An hour later, as they sat at Astrid’s kitchen table, she reached for Shelley’s hands, her delight boiling. “Guess what I have for you? Stop. You’ll never guess. It’s a grant.”
“Grant? And that would be–?”
“It’s work; for you. To help with my project. They’ll give you $250, five afternoons a week for three weeks. At Mo Hist.”
“Boo hiss? Who you mad at? Or is it some kind of snake?”
“God, you’re a silly. Not ‘boo’, ‘Mo’. That would be Missouri. ‘Hist’ is ‘History’. So: the Missouri Historical Society. You’ll be looking up and copying out old voting stats, pre- and post- 20th amendment. Find benchmark figures for us to gauge our efforts against. No more being what you call my ‘widow’.”
Shelley wasn’t sure she understood the task. But she was touched by Astrid’s effort and, as always, ea
