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asked. I recalled what Aunt Zipporah had suggested

about his mother and the pastor.

He shook his head. If it was true, he didn't want

to admit to it, I thought.

"Maybe she will," I suggested.

"I doubt it. She should have been a nun. She

lives like one anyway."

I wanted to say I was sorry, but I didn't know if that was right to say. When he talked about her, he didn't sound angry, just resigned. This was his mother; this was his life. There was nothing more to do about

it.

I looked at the time and saw we had been

working for hours and hours.

"I have to make something for dinner or my

aunt will be angry. Can you stay for dinner?" He looked at me with an expression of

confusion, as if such a possibility not only never

occurred to him but also didn't exist in the real world.

He revealed why.

"I never ate in anyone else's home but my

own."

"Never?"

"Well, no one else's except our pastor's, but

when and if we're there, Mother does most of the

cooking anyway. She doesn't like going to the homes

of the other church people," he said. "My mother isn't

comfortable eating at someone else's table, and she

always complains about the way some of the other

women cook and bake for the church."

"Well, do you want to have dinner with me?" "Yes," he said. "Yes," he repeated more firmly,

as if he had been arguing about it with himself. I had

to laugh. "What?" he asked.

"You didn't even ask what we'll have to eat."