jumper pocket. The plug made a bulge in his jaw. He put the rest of the plug back into his pocket and set to work, pulling out the entrails of the crawdads.
“You have to git hold a that middle tail fin an’ yank it out clean, ’Mereego,” he said. “The entr’l is connected to that. Like the bowels in humans.”
Mrs. Derby stepped back out onto the porch, carrying the seat of an old wooden chair that had a broken back.
“You kin come down an’ help, if you wanna, ’Mer’go,” she said, looking up with a warm smile, unconsciously cleaning the cracks between her teeth with the chewed end of a match, which she wielded with her free hand. She put the chair down and continued looking up at him, shading her blue eye with the palm of her stool hand, placing the matchstick hand on her generous hip.
He looked through the screen door in order to read the answer on his mother’s face, but she was already out on the porch leaning over the banister before he could utter the question, much less decipher the answer. Standing upon the clean spot upon which the cat had died she was saying: “This mister don’ deserve no kind treatment today, Mrs. Derby, not after the boner
he
’s pulled.” He heard the words but he didn’t really understand them because he was busy framing his question: “Mom, Mrs. Derby says kin I come down an’ help clean the crawdads?” But before he could hear his own thoughts articulated into words the screen door had swung open and Viola had stepped out onto the porch and was leaning over the banister, her feet planted on the spot.
Boom!
“This mister don’ deserve no …” But that was a long time ago, he suddenly realized now, noticing that the sun was deeper, redder, andthat a cool breeze rippled through the shade that drenched the porch!
A searing pain shot through his hand and bared the bone of his knuckle. He put the kitten down
.
“Good evenin’, Mister Derby,” she was saying. “Why looka there! You sure caught a heap a good ’uns taday! You gonna have some for us?”
“A course!” said Mrs. Derby, “I’ll bring you up some myself— just as soon as they git done.” Mr. Derby nodded assent, still bent upon his work.
“What my boy do, Mrs. Jones?” asked Mrs. Derby.
“This smart young man,” He listened with interest, as though she were talking about somebody else, noticing that a deep amber ray of sunlight cut Mrs. Derby’s face into two parts, reflecting fiery points of light within the pupil of her blue eye on the sunny side and casting her brown eye in shade, while her short, neatly combed, kinky hair blazed in fine filaments of rainbow-colored light:
“This smart young man went traipsin’ off into the alley — bare-footed! After me workin’ like I don’ know what to buy ’im shoes an’ things, an’ him with that bad little Sammy Hilton an’ his bunch. He let ’um talk ’im into goin’
all the way downtown!
To
the soup line!
I
know
he didn’ think that up hisself, but he’s gotta learn to do what me an’ his daddy tell ’im, else it’s gonna be too bad, Jim! Imagine how I felt when I come home an’ find out that he’s been in the
soup line?
People think we ain’ feedin’ ’im!”
“Naw!”
cried Mrs. Derby, “my boy ain’ been in no
soup line!
Why, I don’ believe it! ’Mer’go ain’ just no ord’nary boy. Just look at that head! An’ them big bright eyes a his’n. Honest to goodness! Sometimes that child kin look plumb through you. He never coulda done a thing like that all by hisself. Why, when I saw ’im this mornin’ he was playin’ as pretty as you please.”
“Yes’m, I know, he’s a good boy. I ain’ braggin’ just ’cause he’s mine, but ain’ a child in this alley as well mannered or as well spoke of as he is, but he’s gotta learn not to let the other boys lead ’im astray!”
“You sho’ said that right! You gotta make ’um walk the chalk line ’cause Lord knows it’s hard enough to bring ’um up
“You have to git hold a that middle tail fin an’ yank it out clean, ’Mereego,” he said. “The entr’l is connected to that. Like the bowels in humans.”
Mrs. Derby stepped back out onto the porch, carrying the seat of an old wooden chair that had a broken back.
“You kin come down an’ help, if you wanna, ’Mer’go,” she said, looking up with a warm smile, unconsciously cleaning the cracks between her teeth with the chewed end of a match, which she wielded with her free hand. She put the chair down and continued looking up at him, shading her blue eye with the palm of her stool hand, placing the matchstick hand on her generous hip.
He looked through the screen door in order to read the answer on his mother’s face, but she was already out on the porch leaning over the banister before he could utter the question, much less decipher the answer. Standing upon the clean spot upon which the cat had died she was saying: “This mister don’ deserve no kind treatment today, Mrs. Derby, not after the boner
he
’s pulled.” He heard the words but he didn’t really understand them because he was busy framing his question: “Mom, Mrs. Derby says kin I come down an’ help clean the crawdads?” But before he could hear his own thoughts articulated into words the screen door had swung open and Viola had stepped out onto the porch and was leaning over the banister, her feet planted on the spot.
Boom!
“This mister don’ deserve no …” But that was a long time ago, he suddenly realized now, noticing that the sun was deeper, redder, andthat a cool breeze rippled through the shade that drenched the porch!
A searing pain shot through his hand and bared the bone of his knuckle. He put the kitten down
.
“Good evenin’, Mister Derby,” she was saying. “Why looka there! You sure caught a heap a good ’uns taday! You gonna have some for us?”
“A course!” said Mrs. Derby, “I’ll bring you up some myself— just as soon as they git done.” Mr. Derby nodded assent, still bent upon his work.
“What my boy do, Mrs. Jones?” asked Mrs. Derby.
“This smart young man,” He listened with interest, as though she were talking about somebody else, noticing that a deep amber ray of sunlight cut Mrs. Derby’s face into two parts, reflecting fiery points of light within the pupil of her blue eye on the sunny side and casting her brown eye in shade, while her short, neatly combed, kinky hair blazed in fine filaments of rainbow-colored light:
“This smart young man went traipsin’ off into the alley — bare-footed! After me workin’ like I don’ know what to buy ’im shoes an’ things, an’ him with that bad little Sammy Hilton an’ his bunch. He let ’um talk ’im into goin’
all the way downtown!
To
the soup line!
I
know
he didn’ think that up hisself, but he’s gotta learn to do what me an’ his daddy tell ’im, else it’s gonna be too bad, Jim! Imagine how I felt when I come home an’ find out that he’s been in the
soup line?
People think we ain’ feedin’ ’im!”
“Naw!”
cried Mrs. Derby, “my boy ain’ been in no
soup line!
Why, I don’ believe it! ’Mer’go ain’ just no ord’nary boy. Just look at that head! An’ them big bright eyes a his’n. Honest to goodness! Sometimes that child kin look plumb through you. He never coulda done a thing like that all by hisself. Why, when I saw ’im this mornin’ he was playin’ as pretty as you please.”
“Yes’m, I know, he’s a good boy. I ain’ braggin’ just ’cause he’s mine, but ain’ a child in this alley as well mannered or as well spoke of as he is, but he’s gotta learn not to let the other boys lead ’im astray!”
“You sho’ said that right! You gotta make ’um walk the chalk line ’cause Lord knows it’s hard enough to bring ’um up
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