She caught a whiff of hair spray and permanent solution and turned to see that she was sitting in front of a beauty shop. Her reflection in the window showed her stringy blonde hair and gaunt cheeks, which left no doubt that she was a homeless kid. What little pride and dignity she’d had a couple of weeks ago was gone in her time on the road, and the only thing she had left was the baby. She’d vowed from the day the pregnancy test had come up positive that she’d be a good mother and that her child would never go into the system.
“Well, hello there.” An older gray-haired woman sat down beside her and lit up a cigarette. “They won’t let me smoke in the beauty shop, so I have to come out here for my nicotine fix. You waitin’ on a bus?”
“No, ma’am.” Ginger pulled her frayed denim jacket tight around her protruding belly.
“Someone goin’ to pick you up, then?” The woman took a long drag on her cigarette, and turned her head to blow the smoke away from Ginger. “I’m Connie Carson. What’s your name?”
“No one is pickin’ me up, and my name is Ginger Andrews, ma’am.” Most folks wouldn’t even sit down beside someone who might be homeless.
“Then what are you doin’ sittin’ on a bench here in Hondo?” Connie asked.
“Just restin’ up a minute before I get out on the highway to try to hitch a ride.” Ginger told the truth. “I’ve run out of money.”
“Good God!” Connie gasped. “Don’t you have relatives?”
“No, I just don’t.” Ginger shrugged. “Been in foster care my whole life up until a year ago. The gover’ment don’t pay for kids past eighteen, so I been on my own since then.”
“Where’s your husband, child?” Connie looked over at Ginger’s big belly.
Ginger put her hand on her bulging stomach. “His name was Lucas and he got killed seven months ago, before he ever even knew that I was pregnant.” It felt good to talk to someone, even if the woman reminded her of Marie, the mama from that television show about everyone loving Raymond. Connie even wore bright-red lipstick and had her hair all frizzy like Marie did in the show.
“Where are you from?” Connie asked.
“Kentucky, I guess. That’s where I was born, according to my birth certificate. My mama was in prison at the time, so I went into the system,” she replied with another shrug. “Guess I’d best get on my way now. Nice talkin’ to you.”
“Whoa!” Connie almost dropped her cigarette. “You can’t be hitchhikin’,” she gasped. “Don’t you watch them crime shows on the television? Someone could kidnap you so they could steal that baby when it’s born, and you’d never see it or daylight again. Why did you leave Kentucky?”
“Nothing for me there but bad memories.”
“How far you plannin’ on goin’ to get away from them ugly memories?” Connie asked.
The woman was sure nosy, but then, she was old. Most of the elderly folks who were regulars at the café where Ginger had worked until they’d closed the doors asked lots of questions, too.
“Until I run out of land,” she answered as she stood up. “You have a nice day, now, ma’am.”
Connie shook her head and set her mouth in a firm line. “I just can’t bear to think of you out there travelin’ in your condition. You’re comin’ home with us.”
“Us?” Ginger asked.
“Me and my two sisters, Betsy and Kate. They’ll be out of the beauty shop in a few minutes. I’m calling a rule number one,” Connie said.
“You think you should ask them about that first? And what’s a rule number one?” The woman was crazy for sure. No one took in a complete stranger. Ginger thought of herself as a good person, but for all Connie knew, she could be a serial killer—or for that matter, Connie might be one.
“Come on with me.” Connie put what was left of her cigarette in a bucket beside the bench. Then she got Ginger by the hand and tugged. “We’ll go ask them together, but I’m tellin’ you right now, they’ll say yes. They have to, because of Mama’s rules.”
“Which are?” Ginger stood up, wondering if Mama was the cult leader. Connie seemed to be a little crazy, so maybe it was hereditary.
“The Banty House has rules,” Connie said. “You’ll have to abide by them. Anyone who walks through the doors has to, but don’t worry—they ain’t hard to uphold. I been doin’ it for my whole life, and I’m still alive and kickin’. Rule number one is the one about takin’ in strangers.”
Ginger’s first instinct was to grab her ratty suitcase and run, but then she thought about her situation. Surely one night with three old women wouldn’t hurt anything. She’d probably get to sleep in a real bed and have a real meal. Then tomorrow she’d sneak out and hitch a ride on out West—Texas was a good distance from Kentucky, but it was not far enough. She hadn’t forgotten anything yet.
One of her foster mothers had had a standing appointment on Mondays at a local salon, but Ginger couldn’t remember which town she’d lived in during that short period of time. She’d never been inside a beauty shop in her entire life. She drew her brows down and tried to get a picture of the woman—somehow it seemed very important that she remember. She had spent a birthday—her fourteenth birthday—in that house and was the oldest of the five children in the home. She was pretty much the in-house babysitter for the four smaller kids. The foster mother had been a tall brunette who’d smoked a pack a day. She had been one of the indifferent ones. She wasn’t interested in the kids, but she didn’t fuss at Ginger or punish her for not knowing what the preacher said on Sunday morning. She followed Connie inside the shop and was amazed that it looked exactly like she’d imagined it would from the pictures in the magazines that her various foster mothers had left scattered around the house. Sometimes she had imagined herself sitting in one of the chairs like those in front of a mirror, but she had always known it was just a pipe dream.
“Look what I found sitting on the bench out front,” Connie said. “Her name is Ginger Andrews, and I’ve invited her to come home with us since she ain’t got no place to live.”
Kate looked over at Betsy and raised an eyebrow. “Rule number one?”
“I guess so,” Betsy said. “Well, Miz Ginger, do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yes, ma’am, but it’s from the state of Kentucky,” she answered.
“I don’t reckon that will matter for a few months. Kate”—she nodded toward the tall lady with short dark hair sprinkled with gray—“is the only one of us who’s still got a license. You could earn your keep by drivin’ us and helpin’ me with makin’ my jams and jellies.”
“Hey, now,” Connie protested. “I found her, so she gets to help me with the cleanin’. You know how I’m gettin’ down in my back and all.”
Kate giggled. “Maybe we should ask Ginger about all this before we start arguin’ about who gets her first.”
“Y’all are offerin’ me a job?” Ginger asked. “You don’t know me, and I’m pregnant and not married.” Good Lord! Connie wasn’t the only one in the bunch who was crazy.