10
Standing in my kitchen was a trim man of maybe thirty years wearing all black, with a short dark brown beard and kind blue eyes. He looked a little familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. Mrs. Jones had cut the young priest off at the front door and was flapping her apron at him like a matador going at a bull when I got there. “You ain’t needed here, Joe. We’ve got this under control. You can go back to your incense and Communion wine, and leave this community to those what still live here.”
I saw the man wince at that and realized who he was. I hadn’t seen Skeeter’s uncle in years, not since his family moved out of Georgia when Skeeter and I were in middle school. That was about the time we met, so I didn’t remember much about him. Some kind of scandal about who Joe’s mama remarrie
