Louisiana Bigshot

girl.”
    “A girl. I remember that; it was a girl. I baptized her.”
    “What?”
    “I didn’t tell you everything when you were here before. I couldn’t—you know that. But I baptized that girl, and if she is alive today, she is your sister.”
    “Why wouldn’t she be alive?”
    “There is sadness in the world, Sandra. You know that too.”
    “But do you
know
anything?”
    “I do not.”
    “Well, then. All right. I thank you for setting me straight. I’m going to look for her and find her. What was her name? Do you recall?”
    He shook his head sadly, and Talba saw that he had already searched his memory. “I am sorry to say that I do not.”
    The next question was the one she had come to ask. “The mother’s, then—my father never married her, did he?”
    “I don’t believe he did, no. But I do not recall her name.” Talba exhaled, disappointed.
    “All I can be sure of is that it was not Wallis—therefore the baby’s probably was not, either.”
    “There must be baptismal records.”
    “Perhaps.” He looked vague and a bit doubtful. “You must ask Miz Blanchard about that.” Lura Blanchard, who’d been church secretary in his day.
    She asked for Miz Blanchard’s address.
    When she left, she gave the reverend a tight hug that must have surprised him—she was sure it embarrassed him. She hadn’t lied when she told him he was one of her heroes. She’d always been depressed by those who said people couldn’t change. What was the point of living if you couldn’t change? Nobody she’d ever met in her life had changed as thoroughly as Clarence Scruggs, who had metamorphosed from a fire-breathing demon into what he’d then believed he already was—a true spiritual being.
    It made Talba love him. Though she’d seen him only three times in her adult life, she loved him. The sight of him just about made her cry.
He’s good enough,
she thought.
So I got a shitty father. This can be his replacement.
She made a vow to bring him something to eat once a week from now on, and knew she wouldn’t, which made her ashamed.
    It was hard seeing old people; sick people. They made you feel bad about yourself. She wondered about people who worked as care-givers—how they did it, what they were really like. Whatever they were like, they were different from Talba, but if she had a baby sister, she could at least treat her like family—even if it harelipped Miz Clara. Which it was bound to.
    She hated the thought of calling on Lura Blanchard, who was much older than the Reverend and probably just as saintly, and who’d probably also depress her with the vague sense that she ought to be doing more for people, with guilt about her own youth and vitality.
    The minute she saw Miz Lura, though, she realized she’d forgotten something about her—that she was the sort of old lady who’d probably bury all her friends. That kind didn’t need to be cooked for.
    Indeed, she was outside watering her yard, trying to keep the few surviving flowers alive in the late September heat.
    She was a shrunken old lady who managed a certain elegance, having hair straight enough to wear long, in a bob that came to her earlobes, and the energy to dress up every chance she got. At the moment, she looked as if she’d just come back from something—taking food to old people, probably. She was wearing a polka-dot voile dress that would probably sell in a vintage store for decent money but that maintained its original freshness.
    Talba had plenty of vitality for a twenty-something, but Miz Lura probably had more.
    She squinted at Talba. “Who’re you, child? I know ya, but these cataracts gettin’ to me.”
    “I’m Talba Wallis, ma’am. My mama calls me Sandra.” The old woman turned off her hose and stepped forward to the sidewalk. “Oh, law. Sandra Wallis. Ya ever find the Reverend Scruggs that time?”
    Nothing wrong with the woman’s memory, either. Several months ago, she’d rifled the church records to find the former minister’s address.
    “I did. Have you seen him lately? His wife’s about to die.”
    “Ella? I’m sorry to hear that. I always liked Ella. I better take ’em over some food.”
    “I’m sure they’d appreciate that,” Talba said, wondering if this meant she was off the hook and figuring it probably didn’t. “He sent me back to see you.”
    “Oh?” Miz Lura might have cataracts, but her eyes were hawklike.
    “He says he baptized my baby sister—the girl my daddy had