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Ernetta had never slept in such a tall bed as the one at Tom McLeesh's house. To get out of it, you had to point your toes at the floor and then slide forward carefully, holding onto one of the big mahogany posts until your feet touched the floor. There were other antiques in the room: a dressing table and a Japanese screen that reminded her of fancy things she'd seen at her uncle's house when she was just a girl. No house of her own had ever been fancy: not the one she'd grown up in (twelve miles south of the Florida line), nor the one she'd moved into with Arvin after their wedding, nor the current one, a single–wide trailer with furniture built right into the walls.

She felt much too shabby for this beautiful bedroom and beautiful bed, and Tom agreed with her, at least in his heart. When he'd called to place her at the Y, a recorded message said that the building was closed for Internet wiring. He started to call a homeless shelter, but stopped before dialing: it would be so very easy to lose track of Stannie's real mother if he simply sloughed her off to the streets. No: this kind of thing took personal commitment and personal sacrifice. Whatever his own discomfort at bringing a dirty, ignorant person into his home, the thrill of seeing Stannie Colfax humiliated would more than reward it. And with that idea in mind, Tom called his wife Bobbi at her law firm and told her he had a nice, elderly homeless woman to bring home for a few nights.

Bobbi listened and then said in a very thoughtful voice, "Well, I've been meaning to do something like this for a long time and I suppose there's no time like the present. It'll be good for the girls."

So Tom drove Ernetta home, smiling to himself, and asking her questions on the way that only a journalist could feel comfortable asking.

"Ernetta, what exactly makes you think you're Stannie's real mother?"

"Well, he says he's adopted, and he's got webbed toes. And I had a baby with webbed toes, and I give it up for adoption."

"Are you married?"

She hesitated for a second. "Yes."

"Will your husband want to meet Stannie, too?"

"No."

"Are you divorced?"

"No."

"When you found out you were pregnant, were you … was that your first marriage?"

"I weren't married to him yet. We got married right after."

"Right after what?"

"Right after. This seatbelt sure is confusing—I got it wrapped all around my neck here."

Ernetta ignored the rest of his questions. It came natural to her to say few words—just to grunt in a way that might mean yes or no to any of people's wheedling, prying questions about her former life. She kept her eyes on the dark view outside, on the vast rows of buildings and parking lots laid down on this wide road that seemed to go on forever, but her mind was on Stannie and the awful things he might say to her when she found him. Sometimes in her dreams she had a picture of him cursing her. In the Bible it said "And her children will rise up to bless her," but Ernetta always envisioned Arvin's son pointing his finger right at her womb and saying, "A curse upon you woman; you'd have spilled my innocent blood upon the ground if there hadn't been a prophet sent to set me free."

Tom realized she wasn't answering any longer and stopped asking questions. But in his mind he created his own version of Stannie's origins—hustler meets country girl in small Southern town … she's sexually frustrated and desperate to escape grinding poverty … he gets her pregnant … she runs away to have the baby, gives it up for adoption … now she's learned her kid's grown up to be sort of famous and she's back to share some of his good fortune. Ernetta looked to him like a product of some trailer park down in the sticks; he couldn't tell how old she was: she could be any age between fifty and sixty–five. She smelled like mothballs and old potato chips and her face was sprinkled with tiny black moles—probably melanoma spots. Maybe Bobbi could take her to the dermatologist as an act of charity, but not until after she'd met Stannie.

By the time they pulled up in the driveway, it was 8:45. Tom pressed the garage door opener and then called Bobbi on his cell phone as he helped Ernetta undo her seatbelt. "We're home. We're in the garage. Yep, she's with me. Just wanted you to know that's my key in the door."

Bobbi met them in the doorway: she was a blonde, round–faced woman with trembling hands. Maybe she had a palsy condition, Ernetta thought, and felt sorry for her. Ernetta was too tired to be hungry anymore, but she agreed to eat a sandwich at the kitchen table. "Oh my goodness," she said, drinking the sweet tea Bobbi brought her. "That tastes so good on my parched throat. I ain't had much decent to eat or drink since last night."