“If I went back, I’d be in the state hospital by Christmas.” “Come stay with us,” Mama told her. “No. Willie’d have a fit.” “What do I care? You’re my only sister. You can help me with the business. Till you know where you’re at.” Grandma packed a lunch for us, and we left after church on Sunday, Aunt Betty still weak and ashen, but anxious to get out of Blue Lake. “To think that I used to be somebody with a place of my own,” Aunt Betty said to Mama. “Do you see, Betty,” Grandma told her as we were leaving, “this is God’s way of telling you to go to California?” “I’ll never be able to have a baby now,” Aunt Betty told Mama on the ride from Blue Lake to Harvester. “Don’t be silly,” Mama said. “It’s true. I know it.” “You’re no doctor,” Mama reminded her. “I know what I know.” Papa didn’t throw a fit in front of Aunt Betty. He was as cordial as you could hope. But when he got Mama alone, down at the freight room, he wanted to know, “What the hell is this all about?”
