Chapter 21: Mrs. Quill

My mother had been in the crew house for twenty minutes, and she had already reorganized the kitchen.

The cooler on the counter held three casseroles, two loaves of her cornbread and a jar of pickles.

She had put on the kettle, found the dog's bowl and told the producer he should be ashamed of the state of his oven.

"It's a very good oven," the producer said, from the doorway.

"It's a very dirty oven, and you're a very nice man."

He retreated to the living room with his hands up.

Sunna stood at the counter with her arms folded, watching my mother with great attention.

"Mrs. Quill," she said. "Would you like me to show you the guest room?"

"In a minute, honey. First I want to look at you."

My mother put down her oven mitt, crossed the kitchen and took Sunna's chin in her fingers.

She turned Sunna's face to the window light and looked at it.

"You're the one who drives the van," she said.

"Yes."

"You're the one who made him eat toast."

"He eats toast because I stand over him," Sunna said. "He is not a man who feeds himself."

"No, he isn't. I tried for twenty-eight years."

They looked at each other.

Then my mother laughed, loud and surprised, and Sunna's mouth did the little twitch that meant she was laughing too.

"Oh, I like her," my mother said to me, in front of Sunna.

"Mom."

"Don't Mom me. Get my suitcase."

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