Betty had always loved the hum of the city—trains, streetcars, the chatter on the corner. It reminded her of music. She’d moved to Chicago from Alabama in the 1960s with her new husband, a suitcase full of dreams, and a fried chicken recipe that could silence a preacher.
After forty years—and after her husband passed—the city’s rhythm just didn’t sound the same. So she packed up, said goodbye to the snow, and went back home to Alabama: back to red dirt, porch swings, and sweet tea so strong it could make your eyebrows dance.
When Betty returned to Alabama after her husband’s death, she was seeking peace—quiet mornings, warm evenings, and people who spoke slowly enough to mean it.
She found all that on a dusty country road outside Monroeville, where her nearest neighbor, a white woman also named Betty, lived just across the pasture. Before long, the two became friends—the kind who show up with a pie for any occasion, good or bad.
Folks in town called them “Black Betty” and “White Betty” to keep things simple. White Betty often spoke of her daughter, Pam—sweet as sugar but with the mind of a child. Black Betty always asked after her, though she never saw Pam. White Betty would just laugh it off and say she was doing fine.
One afternoon, White Betty came over red-faced and fuming. “Lawd, Black Betty,” she said, waving her hands. “I ran into town for an hour, and Pam got out of her cage! She tore up the curtains, knocked over my good lamp, and—Lord have mercy—she pooped all over the house.”
Black Betty froze mid-sip of her tea. “Cage?” she asked softly.
“Well, you know,” White Betty said, trying to laugh it off. “Just something to keep her put when I ain’t home.”
That night, Black Betty couldn’t sleep. Something wasn’t sitting right. So she picked up the phone and called the sheriff. “Sheriff,” she said, “I think you need to do a welfare check on Pam over at White Betty’s place.”
The sheriff sighed. “Why you thinkin’ that?”
“She mentioned keeping Pam in a cage while she was in town—and that Pam got out, destroyed the house, and pooped everywhere. I’m afraid White Betty doesn’t have adequate support to care for a special-needs child on her own. I want her to get the help she needs so she doesn’t have to put her daughter in a cage.”
He chuckled, slow and calm. “Hey, Black Betty… Pam’s a lamb.”
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