“By who?” Ache did not answer. Hazel clicked the remote and Jerry Springer shrank to a white dot and the screen went blank. The boxing match could wait. This was serious, this possibility of not having her money when she needed it. She turned on the lamp near the sofa, illuminating the sagging cushions, the paint-flaked walls, and floors that had not seen a mop since the linoleum was laid, years ago. Hazel had once complained to her caseworker that she needed a homemaker and one had come last ye...ar but didn’t bother to take off her coat. She took one look and backed out the door, declaring that she had stopped doing hog pens when she left Tennessee. When Hazel complained again, the caseworker had sighed, “You have an able-bodied relative, Ms. Milton, a son living with you who should be willing to help you with your household responsibilities.” She had stressed “responsibilities” as she looked around the living room and remained standing near the door, tapping one foot then the other to prevent something from crawling up her leg.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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