Sycamore Row - John Grisham

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 off.”
“How much he pay you?”
“Now Momma.” Lettie had never told anyone in her family that Mr. Hubbard was
paying $5 an hour, and in cash. Such a wage was indeed on the high end for domestic
help in rural Mississippi, and Lettie knew better than to cause trouble. Her family might
want a little extra. Her friends might talk. “Keep secrets, Lettie,” Mr. Hubbard had told
her. “Never talk about your money.” Simeon, sorry as he was, would lose all motivation
to bring home anything. His earnings were as erratic as his presence, and he needed no
prompting to earn even less.
Lettie said, “I heard them refer to me as a servant.”
“A servant? Ain’t heard that in a long time.”
“They’re not nice people, Momma. I doubt if Mr. Hubbard was a good father, but his
kids are sorry.”
“And now they get all his money.”
“I suppose. They’re sure countin’ on it.”
“How much he got?”
Lettie shook her head and took a sip of cold coffee. “I have no idea. Not sure anybody
does.”