Free Tiny Dancer by Patricia Hickman Page B

everything in the papers,” said Reverend Theo, finishing up the guitar and picking out a tune, his fingers moving so quickly I realized he was not kidding about his musicianship.
    “Reverend,” said Dorothea as if she were the brakes on his runaway tongue.
    Reverend Theo closed his eyes and disappeared into the tune he was playing. Dorothea picked up the pitcher of tea. “I’ll refill this, Theo. Needs more ice. Flannery, you can come with me.”
    I followed her inside. The whole house had filled with the smell of whatever simmered on the cook stove. Three large bowls were set out on the countertop.
    “You cook for a lot of people , I noticed,” I said.
    “I do at that. Today I’ve got so much bread to get rising and only two hands. My daughter-in-law Ratonda is coming later, but with my granddaughters underfoot, it’s best I get my bread dough making at least out of the way. Don’t mind me if I work while we talk.”
    “I don’t know much about bread making,” I said, trying not to act overly interested. “But I can do w hatever is explained to me.”
    Dorothea looked skeptical. She glanced in the general direction of Periwinkle House.
    “My stepmother won’t care,” I explained casually, knowing I told a big fat lie. But I was simply feeling out the terrain. The only way to discover Siobhan’s other life, if indeed one existed, was to offer a helping hand in Dorothea’s kitchen. I followed Dorothea and hefted the flour sack from the pantry standing open. She saw me standing with arms around the flour sack. Finally, she acquiesced and let me stay and help out. She told me exactly what to do and I worked beside her, my hands in one of the big pottery bowls, her hands measuring out the bread flour.
    “Most people knead the bread or use all kinds of fancy gizmos like dough hooks, but that ruins the recipe,” said Dorothea, demonstrating how to moisten the dough using a fork. She put the fork into my hands. “You stir in your flour with a fork, see if it don’t make the prettiest, softest rolls you ever tasted.” She watched me following her instructions in sequence saying, “Yes, yes. Good.”
    I formed a large dough ball. Then I laid a red and white terry cloth towel over the top and put the bowl aside not far from Dorothea’s big double ovens where the mixture would rise for pinching out later, she said.
    The two of us had no sooner washed and dried our hands and cleaned off the tiled surfaces than the high-pitched squeals of Dorothea’s granddaughters Charlotte and Diana filled up the living room.
    “Calm down!” snapped Ratonda, their mother, striding in behind them. “Good grief, you wild animals could raise the dead. Hello, Mama Miller,” she said, kissing Dorothea’s cheek and smelling the fresh dough in approval. I was strangely jealous of the affection passing between them.
    I recognized her right away. She was the woman who had come up on our front porch bearing a casserole the week of the funeral. I mustered the words to say, “I never thanked you properly for dropping by with dinner. It was so thoughtful.” I spoke gingerly, not letting my words get away like usual when I was nervous. In my mind, I was putting her at ease from our shared embarrassment, or so I thought. For the morning Ratonda showed up with a casserole, Vesta had turned her away, saying the refrigerator was filled already. I put the embarrassing memory out of mind.
    Ratonda stopped in her stride while chasing Diana away from the stove. “Have we met?”
    Dorothea smiled approvingly at me. “She’s the Curry’s daughter. You know, I sent you over with my squash casserole,” she said as if expecting Ratonda to know right off who I was. Dorothea was too polite to bring up the grief and all the sensitive matters. But I detected a flicker of what I deemed sorrow in her eyes.
    From the way Ratonda’s soft brown eyes cooled I could tell she remembered more than she was admitting. “Oh, them.” Then she minced back