7
My screen door slammed shut, and I jumped out of my kitchen chair, expecting Poppy or an angry horde of parishioners or the bishop here to excommunicate me, but it was just Millie, her arms laden with frozen casseroles.
She bustled past me into the kitchen, the late afternoon light shining through her stiff, brick-red wig as she started unloading her cargo.
“You are too clean,” she said by way of greeting, scowling at the fastidiously neat countertops. “Boys your age should be messy.”
“I’m hardly a boy, Millie,” I said, walking over to help her move the food into the freezer.
“At my age, anyone under sixty is a boy,” she said dismissively, shooing me out of the way so she could put one of the dishes in the oven.
Millie was approximately one hundred and thirty years old, but she was
