In the frayed half-light of dawn, her favorite time of day, Pearl sank her feet deep into a mud hole, delighting in the cold wet dirt between her toes. In a few minutes her mother would be up and the time for playing would end. At the far end of the yard, an old Ford truck the color of baked beans stood loaded and ready. Ready to take them down to the big house where Mrs. Sherman would be waiting like she did every morning except Sunday. The back of the truck was loaded with baskets of freshly washed and ironed laundry. Pearl liked to pretend it was her laundry and she was taking it up to the big house so she could lie on crisp cotton sheets, blued and sprinkled with starch, the hiss and sputter of the old steel iron marked by straight folded lines. 
      She loved the smell of clean laundry, the feel of it against her skin. Sometimes when her mother was busy with other chores, she would spread out the wooly white towels on her bed and roll around on them, taking in all the senses at once. Then she would feel guilty and rush to refold and stack them in the baskets, careful to cover them with a tablecloth so her mother wouldn't notice.  
      All around her willows bowed and rustled with the dry hot breeze that hinted of the day to come—so hot Pearl wished she could stay inside the huge walk-in ice box where Mrs. Sherman sent her throughout the day to fetch vegetables and fruits the family would need for supper. Fat watermelons were lined up next to blocks of ice and wooden crates of plums and peaches her mother would soon put up. The close of August meant cooking down fruits into sticky-sweet jams and jellies stored in boiled glass jars for the winter. It meant she'd tie up her braids up under a bandanna and help her mother in the steamy kitchen for days. Winter in South Georgia didn't mean much, just shorter days and chilly nights so that Pearl would need the sweater her mother had knitted for her twelfth birthday.  
      Most times they loaded the truck up at night, when the air had cooled. That way her mother could sleep the extra half hour in the morning and that gave Pearl time to herself. This was precious time—time when the whole world was sleeping and it was just Pearl and the woodland animals framing their patch of land. It was here, in this state of half-wakefulness, that a full sense of herself came rushing in like an underground spring, channeling its way to the surface with a steady force that comforted Pearl and made her believe in things that last. God lasts, she thought, stepping up onto the hard-packed dirt that went for a lawn—and some things He made—like that old Pecan tree standing by the road with its claw-roots. Three-hundred years old, by Stix's counting, and that went back beyond anything Pearl could imagine.  
      But other things, things Pearl felt helpless to control, dried and crumbled like shattered plaster until every speck had simply vanished. She ran with her arms spread as eagle's wings, swooping through the air like a giant land-locked bird, feeling the earth's spin and its overwhelming hum, the great expanse of the advancing sun embracing her like a mother. This was happiness. This was freedom. The freedom to do and say anything she pleased. She circled the truck, dancing around with Mrs. Sherman's best cut-lace tablecloth wound around her breasts like a turban.  
      When she threw herself up against the house to rest, she heard chirping from behind the wooden grating that covered cement blocks doubling as a foundation. She crawled through an opening, then shimmied the rest of the way in on her belly, stopping for a instant to listen for her mother's morning sounds: the sounds of cooking and washing and hollering after Pearl to hurry up and finish breakfast, they had to leave for the big house soon. But it was still quiet yet—time enough to find the nest. In-between a rusty water can and grass clippings gathered by the wind, a good strong finch nest lay undisturbed. She knew better than to touch the eggs or the new hatchlings.  
      Instead, she rolled onto her side to watch their downy heads pop up and down like a jack in-the-box, their black, fluid eyes oblivious to the intruder. Just then, she heard her mother's egg pan clank against the cast iron stove and she knew her mother would fry up three eggs—two for Pearl because she was still growing. Then she would cut two thick slices of corn bread and take the bowl of butter from the icebox and they would have breakfast.  
      The chickens out back laid plenty of eggs, enough to sell to Pete's Market, out past the big house, close to the edge of town. She scurried out from underneath the house and brushed off her brown skirt and white blouse. But what was this? Stains on her blouse. Her mother would be angry. Pearl ran to the truck, where a stack of Victoria Sherman's white blouses were neatly folded. Victoria was Pearl's age and about the same size—skinny—with knotted knees and button breasts like Pearl's. Only Victoria's hair was smooth and gold where her hair crimped like a pipe cleaner and was as black as her mother's stove, Pearl thought, slipping on the blouse. Her mother wouldn't notice. White blouses worn by young girls all looked about the same. And Victoria owned so very many blouses.  
      Her mother slipped behind the wheel of the truck, dressed in a loose cotton shift and ugly brown shoes Pearl hated, but that could not disguise the grace and form of her dancer's body. Pearl thought she was beautiful, and even with her hair up in netting, her face glowed with natural beauty that needed no artificial coloring to enhance the set of her cheekbones and the rich red brown of her lips, her skin the color of Georgia clay. She followed the dirt road that led to the big house and town. Pearl hung onto the door latch to keep from bouncing off the ceiling, her soiled shirt stuffed under the house next to the nest. The sun was full over now; already beads of perspiration clung to the back of Pearl's neck and hairline. Today was Monday and the first thing her mother would do at the big house would be to roll up the heavy Persian rugs and mop all the red oak floors. Pearl would help by following her around with cotton batting, hand drying as she went.  
      Mrs. Sherman would not come downstairs until almost noon, so Pearl's mother saved her room for last. Victoria would be up early though, full of chatter about her friends and parties and the latest songs on the gleaming radio that dominated the parlor. Victoria was a nice girl but spoiled in the way children are who have never known a moment's unease, the strangled cries of a man being beaten, the shame of spit in the eye. But she can't help that, Pearl thought, helping her mother carry the baskets into the great hall.  
      "Mornin' Mrs. Neely, Pearl." It was Jacks, the old gardener, pumping water from the well for Mrs. Sherman's begonias set in great plaster pots with molded cherubs and ribboned ivy garlands.  
     "Jack." Pearl's mother nodded the tight-lipped smile she used for everyone except Pearl. Pearl thought her mother was curt unnecessarily, but she was used to it, like everyone else who worked at the big house. Her mother started with a bucket of saddle soap that made the floors gleam when the sun filtered through the parlor's leaded glass windows. When they had finished downstairs, her mother put her finger to her lips to warn Pearl. Mrs. Sherman would still be resting and she wanted to clean the other bedrooms and get back downstairs as quickly as she could. They worked side by side: her mother bringing the heavy cotton mop through the wringer, dipping into the soapy water again and then back to the floor while Pearl dried where she had mopped.  
      It was mindless activity that always started Pearl thinking about the people who lived here and what it would be like to live among them, with a daddy who worked in a bank and a mother who hosted bridge parties. Pearl wanted Victoria's pretty dresses with lace at the collars and shiny pink satin shoes to match. Later, when they were putting away the clothes, Pearl fingered one of Victoria's dresses, a creamy taffeta with corn flowers dotting the sleeves and sash, then held it up to the mirror to see what she looked like. She was disappointed, of course; she didn't look anything like Victoria did in that dress. Her square face and deep-set eyes disappointed her but still she could imagine coming down the stairs at night with all the candles and gas lamps lit, her father dressed in a blue suit, waiting in the hall to escort her to dinner. That's what it's like, she thought, hanging the dress back up in Victoria's closet. She ran her fingers over the carved cherry dresser, the crystal cologne bottles, the silver-backed brush and comb set, opening the top drawer where Victoria's sachet-scented drawers and camisoles were stored. She threw a furtive glance at the partially-closed door and lay back in the four poster pineapple bed under a crocheted canopy and thought about being tucked in at night, Victoria's china dolls and teddy bears from childhood lined up on the foot of the bed like miniature sentry.  
      Victoria was out back in the pool practicing her crawl and backstroke. She told Pearl her father had promised to take her to the shore when she could swim ten laps without stopping. Pearl knew about the seashore. She'd never been, but she'd seen picture postcards and it looked dark and scary, like the pictures in Moby Dick she'd seen in school. Victoria loved the sea; her bedroom windowsills were lined with all manner of shells and jars of pink and blue sand her father had brought back from one of his business trips east. Victoria told Pearl she would bring her some shells and a jar of sea water so Pearl could taste the salt on her tongue.  
      It was lunch time now and her mother was busy in the kitchen making liverwurst sandwiches, deviled eggs, and tomatoes stuffed with tuna salad for Mrs. Sherman and Victoria. Pearl waited outside, underneath a magnolia that dropped its pods all around her, watching as Victoria toweled off and wrapped a terry robe over her bathing suit. She stopped to talk to Pearl. 
      "I'm up to eight laps. Papa says I'll be a champion swimmer someday." 
      "I never learned."  
      "I'm going to camp next week. Will you miss me?" 
      Pearl answered without thinking. "I guess. . ." 
      "Well then, I guess I won't bring you back anything." Victoria walked toward the big house and the cold lunch laid out on the dining room table exactly as Mrs. Sherman had ordered. Pearl heard Mrs. Sherman's quivering voice through the window screen. "I asked you not to come to lunch in a wet bathing suit. It isn't ladylike. Isn't that right, Sheely?" 
      Pearl's mother answered like she always did. "Yes, Mrs. Sherman." 
      "Run upstairs and put on that sweet blue dress you look so pretty in. . ." Her voice trailed off like the tinkling of wind chimes, a forced gentility that she maintained even during the most trying of times. Pearl pictured her sitting at one end of the long mahogany table in a pale silk dress with stockings and heels, a triple strand of graduated pearls around her neck, dressed for a formal luncheon instead of eating at home with her twelve-year-old daughter. She'd sip on a gin and tonic, placed innocently next to a glass of iced tea, her bland face made up with light powder and red lipstick, with her long white hair gathered up in a chignon at the nape of her neck, held in place with gold bobby pins. She always smelled of perfume and something else Pearl couldn't quite identify, a staleness that kept Pearl from getting too close. Underneath her fine manners and carefully pitched voice, Pearl knew Mrs. Sherman was hard—hard in a way that could hurt them both if they weren't careful. But it was more than her smell that kept Pearl at a distance. Mrs. Sherman didn't like her. Everyone else, her mother included, went mute when she brought it up, but Pearl felt it in the way Mrs. Sherman's eyes locked on hers in a vitreous stare, and how she addressed her through her nose. She had strict rules about the help; Pearl's mother followed them without question. Everyone who worked at the big house knew about Mrs. Sherman.  
      There was Stix, who ran odd jobs and raked the stable, doing all the heavy lifting that Pearl's mother couldn't manage, like the time Mrs. Sherman had all the furniture carried outside on the lawn while she lined rug samples up and down the corridors. She didn't try them in the empty rooms; she said she couldn't picture it in her mind with the furniture taking up all that space and making such a racket in her head. Stix stayed outside mostly, sometimes sleeping in the barn with the horses, other times staying in one of the out buildings, fixing what had to be fixed and staying out of Mrs. Sherman's way. Pearl had a soft spot for Stix; he always paid her lots of attention, made sure she had something to play with, even when she was little. He'd crafted her a birdhouse out of grapevine with a circle of moss inside and dried hydrangea making up the roof for her birthday last week, a gift she could take home and hang from the porch of the real house.  
      Pearl had always thought Stix had too much strength locked up inside him. He looked like he would burst with the burden of it; his thick forearms could rip a small tree trunk from the ground and carry it over his shoulders to the cutting yard. He had a curly patch of hair on his head that stuck up like a corkscrew and he never bothered to cut it until it until he had trouble putting on his cap. Most days he wore overalls; the only time she'd seen him different was the day the meat truck came to pick up Reno. Reno was an old retired quarter horse, white with gray dapplings and a sweet disposition. Stix loved that horse like a baby. He walked and ran him, washed him down and brushed his coat every morning, sneaking sugar cubes and carrot tops into his mouth whenever Mrs. Sherman's back was turned. The morning the meat truck showed up and hauled Reno away, Stix dressed up in an old malt-green jacket and red bow tie and went into town for the day. He came back before dinner, singing and slobbering about that horse until Pearl's mother sent him down to the barn to sober up with a jar of coffee and a plate of biscuits.  
      If Pearl had a soft spot for Stix, he had one for her mother. Pearl could tell by the way he rushed to carry the rugs outside for her, and by the way he hung back at the end of the driveway early each morning to watch for their truck. Pearl's mother paid him as much attention as she did the moths that filled the air every summer. She flicked him aside if he got in her way, took the wildflowers he brought her and stuck them in Mrs. Sherman's cut glass vase in the dining room without so much as a thank you. Stix didn't seem to mind his treatment, he relished the challenge, always looking for new ways to please her and her mother just flicking him off.  
      Pearl waited outside for her mother to bring their lunch, usually leftovers from the Sherman dinner table. She hoped her mother would slice up the pork roast she'd cooked for the family last night, but Pearl knew better than to ask. She watched her mother carry a tray with two plates covered with clean dish towels and two glasses of ice tea, setting it down on the ground. 
      "This afternoon we'll polish the silver. It's been three weeks; the coffee set turns just as soon as I've finished the flatware." She looked tired already, and grim, the way she always looked after being around Mrs. Sherman. But whenever Pearl questioned her, she said it was good steady work and she was glad to have it. Mr. Sherman was a different story. Pearl wondered at the way he joked with her mother whenever Mrs. Sherman wasn't around; she even saw him slip her mother some money in the kitchen one time. But when Mrs. Sherman was there, he barely glanced her mother's way, not even bothering to look up when she served his dinner. She'd asked her mother about that one time, but she got so riled up Pearl never brought it up again.  
      Her mother had made them thick pork sandwiches for lunch, dripping with barbecue sauce, and slices of cucumber and tomato from the garden with ripe curd cheese and salt-vinegar. Pearl stuffed her sandwich down so fast she forgot to taste it and had to dip her tomato in the sauce to remind her. 
      "Your barbecue is the best," she said, wiping her face with a dishtowel. 
      "Then I'll have time to wash the crystal. You can help me by drying, but you have to be careful. Those glasses cost more than I make in a week." Her mother leaned back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes.  
      "Do I make anything, Mama?" Pearl asked. She'd never thought to ask before; she'd always helped up at the big house—not when she was very small of course, but as she grew older and was capable of certain chores. But she always remembered being there; it was part of her childhood, the tall gracious rooms ingrained on her memory just as if she'd been raised there and not at the little house.  
      "Not much," was her mother's answer, "we need all we can get for the house." 
      "Do we own the house?" 
      "Not yet. A few more years." 
      "Mama?" 
      "Mmmm?" 
      "Do you miss my daddy?" 
      "Now what brought that on?" Her mother looked annoyed. 
      "I don't know. . ." 
      "Out with it. You've been asking some strange questions lately." 
      "You're always talking about how I should act and how my daddy would be proud of me, but I don't see how you can know if you ain't seen him all these years. How do you know?"  
      "Because good manners is good manners any way you look at it. Don't have to know what your daddy's thinking to know that." 
      "Mr. Sherman—he likes you don't he?" 
      "No more than the man who washes his car. He's just different from Mrs. Sherman, that's all. Now hush up; I want to rest a minute without you pestering me. Just remember what I told you. You stay out of Mrs. Sherman's way. Two more weeks and school will start. Then you won't have time to be asking all these questions."  
      Pearl didn't know much about her father; all she knew was he'd left when she was born and her mother had worked at the big house ever since. Her life so far had been a study in contrasts. She went to the small school down the road, Victoria went to a private school—first through twelfth grade—an Academy for Young Ladies.  
      The afternoon heat grew unbearable. Pearl was glad her mother drew the blinds and for the fans that ran in every room. She stood next to her mother at the special wooden sink made just for washing the paper-thin goblets displayed in the cabinet. Victoria had left for a friend's house and Mrs. Sherman had retired to her bedroom again, saying the heat was just too much to bear.  
      "Serve something cold for dinner. I don't think I could face a roast beef in this heat. Make your potato and bean salads and some cold sliced salmon with that dill dressing Mr. Sherman likes." She swept out of the room, leaving a half-empty glass of gin and tonic. 
      "Cold for you, hot for me," Pearl heard her mother mumble afterwards, and then, "Think you can finish up these two glasses while I start boiling the potatoes?"  
      Pearl nodded. Her mother disappeared into the kitchen and Pearl knew it would be a while before she returned. She finished wiping the last two goblets and put them back in the cabinet on the white and gold lace-edged paper. Now she could sneak off to the pool to dip her toes in the water, nothing like the dark swimming hole some of her friends from school used—full of tadpoles and beetle bugs and bullfrogs. But here the sun played off the water like a prism, all the blues of the tiles reflecting a coolness that made Pearl want to jump in—clothes and all—and paddle around on the surface like a duck. She sat at the deep end and took off her shoes- dangling her feet over the edge, not caring if her rolled-up skirt got wet, leaning into the water, splashing it onto her face and neck and not caring if anyone saw her. What could they do? Scold her and send her scurrying off until she dried? She was allowed to play on the lawn in back. But she knew the pool and pool house were off-limits and the flower garden in front—the front in general, in case someone came to call—how would that look?  
      But right now none of that mattered; what mattered was her reflection in the water, the sensation of it on her face as she kicked and kicked her legs until the water splayed up in a burst of foam. Laughing, she bent over to touch it and the water engulfed her like a liquid storm cloud, only this was more like a giant glass of club soda that tickled her nose, and the bubbles rose and rose until she couldn't see them anymore.  
      She felt the grip of strong hands under her arm pits and opened her eyes, blinking rapidly. Stix had them both to the surface in an instant, laying her down on the lounge chair and covering her with a towel. He looked down at her without saying much. "I told you to be careful. Your mama catches you down here or Mrs. Sherman, there's trouble for sure." 
      Pearl felt exhilarated. "You won't tell?" she asked, pulling on his sleeve.  
      He didn't answer, but she knew he wouldn't say anything. Pearl stayed in that chair in the sun for an hour, until her clothes had dried and she knew her mother would be putting dinner on the table. She stretched out her legs and lay back. There was no one around and no one to disturb her—this was her hour. By the time Victoria arrived home, she was sitting in her usual place under the magnolia tree, looking over a book Stix had brought her from the library in town.  
      "Papa said he's taking me to the shore next week." Victoria held out her hand. "What are you reading? Let's see." She fell to the ground next to Pearl. 
      Pearl handed her the book. 
      "That's a baby book," she said. "I read that book in third grade." 
      Pearl didn't say anything. 
      "Baby book, baby book—" 
      "I'll tell you a secret. . ." Pearl knew this would make her stop. Victoria loved secrets. 
      "What is it?" 
      "If I tell you, you have to tell me one back. Not just any one, because this is a special secret. So yours has to be too. Promise?" 
      "Promise." 
      "I saw your mother kissing a man with a boater hat and a mustache. 
      "You're a liar! Mama said you can't help yourself; you don't have a daddy and you don't know any better. She said not to believe anything you tell me."  
      "Your mama's calling you." Pearl's mother stood over them. 
      Victoria ran.  
      Mr. Sherman came home and everyone who lived and worked at the big house brightened. It was dinner time. Stix and Jacks waited with Pearl under the tree while her mother served the family. When they were finished eating, she'd bring out a big tray, usually chicken legs or beef stew and plenty of beans and rice with red-eyed gravy and biscuits. Jacks and Stix talked about their day and the goings-on in the big house. 
      "She's getting worse by the day. Sheely said she's hiding it from Mr. Sherman. She found an empty bottle while she was cleaning under the bed."  
      Stix shook his head at Jacks. He didn't like such talk in front of Pearl. "Gonna rain later tonight, from what I can see. I feel it in my bad knee." 
      "Stix, what do you know about my daddy?" Pearl met his gaze straight on. 
      "Why you asking me? Ask your mama." 
      "I did. She won't say nothing." 
      "Then it ain't right for me to say." 
      "I'm twelve now. I got a right to know." 
      Stix and Jacks looked at each other and Pearl knew they were holding back. 
      "Your mama would kill me." This from Stix, and Jacks nodding along. 
      "Then I'll ask Mrs. Sherman." 
      Their eyes were getting scared.  
      Pearl pounced. "It's her or you. You decide." 
      Stix put his arm around her like he used to do when she was little and crying over some little crisis. He turned to Jacks. "I knew she'd catch hold of it when she grew older. Sheely ought to know she's growing up." 
      "It ain't worth it. Sheely'll have your head." Jack pulled on his beard and slapped at his shirt pocket, looking for his snuff bag. 
      "Ask your mama," Stix said. "I can't say no more." 

Pearl's mother stroked her hot forehead while she lay on her bed they'd dragged out on the porch to catch any breeze that might not make it inside the little house.  
      "I want to know." Pearl's voice was small and hard. 
      Pearl's mother let out a long breath. 
      "I'll keep on asking. Everybody knows but me." 
      "What makes you think that?"  
      "I just know." 
      "I already told you a hundred times. He was here one day, ran the next." 
      "You're lying."  
      Pearl's mother sat down on the porch rocker and creaked as she talked in a voice that seemed to Pearl as foreign as the story she told. "It was dark already, the horses were catching up on their rest. There'd been a party at the big house, politicians and their wives, I think. I was excited; Mrs. Sherman had told me I could ride the bay the next morning if I helped Shirley Rose with the dishes. I helped her to finish up and ran down to the stables to say goodnight to Dancer and bring him an apple. A man, one of their important guests, stood outside the barn, smoking a cigar, and looking up into the night sky. He nodded to me and I went on through the gate. When I reached Dancer's stall, I heard footsteps and he was behind me smelling of liquor and cigars, telling me how pretty I turned out. I didn't know much then, and I was too scared to do anything. Once I tried to get away, but he just locked onto me . . . so I shut my eyes tight and dreamed I was riding Dancer and we were flying over the meadows down by Cooks Stream.  
      "When Mrs. Sherman found out, she wanted to let me go, but Mr. Sherman did right by me, making sure I had steady work at the big house. I found out years later the man was a Congressman. I never told no one but the Shermans. My mama thought it was some boy that lived down by the train tracks and I let her think what she wanted. Mrs. Sherman—she thought I must have done something wrong, but Mr. Sherman knew better. Mr. Sherman's a good man. He's sorry, I know, and he helps us however he can. Was him that put the down payment on this house and our land." 
      "Everybody knows," Pearl repeated again, "except for Victoria."  
      That night Pearl slipped through the moonlight underneath the house. The mother finch sat in the nest, her twin hatchlings quiet and asleep, but the mother woke up as soon as she heard Pearl. This time Pearl touched the babies with her fingers, stroking them until they cried for more food. The mother was agitated, flapping her tiny, ineffectual wings at Pearl. Together, they created quite a racket and Pearl had the sudden urge to pull them from the nest and fling them against the cement blocks that held up the house, their house, her mother's and hers, the real house.