for ma beeeah, honey.”  I remembered my mother’s collection of metal tumblers delivered by the milkman, each containing eight ounces of cottage cheese, and I promptly ran to “faaetch” one. I handed her the tumbler, Teddy poured her beer, and then we sat in a corner of the room and stared in silence.

       When Jo withdrew a cigarette from a gold cigarette case, which I mistook for a lady’s compact, my father stumbled over his feet to strike a match for her.  Now when my daddy smoked, he inhaled, exhaled, and coughed.  Jo inhaled long and hard, and when she exhaled, the smoke came out of her puckered mouth and nose at the same time, terminating with a perfect little smoke ring. Teddy and I were mesmerized by this spoiled lady who called our daddy ‘honey’.

       During dinner Jo picked a crumb from her lower lip, looked toward us and drawled, “ahd be ever so pleased if you’all’d call me ‘Miss Jo’. It sounds so nice and respectable to me, don’t you’all think so?”

       Teddy pushed the chicken around his plate while I looked at my daddy, who conveniently was distracted by swatting an invisible fly. We both murmured “Yes, Miss Jo.” Jo nodded smugly and gave Pat a little nod and a wink as if to say “there, I told you so!”

       She ate with dainty little bites (morsels, as she called them,) patted her dainty little lips after each morsel with her paper napkin, and commented “this was jes the sweetest dinnah ah think ahv evah been served, but if you don’ mind, I’ll pass on the cherry pie–watchin ma figgah, ya know.”

       After dinner, we all  ‘retired’ to the living room, where  once again we were hypnotized by her pyrotechnics, and then Jo mentioned that she “was mighty supraahsed” that you han’t got rid of a passel of Sally’s thangs.” I glanced at my daddy just in time to see him put his finger to his lips to shush her.

       By the time our father returned from delivering Jo to wherever it was that she was to be delivered, we were fast asleep. The following weekend, Jo once again came to dinner, and three months later,unbeknownst to Teddy and me, they were married on a Saturday afternoon by the same minister who had buried our mother. His secretary Myrtle was the only witness.

       Returning home with Jo later that evening, our dad  announced to us, “I have great news for you both–you can now call Miss Jo, ‘mama’, or ‘ma’am’ if you prefer because we hitched the knot this afternoon, and Jo is now going to be your new mother.”  I looked at Teddy, Teddy looked at me, and later, when we were alone, we discussed the situation. “What do we do now?” I asked, “I liked it when it was just the three of us.”

       “I don’t know about you, Sunny, but if I was a little older, I’d join the army–even army rations would be better than having her around. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know how to cook–unless it’s possum!” “Well, she’ll never be ‘mama’ to me,” I said sadly.

       With that, Miss Jo moved into our lives, and into our mama’s side of the bed.

       After we buried my mother, my brother and I were attended to by the neighbors while our dad was at work.  The couple next door was especially kind to us.  She was barren, and over the years, I suspect we had become her surrogate children.  They were regarded as the older folks of the neighborhood.  Mrs. Webster, Ida, who was sixty, spent most of her days quilting, knitting, working on her needlepoint, cooking for the relatives of the recently departed, and “doing God’s work”‘.  She evoked images of Mrs. Santa Claus, with her silver hair, immaculately done up in a bun, and her plump figure modestly covered with an abundance of long, full material gathered at the waist, with only the toes of her shoes peeking out the bottom.  Depending on the day, she smelled of rose, lavender or apple pie.

       Mr. Webster, Web, was sixty-five, and not all that well-liked.  He had been a railroad worker, and many years previously the switch on a railroad car had accidentally been thrown into reverse while he was standing on the tracks.  It resulted in the loss of his right big toe and part of the adjoining one.  After a few complications and set-backs, it was determined that he should be discharged with a reasonable pension, rather than creating a new position for him.

       His clothes closet sported an entire rack of nothing but long-sleeved, flannel shirts, in seven different shades of plaid, which he tucked into his well-worn overalls.  Lined up on the floor underneath the flannel shirts were many pairs of identical slippers, each in varying degrees of disrepair.  Ida saw to it that every Christmas he received a new pair of leather slippers.  He immediately cut a hole in the right slipper where his big toe would have gone–if he’d had one–“to give my  ‘toe-less’ foot  breathing room;” but also, I suspect to elicit sympathy from anyone who hadn’t heard his tale of toe woe.

       He wandered about the neighborhood, often showing up on a doorstop to pass the time of day with the women, who had already heard his stories again and again.  He loved to listen to, and spread gossip whenever it was convenient. If the women would see him coming, they’d get on their phone and pass the word that ‘Slipper-y Web’ was making his way down the street.  His gait was uneven because of his injury, but each day, he’d walk haltingly to the local grocery for Ida, clutching her daily grocery list, and hoping he’d run into a sympathetic ear.

       I had been cautioned more than once not to go into their house if  Mrs. Webster wasn’t there, but I didn’t need any encouragement from my folks after the time he curled his finger in my direction and motioned for me to come over, patting the bench where he was sitting. He smiled with the sun glinting little shards of brightness off his gold front tooth as he called: “Sunny, if you’ll leave that barking dog of yours at home, you can come over and  I’ll show you where my big toe used to be!”

       That pretty much tells it as far as the Websters are concerned, except that Ida pinned all the laundry on her clothesline every day but Sunday, promptly at nine o’clock in the morning.  Web tended to his vegetable garden and spent a good deal of time beneath the shade of their thriving green apple tree, sittin’ and whittlin’ in his slatted, paint-peeled wooden chair, watchin’ the world go by.  Which meant singularly–the neighborhood!

            *     *     *

       The day after my mother’s murder, when the police knocked on the Webster’s door,  no one answered.  Ida was in the basement running her noisy wringer washer, humming a tune, oblivious to any sound, and Web was at the grocery.  The policemen never bothered to return–after all, as they said to each other, “The Websters are above reproach.”