““Who’s this?” Mama’s voice, barely more than a whisper. Frank’s features turned hard, as if carved from stone. “Frank Gresham.” He glanced at me, then back to Mama. “I assume you are Mrs. Hendricks?” Mama turned fiery eyes in my direction. “I see you know who I am, but I haven’t been given the same consideration.” I backed away, not wanting to be caught in the middle of the twister I’d created. “Ahhhhh!” Hot metal seared my skin. I grabbed my hand, doubled over. Mama and Frank beside me, one voice in each ear, pain blinding my sight. “Margaret? Rebekah?” Daddy. I felt Mama and Frank move back. Daddy led me to the table as my scream drifted away. “We’ll need eggs and some clean cotton.” Mama taking charge, as usual. “I have butter and flour right here.” Frank. “We aren’t making a cake; we’re dressing a burn.” “I realize that. Butter, then flour. My mother swore by it.” “It really hurts.” I leaned my head into Daddy’s shoulder. “I know, baby. Let me see.” He eased open my hand and studied the raised red splotch on my palm. Frank arrived at the table first. He cradled my hand in his. I whimpered. “Hush now.” A gentle whisper. “Let me do that.” Mama pressed her fingers into the pristine “G” atop the newly pressed butter and lathered it on my skin. “Go on now. Let me do my work.” Mama scooted beside me. Daddy led Frank from the room as Mama wrapped a clean rag around my greasy hand and tied the ends together. “Thank you, Mama.””
