Sycamore Row - John Grisham

and her husband rarely made things better.
The kids were still on the 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. Their
daughters 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