There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me ... [+]
They stood at the end of the tobacco row, just beyond where the north end of the field met the woods. They stood in the shadows, perfectly still, watching only her. They reminded her of deer: thin, tense, alert – ready to disappear at the first sign of a threat without a rustle or the snap of a stick, as if God never created sound. They were two women and a man. They called out to her only with their eyes. It was an invitation to life. Or death. May pretended not to see them. She continued to sucker the tobacco plants, breaking the sucker off close to where the leaf met the stem. She peeled