Raney by Clyde Edgerton

started to say, "But you do — over and over and over." Then I saw his hand shaking while he pulled at his ear.
    "I've made a decision this time. I'm quitting. I'm getting the shakes. Look at my hands. I can't get them any stiller than that. I'm just going to have to tell myself to quit and then do it."
    "You know you can't take that first drink, Uncle Nate. It's all over when you do that. You've got to have the strength to say no. There's plenty of people who do it. And Mama has done everything she can, as you well know."
    "She has. She has. She sure has."
    "I'm glad you're going to stop, Uncle Nate. You've said that before, though."
    "This is the first time I've had the shakes like this. Look at that." He looked at his hands, then at me. "How is Newton? Didn't somebody take him to the hospital Sunday — or Saturday?"
    "Nobody took him to the hospital, but he's not doing too good . That was Norris I took. He knocked his thumb out of joint, but it's doing okay."
    "He's a little fighter, ain't he?"
    "He sure is. Here, you better eat your dinner. I'll be back at three. I need to do a little shopping. You need anything?"
    "Some Scholl's footpads. Size 9-C."
    I came back at three and picked up Uncle Nate and took him by home and then on out to the store. He usually works out there in the afternoons. He's never been able to do any more than just help out, of course, but it helps Daddy be able to come and go and oversee instead of being there with Sneeds all the time — one of them tending pumps while the other works inside. When Daddy had a chance to get all self-service pumps he turned them down, so he needs Uncle Nate.

 
     
     
    PART TWO
     
    A Civil War

 
     
    I
     
     
    I finally got Charles to join in on something that will get his head out of a book. Aunt Flossie organizes a Golden Agers' day every fall and for the past two falls I've helped her. I asked Charles if he'd help us this fall and he said he would.
    Mrs. Moss, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Clements from our neighborhood are in the Golden Agers and I take them to their meeting the first Thursday morning of each month. They live close to our house and when they come over to visit, Charles'll get up, go to the bedroom, sit and read. He'd rather read a book, written by somebody he don't know, than to sit down and talk to a live human being who's his neighbor.
    So I brought it up a few days ago. "Charles," I said, "you'd rather sit down back there in the bedroom and read a book than talk to a live human being like Mrs. Moss."
    "I'm not so sure I agree with your assessment of Mrs. Moss," he says.
    "What do you mean by that?"
    "It means I have had one conversation with Mrs. Moss and one conversation with Mrs. Moss is enough. I am not interested in her falling off the commode and having a hairline rib fracture. I am not interested in her cataract operation. Mrs. Moss is unable to comprehend anything beyond her own problems and you know it."
    This is one of the areas of life Charles does not understand. Mama and Aunt Flossie have taught me, for as long as I can remember , to be good to old people. Charles thinks old people are all supposed to grace him with a long conversation on psychology.
    Mrs. Moss does talk about herself right much. She'll come over in her apron to borrow a cup of something. One Sunday she borrowed a cup of flour after I saw a bag of Red Band in her shopping cart — on top — at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday. But the way I figure it is this: Mrs. Moss has had a lifetime of things happening to her and all along she's had these other people — her husband and children — to watch these things happen. So she didn't ever have to tell anybody. Then her husband died and her children left and there was nobody around to watch these things happen anymore, so she don't have any way to share except to tell. So the thing to do is listen . It's easy to cut her off when she goes on and on. You just start talking about something else. She follows right