Chapter Thirty-Six
Mrs. Poplar had a habit of singing hymns while she cooked, something she said she had picked up from her mother. Alfred recognized very few of them. Old southerners, she called them, the sort her father sang with them on their way to church every Sunday after her mother had died. Alfred imagined they reminded her of a better time, and he wondered how far back she had to dream to find a happier place. He was certain it was before her husband became ill, before her hip had started stiffening up and her heart had started fluttering. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, imagining what she might have been like when she had moved a little more easily and had a husband to keep in check. She turned with a towel in each hand.
“Oh, Alfred!” She flashed a smile and opened the
