“The Taj Mahal,” Aunt Clover said. “It’s a tomb built for a woman.” She picked up the dented can with the faded creamed corn label and held it to her mouth. “White marble, red sandstone,” she spoke into it. “Addie? Can you hear me? The tomb reflects a woman in water. Spittle, spittle, spider, where you gonna hide her?” Aunt Clover spit inside the can. “In the water.”
