19
The old woman picked up one of the mended pieces.
She squinted at it through her spectacles, which were
perched on the end of her nose like a tiny wire bird. “I
could make stitches this fine once myself.” She sighed and
dropped the towel into the basket. “Back before the war,
when life was so different.”
Hattie kept silent and sewed faster. Miss Bradford
loved talking about her girlhood. But Hattie always got
a funny feeling in her stomach as the woman described
her plantation home, with its rolling fields of cotton and
dozens of slaves working from dawn until dark.
“There!” Hattie tightened the last stitch and broke
the thread with her even, white teeth. “Good as new, Miss
Bradford.” She stood up, feeling her backbone crackle.
The only thing she wanted was to go home. But there was
one more thing to do, something her mama insisted on.
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Bradford?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Miss Bradford always had
something extra for Hattie to do.
Hattie tried not to sigh out loud as she followed Miss
Bradford into the kitchen. After she drew two buckets of
