cake of ice on his shoulder.
Who’s that funny-looking man? He surprised himself with this thought, hearing now the high-pitched, snuff-soaked voice of Mrs. Derby nudging its way through her bloodred throat past two fine rows of even white teeth:
“Bra Mo! Aw-Bra Mo!”
That’s when she dropped the strap.
He plodded through the shoot and cut across the lot and paused at the gate long enough to shift his left hand to the handle of the tongs, which drew his left arm across his chest and caused his knuckles to stand out in bony ridges across the back of his small black hand, the fingertips of which were extraordinarily large and round, with nails of a light pink color. Like dolls with no clothes on. His old dirty cap hugged his head and sweat ran down his small oval face. There was a bulge like Mrs. Derby’s under his bottom lip, and his face looked like it was cut out of wet black stone.
Bra Mo grunted under the weight of the melting ice as he fastened the gate. Then he shifted his tongs to his right hand and crossed the yard dressed in sweat-wet blue overalls and heavy shoes. He shuffled down the steps past Aunt Lily’s door, shoulders bent, legs bent, eyes straining forward. Amerigo’s gaze followed him under the staircase into Mrs. Derby’s kitchen.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, opening the screen door.
He said that this morning! “Whew! Sho’ hope you don’ never have to work like this!”
“Sho’ is hot, all right!” said Mrs. Derby.
“You sho’ said
that
right!” said Bra Mo.
With a strange frightening detachment he heard the cake of ice grate against the metal rim inside the top part of the icebox with the metal lining painted white, flecks of silver showing through where the paint was peeling off. He smelled the wet soggy butter and cold water in the big bottle with the rusty grooves where you screw the top on, and little plates of leftover food: a grease-stained off-white paper containing a piece of fat bacon, a can of Carnation milk, a couple of eggs, a small can of lard, and half a cantaloupe.
“Looks like this heat ain’ never gonna let up!” Bra Mo was saying.
“Sho’ don’,” said Mrs. Derby, “but it don’ do no good complainin’, the Lord’s gonna have
His
way
anyhow!
”
He could mentally see Bra Mo taking out his dirty little blue book with its curled edges and its little stump of a yellow pencil with the blunt point, licking his black club of a forefinger with his sharp little red tongue and fingering until he came to a page with sprawling numbers, and as his heavy finger slowly ascended the column his brows arched, causing his smooth forehead to wrinkle. Then, wetting the point of his pencil with his tongue:
“Eh, that makes —”
“Put it on the book, Bra Mo,” said Mrs. Derby with a slightly embarrassed sweetness, “Mr. Derby’ll pay you Sad’dy. What does yo’ reck’nin’ come to?”
“That makes, eh, eh, a dollar an’-an’ sixty — a dollar-sixty!” with a triumphant smile.
“All right then,” said Mrs. Derby.
The screen door whined again and Bra Mo came out of the kitchen and ascended the steps to the yard with a lighter step. His long arms hung at his sides. He withdrew from his pocket a big blue print handkerchief and as he wiped his face, it took on a dull velvet tone that was very beautiful, Amerigo thought. Pleasantly surprised, he inspected his friend’s face more closely. He had a rather large nose with a high bridge that made him have to look up and out — over — at the world when his shoulders were not burdened with heavy cakes of ice or baskets of coal.
He looked up at Amerigo and grinned. His thin shapely lips drew away from his deep pink gums, revealing two rows of small fine white teeth, like corn on the cob.
“Whew!” His grin deepened. “Sho’ been hot taday, ain’ it, ’Mer’go? Boy, I could heah you sweatin’ clean out in the alley. Hee! hee!”
He dropped his eyes with embarrassment.
As soon as he had disappeared
Who’s that funny-looking man? He surprised himself with this thought, hearing now the high-pitched, snuff-soaked voice of Mrs. Derby nudging its way through her bloodred throat past two fine rows of even white teeth:
“Bra Mo! Aw-Bra Mo!”
That’s when she dropped the strap.
He plodded through the shoot and cut across the lot and paused at the gate long enough to shift his left hand to the handle of the tongs, which drew his left arm across his chest and caused his knuckles to stand out in bony ridges across the back of his small black hand, the fingertips of which were extraordinarily large and round, with nails of a light pink color. Like dolls with no clothes on. His old dirty cap hugged his head and sweat ran down his small oval face. There was a bulge like Mrs. Derby’s under his bottom lip, and his face looked like it was cut out of wet black stone.
Bra Mo grunted under the weight of the melting ice as he fastened the gate. Then he shifted his tongs to his right hand and crossed the yard dressed in sweat-wet blue overalls and heavy shoes. He shuffled down the steps past Aunt Lily’s door, shoulders bent, legs bent, eyes straining forward. Amerigo’s gaze followed him under the staircase into Mrs. Derby’s kitchen.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, opening the screen door.
He said that this morning! “Whew! Sho’ hope you don’ never have to work like this!”
“Sho’ is hot, all right!” said Mrs. Derby.
“You sho’ said
that
right!” said Bra Mo.
With a strange frightening detachment he heard the cake of ice grate against the metal rim inside the top part of the icebox with the metal lining painted white, flecks of silver showing through where the paint was peeling off. He smelled the wet soggy butter and cold water in the big bottle with the rusty grooves where you screw the top on, and little plates of leftover food: a grease-stained off-white paper containing a piece of fat bacon, a can of Carnation milk, a couple of eggs, a small can of lard, and half a cantaloupe.
“Looks like this heat ain’ never gonna let up!” Bra Mo was saying.
“Sho’ don’,” said Mrs. Derby, “but it don’ do no good complainin’, the Lord’s gonna have
His
way
anyhow!
”
He could mentally see Bra Mo taking out his dirty little blue book with its curled edges and its little stump of a yellow pencil with the blunt point, licking his black club of a forefinger with his sharp little red tongue and fingering until he came to a page with sprawling numbers, and as his heavy finger slowly ascended the column his brows arched, causing his smooth forehead to wrinkle. Then, wetting the point of his pencil with his tongue:
“Eh, that makes —”
“Put it on the book, Bra Mo,” said Mrs. Derby with a slightly embarrassed sweetness, “Mr. Derby’ll pay you Sad’dy. What does yo’ reck’nin’ come to?”
“That makes, eh, eh, a dollar an’-an’ sixty — a dollar-sixty!” with a triumphant smile.
“All right then,” said Mrs. Derby.
The screen door whined again and Bra Mo came out of the kitchen and ascended the steps to the yard with a lighter step. His long arms hung at his sides. He withdrew from his pocket a big blue print handkerchief and as he wiped his face, it took on a dull velvet tone that was very beautiful, Amerigo thought. Pleasantly surprised, he inspected his friend’s face more closely. He had a rather large nose with a high bridge that made him have to look up and out — over — at the world when his shoulders were not burdened with heavy cakes of ice or baskets of coal.
He looked up at Amerigo and grinned. His thin shapely lips drew away from his deep pink gums, revealing two rows of small fine white teeth, like corn on the cob.
“Whew!” His grin deepened. “Sho’ been hot taday, ain’ it, ’Mer’go? Boy, I could heah you sweatin’ clean out in the alley. Hee! hee!”
He dropped his eyes with embarrassment.
As soon as he had disappeared
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