Date Published: September 15, 2021
Publisher: TouchPoint Press
No one ever talks about what happened …
Summer 1971, Del Munro, a single mother of four, is struggling to make ends meet when Mother Franklin, a traveling evangelist, offers to take her daughters to the beach in Savannah.
For nine-year-old Willie June and seven-year-old Glory, restless at the end of a long, hot summer in Charlotte, it's a dream come true. To their beleaguered mother, it's a much-needed reprieve.
But what seemed like a blessing soon turns into a nightmare when the girls are pressed into service by the morbidly obese Mother Franklin whose needs are as outsized as her ambitions.
When the girls fail to return, Del, evasive about the details of her arrangement with Mother Franklin, panics. People begin to wonder if instead of sending her daughters on vacation, she sold them to the evangelist.
Excerpt:
Luther was Mother
Franklin’s driver. At least that’s how he thought of himself. He spent a lot of
time waiting around on her; her being so big and all meant she was a slow
mover. He’d stand for what seemed like hours waiting for the old woman in one
churchyard or another. This time of year, when the grass was brown and crackly
and clover was the only thing showing green on the ground, he would kick at it
with his shoe, grinding the clover until it disappeared in the red dirt.
That’s what that fat
old woman was doing to him. Grinding him down. It wasn’t like she was
really paying him. He was just part of her—what’d she call it?—retinue. My
driver. A plate for my driver, she’d demand and the church ladies
always did provide. It wasn’t begging. But it was charity. What he’d like was a
little cash in his pocket. Even when they pulled into a filling station she’d
get the bills out of her black square of a pocketbook and not let go of them
’til he was done pumping. Two dollars, she’d bawl in her wheezy old
voice, and not a drop more!
Even though
technically the station wagon wasn’t his, Luther watched over it like a jealous
lover, noticing every little hint of trespass—fingerprints on the windows, mud
on the floor, crumbs. He kept a little whisk broom under the driver’s seat and
a red rag, worn soft, that he folded in half and then in thirds and tucked up
under the visor. Every time they stopped for gas, he swept the floorboard on
the driver side and wiped down the dash. When Mother Franklin was doing her
business, he’d whisk her side of the car as well.
He was sure this
dust-covered, paneled wagon would do better if they just filled it up to the
top of the tank every once and again. He wasn’t anything
more than a shade tree mechanic but he knew where to poke around under the hood
and it was looking like there were going to be some serious problems soon
enough.
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