Sycamore Row

school bus somewhere, headed home. Lettie entered through the kitchen and placed the cake on the table. As always, she found Cypress in the den, watching television for the umpteenth hour in a row.
    Cypress smiled and stretched her arms upward. “My baby,” she said. “How was your day?”
    Lettie leaned down and gave her a polite hug. “Pretty busy. How was yours?”
    “Just me and the shows,” Cypress replied. “How are the Hubbards dealin’ with their loss, Lettie? Please sit down and talk to me.”
    Lettie turned off the television, sat on the stool next to her mother’s wheelchair, and talked about her day. Not a dull moment as Herschel and the Dafoes arrived and walked through their childhood home, with their father gone for the first time. Then the traffic, the neighbors and food and the endless parade. Quite an exciting day altogether, as Lettie spun things, careful to avoid any hint of trouble. Cypress’s blood pressure was barely held in check by a collection of medications, and it could spike at the slightest hint of trouble. At some point, and soon, Lettie would gently break the news that she was losing her job, but not now. There would be a better time later.
    “And the funeral?” Cypress asked, stroking her daughter’s arm. Lettie gave the details, said she planned to attend, and relished the fact that Mr. Hubbard insisted that blacks be allowed inside the church.
    “Probably make you sit on the back row,” Cypress said with a grin.
    “Probably so. But I’ll be there.”
    “Wish I could go with you.”
    “So do I.” Because of her weight and lack of mobility, Cypress rarely left the house. She’d been living there for five years, and gaining weight and becoming less mobile by the month. Simeon stayed away for many reasons, not the least of which was Lettie’s mother.
    Lettie said, “Mrs. Dafoe sent us a cake. Would you like a small piece?”
    “What kind?” Though she weighed a ton, Cypress could be a picky eater.
    “Well, it’s a pineapple something or other, not sure I’ve seen it before, but it might be worth a try. Would you like some coffee with it?”
    “Yes, and just a small piece.”
    “Let’s sit out back, Momma, and get some fresh air.”
    “I’d like that.” The wheelchair could barely squeeze between the sofa and the television, and it fit tightly in the narrow hallway into the kitchen. It rubbed alongside the table, inched through the rear door, and with Lettie pushing gently it rolled onto the sagging wooden deck Simeon had thrown together years earlier.
    When the weather was nice, Lettie liked a late afternoon coffee or iced tea outside, away from the noise and stuffiness of the cramped house. There were too many people for a small house with only three tiny bedrooms. Cypress had one. Lettie and Simeon—whenever he was home—shared another, usually with a grandchild or two. Theirdaughters somehow survived shoulder to shoulder in the third bedroom. Clarice, age sixteen, was in high school and had no children. Phedra, age twenty-one, had a kindergartner, a first grader, and no husband. Their younger son, Kirk, fourteen, slept on the sofa in the den. It was not at all uncommon for nieces and nephews to stay a few months while their parents sorted things out.
    Cypress took a sip of instant coffee and picked at the cake with a fork. Slowly, she took a bite, and chewed and frowned. Lettie didn’t like it either, so they drank their coffee and talked about the Hubbard family and how confused it was. They poked fun at white folks and their funerals, and how they got in such a hurry to bury their dead, often within two or three days of death. Black folks took their time.
    “You seem distant, honey, what’s on your mind?” Cypress asked softly.
    The kids would be home shortly from school, then Phedra from work. This would be the last quiet moment until bedtime. Lettie took a deep breath and said, “I heard them talkin’, Momma, and they’re gonna let me go. Probably this week, not long after the funeral.”
    Cypress shook her large round head and looked ready to cry. “But why?”
    “No need for a housekeeper, I guess. They’ll sell the house because neither of them wants it.”
    “Heavens.”
    “They can’t wait to get their hands on his money. They never had time to come see him, but now they’re circlin’ like buzzards.”
    “White people. Do it ever’ time.”
    “They think he paid me too much, so they’re in a hurry to cut me