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“Yeah?” Giuseppe tightens the reins. “Are we driving by the church?”

“I’ll take one to their home. There’s no road out there. I’ll walk.”

“Cirone, you go, too,” says Giuseppe.

“I can carry a melon myself.”

“You can carry two if there are two of you,” says Giuseppe. “And take them those nasty orange things.”

“No, I want sweet potato pies,” I say.

“Carlo doesn’t know how to make sweet potato pies.”

“I’ll make them.”

“You?” Giuseppe shrugs.

And so Giuseppe drives across South Street and lets us off near the bayou. Cirone and I walk the grassy path to Patricia’s house with the melons.

“You know, I can carry two melons myself,” I say.

“No, you can’t,” says Cirone.

“Yes, I can.”

“If Charles is there, I’ll talk to him. If not, I’ll just leave the melon and go. You can talk to Patricia alone.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Ha!”

We walk in silence.

“Did she like the bowl?” asks Cirone.

“Yes.”

“I knew she would.”

Finally, we get there. I go up on the porch and knock my elbow on the open door.

A woman stands by a pot-bellied stove, where an iron’s heating up on top. Long face, long arms, long fingers. A pile of ironed and folded laundry sits on the foot of a bed. There’s a sewing machine in the corner. She looks up at us and fear crumples her forehead. She rushes to the door. Cirone and I step back as she comes out on the porch. She looks around, then back at us. “Y’all alone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She blinks. “Anybody see y’all come up here?”

“Ain’t nobody to see us,” says Cirone. “Ma’am.” The houses out here are scattered through the trees. You can’t see more than one at a time except in winter.

She wipes the sweat from her brow. “Well, come on in quick.” She gives a small smile as we pass by, and closes the door behind us. She walks over and picks up the iron, spatters water on a shirt on the table, and sets that iron down on it with a hiss. She irons the shirt, folds it, and puts it on the pile. “Boys?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr. Blander—you know who he is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A smart man, Mr. Blander. He warned my sister. Said it ain’t a good idea for you to come visiting here. At our house.”

How did Blander guess we’d come here? Maybe the whole town’s guessing about us. “We got watermelons.”

“I can see that.”

“We’re delivering melons. Like we delivered them all over town.”

She smiles at us for real this time. “Blander ain’t the only smart one.” She’s sweating so much, her dress is all soppy at the neck. “Want to set them melons down? On the floor will be fine. Till I finish this ironing.” She irons a pillowcase and folds it. Then she takes a towel and wipes her face and neck. “What can I do for y’all?”

“Are you Patricia’s mother?” I ask, but her smile gave her away. And her eyes.

“Yes.”

“I’m Calogero.”

“I’m Cirone,” says Cirone.

“I figured. Nice to finally meet y’all. Thought I’d meet you at the graduation party.”

“It was a good party,” says Cirone.

“Thank you.”

“You’re good at ironing,” I say.

She laughs. “This is my sister’s job. She iron up at the Blander house. But she took to bed sick, so here I am. This way she don’t lose her job. But y’all don’t want to hear about that. I expect you came to see my onliest boy, Charles, and my onliest girl, Patricia. They ain’t here.”

“We’ll just leave these melons and go, then.”

“Much obliged. Please tell your family that.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Happy Fourth of July,” says Cirone.

“Same to you,” says Patricia’s mother. “Y’all going to the festivities tomorrow?”

“What festivities?” I ask.

She gives an odd smile. “Well, there’ll be some mighty big doings all over town, don’t y’all know that? Specially at our church. The picnic will start in the late afternoon, after it cool off a bit.” She blinks. “You know what? Your family ought to come. Brother Caleb will slaughter a hog. So if y’all come on over early, you two boys, I’ll fry you up some brains and eggs.”

I love brains. “What about what Blander said?”

“The church the Lord’s house. I reckon no one going to say who can and can’t come visiting