Chapter 22: Her Mother

Dessa's POV

My mother got down off the hood of her Buick and looked Ford up and down from his shoes to his hair.

She is five foot one, and she has been cutting hair in Kannapolis for thirty-one years.

She has a way of looking at a head that decides what's wrong with it.

"You're the boat man," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"My daughter says you're quiet."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good," Mama said. "Because she's loud."

"Mama!"

"Well, you are." She pushed the casserole dish into Ford's hands.

"Chicken and rice. Don't drop it. It's the only thing I make that's any good."

Ford held the dish in both hands.

He looked at me over her head with his eyes wide.

I put my fist against my mouth.

"I read about you in the paper," Mama said. "A customer at the salon showed me. She thought I'd be upset."

"Were you?"

"I told her my daughter wrote the best sentence in the whole article."

She patted my cheek.

"'I paid for the lodge.' I cut it out."

I felt my eyes sting.

"Come inside," Ford said, gravely. "I have a kettle, and one chair."

"Then I'll take the chair," said Mama.

We sat in the tin building at Ford's bench, with the casserole between us and three forks.

Mama ate with her coat on.

She asked how long he had been building boats, and he said ten years.

She asked if that was a real job.

"It's a job," Ford said.

"Does it pay?"

"Not well."

"Good," said Mama. "A man ought to like what he does more than he likes what it pays."

"Mama, you married a tow-truck driver."

"I did, and I never regretted a night of it."

She put down her fork.

"You were a quiet baby, too," she said to me.