Annette’s husband, Corky, ran the mail boat to and from Sounder. They had two young sons, and Annette helped out often at school. Betty had talked to Annette dozens of times at beach picnics and dances at the post office, and Corky had stopped by to help Bill with this or that on the farm. Betty was still much more comfortable around men than women, and wasn’t quite sure how to lay the foundations for one of those intimate, girly friendships that Bobbie always had with all her friends. And Annette was the kind of petite, feminine woman who always made Betty feel tall and ungainly, all big feet and elbows and knees. But she and Annette had had some pleasant conversations, shared a joke or two. Betty remembered vividly the cool air, the sunlight hitting the tall grass in the field next to the post office, turning it gold. She remembered the flowered cotton dress Annette wore, lavender, with a dark green coat. She remembered feeling Annette’s eyes on her as she walked up the steps and feeling a sudden sense of shame, although she had no idea why.
