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In the spring of 1967, my mother and father went out of town for the weekend and left my four sisters and me in the company of a woman named Mrs. Byrd, who was old and black and worked as a maid for one of our Raleigh neighbors. She arrived at our house on a Friday afternoon, and, after carrying her suitcase to my parents' bedroom, I gave her a little tour, the way I imagined they did in hotels. "This is your TV, this is your private sun deck, and over here you've got a bathroom--just yours, and nobody else's."
Mrs. Byrd put her hand to her cheek. "Somebody pinch me, I'm about to fall out."
She cooed again when I opened a dresser drawer, and explained ...