[Section opener]
Birdie
Chapter 8
My sister’s house was very white and very wide and very tall. Six fat columns supported a deep
front porch with a dozen black rocking chairs on it. They seemed to be leaning back, arms out, as
if observing. For a long minute, they watched me watching them from dusty North Lamar
Boulevard. Theirs was the only lived-in structure for about a mile. Across the property stood tall,
well-placed oak trees, each with a fancy skirt of privet. The whole situation could easily be a first
cousin to the Tates’, which they’d recently lost. Only larger and whiter. A larger, whiter cousin,
on the even richer side of the family.
I dragged myself through an unlatched gate and up a brick path, past a carriage block
chiseled with the name Tartt. I was not looking or feeling my best, nor was their yard. A limb
had fallen in the azalea bushes that lined the front porch, I reckon from the storm that had just
blown through here. At the time, it’d seemed wise just to walk from the train depot instead of
spending twenty-five more cents on a taxicab ride. On the way, I’d gotten a glimpse of a big
town square and quite a few nice houses big as this one, several with automobiles parked out
front. After about ten minutes of walking, the paved road had turned to dirt and the houses had
grown smaller and then into empty fields, at which time it’d started to rain. Hard. I trudged up
my sister’s front steps, my good church dress stuck to my skin and my hair matted to my head.
(I’d saved my one good hat by tucking it in my bag.) While I was eager to see my sister, I was
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