The arrival of Amy’s mother, complete with an old photo album halted both their card game and the Interrogation of Willie. The invitation they had expected and feared, to join her on the couch, soon followed. When the migration ended, Willie and Amy were sitting on either side of her mother while Mark and Bob knelt and peered over them from behind the couch. The first picture Mrs. Marshall pointed out showed two babies, one black, one white, sitting in a large, double-basin sink laughing and splashing water.

“Which one’s Amy?” drawled Bob.

“Open your eyes, boy. Isn’t it obvious? She’s the bald-headed one.” Mark emphasized his reply by stroking Amy’s long, thick hair until she jabbed at him with her elbow.

On the next page was a close-up of another baby, mouth wide open in an angry scream, its face covered in something which might have once been a cake. “Judging from the mouth and those beady little eyes, that must be Mark,” said Bob. “There’s another story here, right?”

When she managed to stop giggling, Mrs. Marshall explained that they’d been having a little party and that she’d handed Amy a piece of cake and told her to give it to Mark. “And she did,” he interrupted, “all over my poor, innocent, little face.”

“It was an accident,” said Amy, with no trace of sincerity. “Besides, even back then he was always acting hateful.”

Tugging on a handful of Amy’s hair, Mark said, “Let he who is without sin, yank the first hair.”

“Ouch! That hurt! Mommy, Mark’s being a bad boy.”

“You two children play nice,” cooed her mother as the puller and the pulled pretended to scowl at one another.

A few pages later, Willie became the center of attention. The photo was of a black baby standing outside. The baby was naked. The baby was a boy. Judging from the big smile on his face, the baby was also very happy. And last but not least, this happy, naked, black baby boy was peeing.

When the laughter subsided, Mrs. Marshall tried to explain. “Willie had this diaper rash and the best thing for that, of course, is sunshine and air. So late one afternoon, we decided to let all three of them run around in the backyard like that for a few minutes.

“Well, Stanley had just gotten this new camera and was going around taking everybody’s picture. We made him promise not to take any of the kids. But,” she giggled, ”all of a sudden, there was Willie, doing what little boys will do when they have to, you know, do it, and Stanley just couldn’t resist.”

“Show the next picture, Mom.”

On the next page was a photograph of the same child, still naked and outdoors. But this time he was crying. “What happened?” asked Bob.

“When his mother came out of the kitchen and saw what Willie was doing--” Mrs. Marshall’s sentence trailed off. "Well, Rosa has always been a very proper person, and by then she was a preacher’s wife. I think it may have embarrassed her a little, him standing there grinning and doing that in front of the rest of us. Anyway, Rosa rushed over and swatted him right on his poor bare little bottom.”

Mark looked over at Willie. “I always thought that story explained a lot about you.”

“Yeah, every time I start doing something fun, I keep expecting to get my, uh, bottom beat.”

Just then, Mutt jumped into Willie’s lap. Amy reached across her mother to pet the big cat. “Oh look, Mutt’s trying to make poor Willie feel better.”

Willie stroked the broad back. “Old Mutt’s gotten so big; he’s almost more cat than my lap can handle.”

“Didn’t you tell me your mother quit working here when you were born?” asked Bob.

“Nah, she stayed on until she got her degree and got hired as a teacher. By then, I think we were all about to start school.”

“You’re right, Willie. And thank God your mother did stay,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Everybody was having babies back then. Leigh Cahill and I were both pregnant at the same time. So was Rosa, but Willie was born a few months after Amy and Mark. During the day, she’d stay with them so Leigh and I could go back to work. Then we’d take turns babysitting in the evenings when she went to class.”

A few pages later, they were gazing at a black and white photo of three grinning kids holding a long stringer filled with small perch. Amy, whose skinny, pre-pubescent figure was often compared to a string bean, was standing between a chubby, round-faced Mark and a very short Willie.

“I love that picture,” Amy said, almost to herself. “Everything seemed so right that summer. Walt was still home, Jan was big enough to play with, we weren’t in school, so no one was calling me, ‘Bony Moronie,’ and--”

There’d been a wistful tone in her voice before it trailed off into silence. Moments later, she grinned and concluded in a bright voice, “And best of all, I always caught the most fish.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Now Bob, I want you to pay attention. Okay, kids, which one of you always caught the most fish?”

In unison, the other three all shouted, “I did.”

“Well, judging from that picture, you guys must have scared those poor fish to death.”

“You’re just jealous,” said Amy, giving Bob a dirty look.

“Now don’t you go talking about Amy that way,” said Willie, as if he and Mark weren’t also in the photo, “just because she was in what you might call a ‘lean and hungry’ phase back then.”

Mark nodded his agreement. “She could have gone one-on-one with Twiggy any day. Of course, Brother Carter and I weren’t what you’d call prime specimens of grade ‘A’ manhood. But this poor, scrawny thing here,” he patted Amy on the shoulder, “could’ve hidden behind a flagpole when we first hit junior high. But I figure the Marshall’s must have had her wormed that year. Because by the end of basketball season she’d put on a pound or two and all these guys started asking me who she was.”

“Would you two idiots shut-up?” The note of irritation in Amy’s voice made it clear she didn’t like being reminded of that school year.

Turning to her mother, she asked, “Don’t we have some pictures with Bob in them?”

“I think so,” Mrs. Marshall said, already turning toward the back of the book. A loose, black and white enlargement fell out. It was a shot of the four of them taken the summer Bob arrived in town. Like Amy, Willie, and Mark he was wearing faded blue jeans, a dirty t-shirt, sneakers, and lots of paint. Blonde hair was springing out in all directions from under a beat-up, “Colt .45’s” baseball cap.

Bob pointed at the photo. “I still say we got more paint on us than on your grandmother’s barn.”

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, Amy went to the front door. A shout of, “Nanna!” was soon followed by Amy almost dragging in a short, tidy, black woman. Rosa Sharon Carter was dressed in the type of dark, decorous outfit that was all but a uniform for someone who was a small town preacher’s wife and a high school teacher.

“Rosa!” Mrs. Marshall handed the album to Bob, she got up and hugged her former housekeeper. “It’s been so long. How are you doing? Come, sit.”

“I can’t Mandy; the Reverend’s waiting out in the car. We just got back from a, well, a meeting in Sandtown and we do need to get home. I wanted to give you back this punch bowl. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the one I borrowed from you last Christmas for the church party. I was looking for something up in the church attic this morning, oh, I tell you, that place is so full of junk it’s a fire trap and a disgrace, but while I was there, I noticed this.”

Under her mother’s prodding, Amy let go of her beloved “Nanna” and accepted the bowl, which she at once placed on the nearby card table. Rosa Carter’s response to this sloppiness was automatic. “Now, young lady, you take that to the kitchen and put it somewhere it won’t get broken.”

“My Nanna’s being mean to me,” whimpered Amy with a fake pout. But she picked up the bowl as ordered and hurried toward the kitchen.

The two older women smiled with approval as Amy left the room. “She’s turned into a fine young lady,” said Rosa, with obvious pride.

“Well, she should have. After all, Rosa, you helped raise her.”

“No, it’s kind of you always to say that. But unlike some boys I could name,” she nodded toward Mark and her son Willie who were pretending to cower, “she was always a good baby. Smart and polite, but with enough sass and gumption to put up with those two. Oh, hello Mutt.” She bent down to pet the old cat. Having deserted Willie’s lap, he was now rubbing against her legs.

Placing her hand on the small woman’s forearm, Mrs. Marshall said, “Rosa, please try to get the Reverend to come in for a second. I’ve just found the old album with all the pictures of the kids back when they were babies.”

“Please do, Nanna,” said Amy, who’d just returned. Moving behind the much shorter woman, Amy wrapped both arms around her shoulders. “Tell the Reverend I’ve been sick, real, real sick, and that I need comforting.”

Reverend Issac Carter was soon seated with his wife and Mandy Marshall looking and laughing at the old pictures. He was a tall, distinguished looking man with short gray hair. The car accident that killed his first wife and their youngest son had left him with a small, livid, scar on his left cheek and a limp. As kids, Mark and Amy had been a little intimidated by the big black man with the deep, rolling voice, but were too fascinated by his long, shiny, wooden cane to stay away.

When they finished the album, the Carters got up to leave. Their departure was halted by the arrival of S.J. Marshall. “Rosa, Ike, you don’t have to leave just because I showed up.”

“Not at all,” said Reverend Ike, as the two men shook hands. “Rosa and I were just coming back from a meeting up in Sandtown,” his voice lowered, “about all the trouble up there, you know.” Mr. Marshall nodded in understanding. “Anyway, Rosa wanted to stop by for just a second to drop off a punch bowl she’d borrowed. Now, the last time I checked,” he said, making a big show of looking at his wrist watch, “that was about an hour ago.”

“Women can have a problem with time,” agreed Mr. Marshall. “And I’ve got to admit that you look about as tired as I feel. So if you’re determined to go, my feelings won’t be too hurt.”

There were a few more minutes of polite chatter. Then Mr. Marshall pried his daughter’s arms from around her “Nanna” and allowed the Carters to depart. “I know you love Rosa,” he said to her after the door closed. “We all do. But you’re a head taller than she is now. Be careful, or you’ll get arrested for assault and battery.”

Having fished all day and gone to a Masonic Lodge meeting that evening, he hadn’t been joking about being tired. After a few minutes spent talking sports and drinking a gin and tonic, he yawned, wished everyone good night, and headed for bed. Before long, so did his wife, carrying the photo album and followed by the yawning, Mutt.

The four friends looked at one another, silently asking, ‘Now what?’