“My mother was a fat lady who used to teach first grade. Her maiden name was Lacey Debney. Notice that I mention her fatness first. You couldn’t overlook fatness like my mother’s. It defined her, it radiated out from her, it filled any room she walked into. She was a mushroom-shaped woman with wispy blond hair you could see through, a pink face, and no neck; just a jaw sloping wider and wider till it turned into shoulders. All year round she wore sleeveless flowered shifts—a mistake. Her feet we...re the smallest I have ever seen on a grownup, and she owned a gigantic collection of tiny, elegant shoes. When she was in her mid-thirties—still a maiden lady teaching school, living in her dead father’s house beside the Texaco station—a traveling photographer named Murray Ames came to take her students’ pictures. A stooped, bald, meek-looking man with a mustache like a soft black mouse. What did he see in her? Did he like her little feet, her fancy shoes? At any rate, they married.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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