The woman was already on her feet and smiling by the time I climbed the three steps to the porch. She wore a pink apron over a pink-and-white-checked dress. “I’m Georgia Hunt,” she said, taking my book bag from me and setting it on the painted porch floor. “And you must be Eleanor Hockley.”
“Ellie,” I said, “and I’m happy to meet you. Your house is so pretty. It looked like a painting when we were driving up.”
Georgia Hunt laughed. “Did it, now,” she said. She tilted her head as if examining me. “Well, how’re you feelin’， Miss Ellie? I saw Mr. Win this morning and he told me you fell in a ditch and hurt your head.”
I was one hundred percent certain “Mr. Win” hadn’t told her I’d been running from the Klan when I fell.
“I did,” I said, gingerly touching the lump at my hairline. “But I feel much better now. Ready to get back to work.”
“Not before I feed you somethin’，” she said.
Two children, a boy and a girl, suddenly appeared around the corner of the house and raced onto the porch.
“Is this her?” the boy asked, looking up at me. “I’m Benny!” He was about seven years old with reddish-brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose.
“Don’t be rude,” Mrs. Hunt said to the boy. She said something else, but I barely heard her. My gaze was riveted on the girl. She was a couple of years older than her brother. Her hair was straightened, like her mama’s, and she wore a pink bow just above her temple. She was, at least to my mind, the spitting image of Mattie Jenkins, right down to that pink bow. Her name, though, was DeeDee and she leaned against her mother’s hip, staring up at me with big dark Mattie eyes.
“You gonna stay in my room with me,” she said. She had small white pearls for teeth. “You gonna sleep in my closet!”
“Oh, I am?” I laughed, though I was still shaken by the resemblance. “Well, I can’t wait to see your closet.”
Mrs. Hunt chuckled. “We put a mattress in her closet,” she explained. “That Reverend Filburn said to keep you safe, after what happened…” She let her voice drift off, nodding toward the children, obviously not wanting them to know about the burning cross.
“That sounds perfect,” I said.
While Miss Georgia made lunch, DeeDee led me to her tiny room, which she presented as if it were a palace. Her narrow bed was neatly made, several stuffed animals resting on the pillow. She showed me everything, from her white doll to the box where she kept the bows for her hair.
DeeDee’s closet was exactly the size of the twin mattress, which had been made up with sheets and a light quilt—and a ragged stuffed dog on the pillow. “In case you be scared in the dark,” she said. “And this mornin’， Daddy put these wood things in the window for fresh air,” she said, running to one of her windows to show me the wooden dowel in the frame. I knew the dowel had been placed there because of me: DeeDee and I could enjoy some air, but no one could open the window wide enough to get into the room. That was the only sign I saw that the Hunts had any apprehension about having me there.
* * *
Win and I canvassed together for the rest of the week, and the Hunts asked Greg if I could stay a few days longer. They saw no need for me to move again, and since everything had been quiet since the burning cross incident, Greg finally agreed. I was thrilled. First, there were the creature comforts of indoor plumbing and electricity, but my pleasure extended far beyond that. I loved my little closet bedroom and how Benny and DeeDee climbed onto the mattress with me so I could read to them. They were already good readers themselves and had a nice little library of books, but they loved my attention and I loved giving it to them. At night, I’d fall asleep knowing that my attachment to DeeDee wasn’t exactly healthy. I had her all twisted up in my mind and my heart with Mattie and that couldn’t be good, but still, I relished the comfort I felt in that house.
I felt more at ease canvassing every day, reaching out to people, talking to them about their lives, listening to their stories. I ate their pies and drank their lemonade and let their children crawl into my lap and play with my “golden hair.” At different moments I felt touched or angry or amused or sad. More than anything, I felt honored when people told me the truth about their lives. Honored that they trusted me. I knew a lot of that trust had to do with the fact that I had Win by my side, but it didn’t matter. It was an honor, anyway.