by T. Lynn Wright

Created on: July 22, 2009

Home to Roost

Chicken shit flew off the sole of my new Stuart Weitzman sandals as I approached Mamaw's house. Social workers in rural Mississippi can't usually afford fancy shoes, but my husband Lawlor is a big-wig at the shipyard in Pascagoula, so I can look polished while I'm out do-gooding, as he puts it. The chickens trotted around the steps of what could subjectively be termed a house. It was a small square building with a tin roof. The poultry population seemed to have dwindled since my last visit, but I figured I'd hear it about over a glass of tea.

"Mamaw." I called as I stepped into the cluttered front room. Mamaw had every National Geographic that had been printed since 1959. I was sure there were any number of bugs not to mention mildew living in the pages, but Mamaw said it was almost sacrilege to throw a National Geographic away. She was quite serious about it. I remember my brother Wade getting a good whipping after he cut a photograph out of one of them for a sixth grade report. I dropped my bag next to the sofa and wandered into the tiny kitchen. Mamaw was pouring tea. She is one of the elders who truly understands the alchemy of real sweet tea. it's just the right amount of Tetley tea bag to a ratio of about twelve teaspoons of sugar per glass. "What happened to your hens, Mamaw/?"

"Well, they have sure taken quite a shine to that nice FEMA man." she drawled. "Two of them ended up roosting in the back of his truck." she smiled. FEMA is still coming out to Mamaw's because her house was damaged during Hurricane Katrina four years ago. She refused to live in one of their white trailers and while he seems frustrated by her resistance to government assistance, I think the earnest civil servant is secretly enchanted with Mamaw and her Southern cachet. Mamaw has a thin white braid over one shoulder and her blue eyes gleam with an almost reptilian intelligence. She insists on wearing my grandfather's old long-sleeved uniform shirts from the gas company. "I'm glad you come by, LeeAnn." she sat down across from me. She was unusually nervous. "I need your help."

"What kind of help?" I asked warily. Mamaw was tracing the scratches in the table with her nails.

"Well, I'm trying to help a young'un, and she's in some trouble." Mamaw hedged.

"Mamaw." I sighed.

"It's that little girl from over on Caney Street." Mamaw whispered. "She's pregnant."

"Mamaw." I sighed again. "It is 2008." "Pregnancy doesn't have to be whispered about."

"It does if the daddy is, well, your daddy." she sipped her tea.

"You mean her daddy." I shook my head tragically. I was jaded when it came to incest.

"No, LeeAnn. Your daddy, Herman, has been Biblical with a minor." Mamaw sat back.

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