A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest J. Gaines

eating.
    â€œYour nannan can sure cook,” I said.
    â€œThat’s for youmans,” he said.
    â€œYou’re a human being, Jefferson,” I said.
    â€œI’m a old hog,” he said. “Youmans don’t stay in no stall like this. I’m a old hog they fattening up to kill.”
    â€œThat would hurt your nannan if she heard you say that. You want me to tell her you said that?”
    â€œOld hog don’t care what people say.”
    â€œShe cares,” I said. “And I do too, Jefferson.”
    â€œY’all youmans,” he said.
    â€œYou’re a human being too, Jefferson.”
    â€œI’m a old hog,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Just a old hog they fattening up to kill for Christmas.”
    â€œYou’re a human being, Jefferson. You’re a man.”
    He kept his eyes on me as he got up from the bunk.
    â€œI’m go’n show you how a old hog eat,” he said.
    He knelt down on the floor and put his head inside the bag and started eating, without using his hands. He even sounded like a hog.
    I stood back watching him, while I continued to eat the biscuit and piece of chicken.
    â€œThat’s how a old hog eat,” he said, raising his head and grinning at me. He got up from his knees and went back to his bunk. “That’s how a old hog eat.”
    â€œAll right,” I said. “But when I go back, I’m going to tell her that you and I sat on the bunk and ate, and you said how good the food was. I won’t tell her what you did. She is already sick, and that would kill her. So I’m going to lie. I’m going to tell her how much you liked the food. Especially the pralines.”
    He said nothing. He just grinned at me.
    â€œAre you trying to hurt me, Jefferson?” I asked him. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty for your being here? You don’t want me to come back here anymore?”
    His expression didn’t change—as though someone had chiseled that painful, cynical grin on his face.
    â€œThat man out there doesn’t want me up here either,” I told him. “He said I will never be able to make you understand anything. He said I’m just wasting my time coming up here now. But your nannan doesn’t think so. She wants me to come up here. She wants us to talk. What do you want? You want me to stay away and let him win? The white man? You want him to win?”
    His expression remained the same—cynical, defiant, painful.
    I could not think of anything else to say to him. But since I had been there less than half an hour, I knew it was too early to call for the deputy. The sheriff would have known that Jefferson and I were not getting along, and that was the last thing I could afford, at least for Miss Emma’s sake.
    The rest of the hour just dragged along. Jefferson was not looking at me anymore; he had lain back down on the bunk, facing the wall. I gazed out the window, at the yellow leaves on the sycamore tree. The leaves were as still as if they were painted there. Between the leaves I could see bits of pale-blue sky. I looked at Jefferson, with his back to me. I looked at his pair of laceless shoes under the bunk. I looked down at the bag of food, trying to remember how many pieces of chicken, biscuits, potatoes, or pieces of candy were still in there. I went to the washbowl and got a handful of water to drink. I tried turning the faucet off completely, but it continued to drip. The water had left a brown stain from the top of the bowl to the drain. I turned to Jefferson again. He was facing the wall, his back to me. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking about.
    When I heard the deputy come down the cellblock, I went to the bunk.
    â€œAnything you want me to tell your nannan?” I asked him.
    He didn’t answer. His eyes were open and staring at the wall.
    â€œI’ll tell her how much you enjoyed the food,” I said. “That would