51
With the kind of dread I haven’t felt in years, I tell Delilah, “That was Maddie. Somethin’s wrong.” The table erupts in worried chatter. Eleven women start squawkin’ at each other like chickens in a hen house when they smell a fox moochin’ up to the door. I say above the noise, “Quiet, y’all! Jabberin’ won’t do any good. Let me give her a call and see what’s goin’ on.” I release the cool, dry hand of Bernice on my left and the warm, plump hand of Cassidy on my right, and rise from my chair, breaking the circle. Everyone else rises, too. May turns on the dining room lights and Celia blows out the candles. Then the entire group follows me nervously into the kitchen, where I grab the phone off the wall and start dialin’. Maddie doesn’t pick up her cell. There’s no answer at her house, e
- Writer
