I went to bed, but Mother didn’t because her shouting had awakened Jarrell, and it was some time before he quieted down. As far as I know, Rush slept through everything. Sleep came to me, an on-the-surface slumber. Though it was really late, I thought I heard the phone—a short ring. Maybe the creak of the front door. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t care. I’d tried to save Mother and failed.

            Reverend Stephen Fisher was gone by the next afternoon, after a huge dinner on the church lawn. Grandma and the boys went, but Mother and I stayed home. Mother had caught a cold from the previous night and maybe a touch of flu because she complained that her body was sore. I stayed in my room, trying to block out that night. 

            The next weeks passed in a haze. Grandma Lizzie was always at our house, but it wasn’t to babysit. She spent most of her time trying to get Mother out of bed and couldn’t do it. Mother was drinking and making no secret of it. She didn’t keep her liquor in the kitchen, but her bedroom: a glass and a bottle, usually empty, on her nightstand. The other bottles placed neatly under her bed like shoes. When people came to visit, Grandma Lizzie kept them at the door, told them what a strain the revival had been on Carmen, especially since Samy was gone. That was the first excuse, but as the days wore on, she’d say Carmen had some kind of low-grade flu—but nothing to worry about, no need to see a doctor. With enough rest, she’d be back on her feet soon. She assured each caller she was making lots of homemade chicken soup, not the stuff you get out of cans.

            The chicken soup line struck a funny chord in me. The first time I heard it, I laughed out loud, but Grandma gave me a dirty look then turned back to the door, and I never laughed at that explanation again. I asked her why she kept talking about chicken soup.

            “Because it isn’t true,” she said bluntly. “I’m lucky if I can get Carmen to drink coffee.”

            My mother’s funny breath suddenly took on wider dimensions for me. If I could smell it, that meant other people could smell it, too. “You think people know?”

            “Yes, but the boys don’t. They really do think she has the flu, and, Lorraine, don’t you dare tell them.” I promised. I didn’t tell them, but Grandma was wrong. They both knew, Jarrell more than Rush.

            “All those bottles,” Grandma continued, looking out the window. “People talk, even the garbage men. There’s no privacy in this town.” Grandma cocked her head, thinking, as if there were still a way out. “Why doesn’t she just wait until dark and bury them in the back yard.”