Miss Hazel and the Rosa Parks League. Jonathan Odell

Miss Pearl knew who Hazel really was. Hazel had seen it in the woman’s kindly eyes.

      “You can’t blame her, girls,” she said in the same sad whisper in which she’d spoken earlier about charity. “Now, put yourself in her place for a moment. Being poor and from the hills, you’re probably thankful to get a new spread for the bed. You can’t be terribly concerned if it goes with your curtains. Or if your curtains go with the rug on the floor. It’s only natural that Hazel missed out on the concept of ‘goes with.’ ” That brought on another burst of laughter.

      “I wasn’t trying to be humorous. Y’all are being too hard on her, now.” Miss Pearl was sounding flustered. “After all, she has learned to dress nicely. You saw that. Very tasteful. And she’s pretty. Maybe interior decorating is her next conquest. Give her time.”

      The women stopped to consider Miss Pearl’s point for a moment and then sped right past it. Hertha said, “And that sassy colored girl she found. Sweet Pea. A real Saturday-night brawler. She might as well have been serving drinks in a barrel house.” Miss Hertha lowered her voice. “Billy Dean has that girl in jail more times than I can say. Why, every time I see my husband, he’s got her in the back of his cruiser. For soliciting, you know.”

      There was a chorus of clucks and gasps.

      “And speaking of soliciting,” Miss Hertha said, “Hazel seems to have her own route. Have y’all seen her peddling Lincolns for her husband up and down Gallatin? And with those poor children in tow. A sorry spectacle. What will become of them with a mother such as that?”

      “Really!” Miss Pearl said. “That’s uncalled-for. You are being much too hard on that poor woman.”

      By the time Floyd came home, Hazel had stopped her crying and pulled herself together. When he asked how things had gone, she didn’t answer. She went to the sink and began scrubbing a clean pot.

      “Do you think they’ll invite you to join their club?” he asked. “That sure would be good for business.”

      “Well, I’m not sure,” she said with her eyes closed, keeping her back to him. “I don’t think they have any openings.”

      She dried her hands on her apron. “And besides, I might not be their kind of people, Floyd.” Hazel’s breathing was labored, and she began to feel a little wobbly. It was another one of those sinking spells she had been having lately. She leaned against the counter for a moment and then turned to look at her husband, hoping he might reach out and steady her. That would feel real nice about now.

      “Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve got to stop thinking that way. If you want something bad enough, you can have it. Ain’t I proved that to you? Quit dwelling on the negative. Some right thinking would do you wonders,” he said.

      Hazel looked up at the man who stood before her. Sure and certain. She really did wish she could think like him, as clear and positive as the slogans he was always spouting. “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” “Can’t never could.” “Failures find excuses and controlled thinkers find a way.” To him it was all a matter of knowing where you want to go, setting your jaw, and moving on in a straight line, without any time-wasting detours. To Floyd, life ought to be the straightest road between birth and death.

      But Hazel felt she was living her life in an ever-widening curve, blind at both ends. Not only had she lost sight of where she had come from, she could no longer see where Floyd was taking her. Back in the hills she had had hope. At least she thought it was hope, that vague whispering in her ear that there was something grand up ahead. The whiskey in her daddy’s jug always confirmed it when she had any doubts.

      Floyd kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Your attitude determines your altitude,” he said. Then he fixed a plate of Vienna sausages and pineapple ham and took it with him into his den to read the news. A moment later she heard him call out, “I think that colored girl made off with my paper!”

      Hazel reached for the Jim Beam bottle in the shape of a pheasant and poured a small bit into her special tumbler. After returning an equivalent amount of tap water to the decanter and grabbing a couple of peppermints from the drawer, she went out to the back porch.

      As the shadows lengthened across the yard, she watched two fat mourning doves wobble like a drunken couple under a nearby oak. It was obvious they belonged together. Staggering around in no particular hurry to get anywhere, not caring one bit if they were traveling in a straight line or not. She envied them their tipsy little dance full of stops and starts and unbalanced strides, and how, in all their separate, uncoordinated motions, they remained together.

      The doves lifted in flight, breaking her reverie. Davie came toddling around the corner of the house, with Johnny screaming after him.

      “Get that rock out of your mouth, Davie. You gonna swallow it and die!”

      Should I do something? she wondered. No, Johnny could handle it. Barely five years old and he could do it better than me.

      Down below, at the foot of the stairs, Johnny caught up with Davie and grabbed him by the shoulders. Johnny shook Davie firmly, yelling for him to spit. Instead, Davie swallowed hard, then grinned. Did he swallow the rock? Seeing the look of panic on Johnny’s face, Hazel almost cried out.

      Before she could utter a sound, Davie, with his face beaming, opened his hand to reveal the rock. He began to laugh. He had fooled his brother, and he was proud of it. Hazel smiled.

      Instead of being relieved, Johnny’s face darkened. He reared back and slapped his brother. Hazel could hear the sharp whack from where she sat on the porch, stunned.

      She opened her mouth to call out, and again she was checked, this time by the look on Davie’s face. It was one of pure bewilderment, as if he were still trying to connect the sting of the slap with any action on his brother’s part.

      Both boys appeared to have suspended their breathing. It was like they were waiting for the weight of what had just occurred to settle, so they would know how it had changed their world.

      From Davie’s confused expression, it was obvious that this was the first time his brother had ever hit him. As the younger boy’s eyes brimmed with tears, Hazel could see that reality was slowly setting in. Something inside Davie was beginning to break. She felt it was perhaps a thing so fragile that when it did break, it would crumble into pieces as fine as powder.

      She knew she should hurry down the steps and comfort Davie. To hold him. To tell him his brother hadn’t meant it. Tell him it wasn’t important. Lie to him. Anything to keep the pieces together for a little while longer. Yet still she sat there, her limbs heavy, because she knew the truth. Things do break, and there’s nothing a person can do about it.

      Davie began to sniffle, and Johnny looked on worriedly, as if he were considering a favorite toy he had thrown in a fit of anger, frantically hoping it would fix itself and go back to the way it was before.

      It was Johnny she pitied now. She knew he would never be able to take it back. That some things never could be put like they were before. That you can disappoint people and they really do lose faith in you and there is not a damned thing in the world you could do about it. Before she could decide which one was in need of comforting the most, Johnny did a strange thing. Still with an expression of fear tinged with sorrow, he pushed Davie squarely on the shoulder.

      Davie dried his tears. “Stobbit, bubba,” he whined, covering an eye with the back of his hand.

      Johnny shoved him again, a little harder this time. “Stobbit!” Davie yelled, angry now.

      Johnny shoved Davie harder still. This time Davie pushed back.

      Clumsily and purposely, Johnny fell to the ground and his brother climbed on top of him and began flailing away with his tiny fists. Johnny let his brother hit him again and again, on the chest, in the face, refusing to make the slightest gesture to defend himself.