I go outside to study the sky. Bitsy comes too.I recall how, on Saturdays during those post-fire years, I’d help Auntie with the baking. It was the strangest thing—rolling out pastries, or when I iced a cake, I seemed to stand on higher ground. Uncle loved it. I made coconut cream pies that were whipped and high and perfectly set. For that one, I think, he kissed my cheek.“How’ve you been doing, Bitsy?” I say now.There’s this thing about Bitsy: She seems as surprised when she speaks as when she’s spoken to. “I guess I been fine.” After a couple minutes pass, she says, “Inside, though, I got the depression.”I say, “Oh?”In a voice as breathy as spring, she says, “You a good mama?”“I—think so. I hope so.”“I had me a baby girl,” she says. “Only you didn’t know.”Cicadas are trilling in the oak trees. Through the screen I see Auntie moving around in the kitchen, Shookie coming out of the bathroom, straightening her undies, her slip, and her dress.“Excuse me?”“I had me a little bitty baby.
