“We need to take our medicine,” I said to Lydia in the kitchen, which was very large and very sterile looking. It reminded me of an operating room with all its shiny metal surfaces.
“Oh?” Lydia said, raising her eyebrows and glancing at Tony.
“He has HIV,” I explained.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Cantrell?”
“We just need a glass of water, maybe some applesauce or something. You don’t have to call me Mr. Cantrell.”
“Old habits die hard. Mrs. Ledbetter doesn’t like me being too familiar with houseguests.”
Lydia was an old fixture at the Ledbetter house, having cooked for them off and on for many years. She was not exactly domestic help and not exactly anything else either. An older white woman, Lydia practically raised Jackson. Whenever he needed someone who would actually listen to h
