Sycamore Row (Jake Brigance, #2)

by John Grisham

stayed away for many reasons, not the least of which was Lettie’s mother. Lettie said, “Mrs. Dafoe sent us a cake. Would you like a small piece?” “What kind?” Though she weighed a ton, Cypress could be a picky eater. “Well, it’s a pineapple something or other, not sure I’ve seen it before, but it might be worth a try. Would you like some coffee with it?” “Yes, and just a small piece.” “Let’s sit out back, Momma, and get some fresh air.” “I’d like that.” The wheelchair could barely squeeze between the sofa and the television, and it fit tightly in the narrow hallway into the kitchen. It rubbed alongside the table, inched through the rear door, and with Lettie pushing gently it rolled onto the sagging wooden deck Simeon had thrown together years earlier. When the weather was nice, Lettie liked a late afternoon coffee or iced tea outside, away from the noise and stuffiness of the cramped house. There were too many people for a small house with only three tiny bedrooms. Cypress had one. Lettie and Simeon—whenever he was home—shared another, usually with a grandchild or two. Their daughters somehow survived shoulder to shoulder in the third bedroom. Clarice, age sixteen, was in high school and had no children. Phedra, age twenty-one, had a kindergartner, a first grader, and no husband. Their younger son, Kirk, fourteen, slept on the sofa in the den. It was not at all uncommon for nieces and nephews to stay a few months while their parents sorted things out. Cypress took a sip o...