standing at the bottom of my porch steps in her housecoat and rubber boots, holding a flashlight and a plate covered in foil.
Pearl has lived next door since 1989. She’s eighty-four, about five feet tall, and has opinions about everything, including the weather, the governor, and the correct way to boil shrimp. When Nile died, she didn’t send flowers. She came over with a bucket and a mop and cleaned my whole kitchen without saying a word.
“Pound cake,” she said, holding up the plate. “I figured you’d need
