Now in November by Josephine W. Johnson

other. They made faces and ran away shrieking, except Henry who stood and stared, half-hidden behind Lucia’s enormous arm. “Henry’s like Chrishun,” Lucia said. “Follows him everywhere quiet.”
    â€œI hoed,” Henry announced in a loud burst, and disappeared in an agony of shame behind her skirt. Christian sat hunched and tight in his chair, the candle making his face like a black carved skull, and a reflection of fire in the stained balls of his eyes. He brooded and seemed absorbed in something beyond us both, and Lucia did all the talking, her voice a deep and comforting boom.
    There were two rooms in the house (one a sort of shed for the dogs and chickens), and around us the beds and sacking bulged dimly in the corners. There were a stove and table and the close, rich smell of air used and over-used and mixed with stale coffee and soup. The walls were covered with pictures: torn Bible illustrations—The Good Shepherd and The Widow’s Mite—and advertisements for liver medicine. The corners were deep with old newspapers stacked up for the stove, and bundles of kindling salvaged on Christian’s trips to town were chucked underneath. It was thick inside, and mosquitoes whined in and out of the torn screens, but Lucia rocked calmly and seemed unconscious of all their stings. Round silver balls of perspiration stood out on her face and dripped down her polished cheeks like placid tears.
    For ten years Ramsey had rented land and expected to buy, but all that he ever did was make his rent-money and put up half the crop to go over the winter. In five years they saved fifty dollars and then had to spend it to get a new team. But every spring Lucia boomed out that this was the year they were going to make it. Ramsey’d mutter the same thing, too, andall that they ever did was pay the rent. . . . I told them I’d come for help and they looked surprised, and all of a sudden it occurred to me that we seemed to them as the Rathmans did to us. Safe. Comfortable. Giving appearance of richness, with our dairy and corn and chickens, our steers and team and orchard—although each thing was barely paying to keep itself. . . . I told them about the gall, and Lucia looked back at Christian, waiting for him to say. She’d have given us both the mules, herself, and everything else she could lay her hands on if I had asked her alone.
    Christian stared down at his hands and answered slow, as if it were effort to talk. “You kin have them both,” he said. “They don’ pull good sepurate.—It don’ matter about you helpin’ in the fall.”
    â€œChrishun don’ think we’ll be here to cut that corn,” Lucia said. “We can’t make any rent-payments ovah to Turner’s. We got to pay him in cash and half the crop, and we ain’t got any cash this yeah.—He ain’t goin’ to root us out, though! Ah’m goin’ stick heah tight! Turner have to yank pretty hard to get this big black tick out of his ol’ houn’s ear!”
    â€œKoven ain’t goin’ to lend us again,” Christian mumbled. “They ain’t got anything either now.”
    â€œGran’ Koven work for you folks now—that right?” Lucia asked me.
    â€œBoard and shares,” I told her. “Father can’t pay him much. Old Koven lives off their steers and savings. Enough for himself but nothing over.”
    â€œGran’ went to school,” Lucia said, “and Mistah Koven’s a minister. Gran’s a good man.”
    I liked to sit there and talk to them about Grant, speak of the things I liked about him to someone who wouldn’t suspect or find me out. “Grant works hard,” I told her. “Harder than anyone that I ever knew, except my father. Seems to have a good time some, too. Reads at night. Never gets mad with heat like Dad does.”
    â€œYour Pop’s a good man!” Christian