He was about thirty, she guessed, and wearing only a pair of baggy shorts and sandals, and a tie-dyed beater t-shirt that showed off his big chest and strong arms. Even though he was much older, Kitty thought he was cute, and danced over his direction, spinning around and making her skirt flare out, and her tits bounce."Where you headed, little momma?" the guy said. "Come on in here and groove with Mr. Miracle," he said over the music from the two big speakers that sat at each end of his camper."Mr. Miracle?" asked Kitty, "How'd you get that name?" Cuz I got the miracle everyone needs," Miracle replied in a stoned voice. "Like in 'I need a miracle?" Yeah, baby, I make the miracles happen."He said all this with a big smile, and he shook his long hair, which was tied in a ponytail behind him."What kind of miracle do you need, girl?" he asked, smiling."I'm just enjoying life, and just got a ride in," said Kitty, "but I might need a place to change and a place to crash, later on." You're. We lived about ten miles south of the city. The "town" was called Putney. It's big enough to show up on a map these days, but when I was a kid, it had a general store, a gas station and a tiny one-room post office. The town or area of Putney was the old Putney plantation. My family was related to the Putneys somehow. I never really understood what the relationship was. The last "Putney" was Mr. Witherspoon. He lived in the "House," pronounced with an implicit capital "H." The House was an old ante bellum mansion, then somewhat faded and decayed. The House always seemed very spooky to me. The exterior was white, at least where the paint wasn't peeling. Inside, it was filled with oversized furniture, dark wood upholstered in maroon velvet. There were heavy velvet drapes at the windows, often drawn against the midday sun. Mr. Witherspoon, or "Uncle Fred," as he insisted that I call him, was a bachelor. His only companions in the House were his man servant Noah and his housekeeper/cook,.
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