“He said it was expensive.”
“I know, but that couldn’t have been the reason since I’m willing to pay for it. No, I think the problem is that they don’t have a database—or whatever it is—to compare our specimen to others of the same kind. I mean, how would they collect—and keep—enough specimens to run a comparison? It would take an awful lot of refrigeration.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he started laughing. “Honey, let me tell you something. DNA is DNA wherever it comes from—scrapings from the mouth, blood, saliva, or wherever. They don’t need a database of the—well, let’s say of the specific material.”
“Oh,” I said, and as I thought about the intricacies of collecting and storing such material which that would have entailed, I, too, began to laugh. Mortified by my own density, I buried my face against his shoulder, and said, “Oh, my goodness, of course they wouldn’t have a storehouse. Oh, Sam, I don’t know why my mind runs away with me like that.”
“Oh, I know why it does,” he said as he shifted in bed to put an arm around me. “It’s to keep me entertained. And now my mind’s running the same way. Can’t you just see it? An officer brings in a suspect and tells him to empty his pockets and his bowels.”
And with that final bit of first-grade humor, we laughed together like children.
Chapter 34
Have you ever awakened early in the morning too tired to get up, yet unable to go back to sleep? That’s the way it was for me the next morning, so I lay there for a while, trying not to disturb Sam as I shifted from one side to the other.
I felt terrible, and that was the truth—as if a heavy weight were dragging me down, or maybe a thick, dark cloud were wrapped around me, and not even the thought of Clara’s new engagement could lift my spirits. I knew what it was—a nagging fear that I’d been in the wrong on several recent fronts. For instance:
Had I been wrong to hire an attorney, collect names on a petition, and engage Hazel Marie, Mildred, and Helen in an attempt to oust Madge Taylor and her merry band of do-gooders from the Cochran house?
Had I been wrong to collaborate with Mildred to foil Madge’s plans for a self-congratulatory–cum–fund-raising tea?
Had I been wrong to virtually accuse Helen of malfeasance or misfeasance or nonfeasance—whichever applied—to how she was conducting Thurlow’s affairs?
It was only in considering the last question that I squirmed with shame and regret—how could I have set myself up in judgment of a friend? How dared I to presume that Helen was running through Thurlow’s capital like Sherman through Georgia? I would’ve been stricken to the core if a friend had demanded an accounting of my actions, especially the financial ones.
As for the rest, I could let myself off the hook by claiming an honest difference of opinion on a perpetual sore spot—when, where, and how much to help the poor whom we are told we will always have with us. Especially where, as in the case of the Homes for Teens, that is, not next door to the Pickenses.
So, with a partially placated conscience, I slipped out of bed without waking Sam and went downstairs to start the coffee.
By the time Lillian came in, I was sitting at the table, still in my gown and robe, nursing a cup of Eight O’Clock coffee.
“What you doing up so early?” she demanded, stopping as soon as she stepped inside.
“Just woke up, but I could ask you the same thing. Why’re you here so early?”
She proceeded to the pantry to hang up her coat and put away her large pocketbook, talking as she went. “I can’t let Lloyd go off to school without a decent breakfast, an’ this his day to do that tutorin’ he do.”
“We could send him back to his mother’s and let James get up early,” I suggested with a smile.
“Huh, that James too lazy for that,” Lillian said as she tied on a large apron and started breakfast. “’Sides, Lloyd like peace and quiet early in the morning. He don’t get that with them two little girls runnin’ around. He tell me he need to get his mind set up right ’fore he tackles Freddie Pruitt an’ algebra. You want some more coffee ’fore I scramble the eggs?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” As Lloyd pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, I went on. “Here he is now. Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you slept well.”
“Yes’m,” he said, yawning, as he put his backpack on the floor and slid onto a chair at the table. “Just didn’t get enough of it.”
“How long will you be doing this? Getting up early, I mean, to tutor Freddie?”
“Till Christmas break, at least. I want to see how he does on his midterms, then we’ll see.” As Lillian put a plate of grits, eggs, and bacon before him, he smiled. “Oh, man, this looks good. Thanks, Miss Lillian.”
She patted his shoulder and said, “That boy lucky to have you helpin’ him.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, shrugging. “He just got behind because his mother’s sick or something. She’s in a hospital somewhere, so he’s staying with his aunt. I get the feeling that it’s a big, noisy family so it’s hard for him to study.”
“I got hot biscuits here,” Lillian announced. “They jus’ comin’ outta the oven.”
“Oh, good,” Lloyd said, quickly cleaning his plate and getting up from the table. “Miss Lillian, could you fix me a couple of bacon biscuits—maybe about four—to take with me?” He put on his heavy coat, then picked up his backpack to sling over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta go.”
“They already ready,” Lillian said as she handed him a
