A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [51]
“How much do you soak at a time, Mrs. Hammond?”
“Well, I swan! Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to make the cheese for you! Just cut off a little piece and soak it overnight. Heavens, child—your mama knows all that. Why are you asking so many questions!”
Mrs. Hammond turned and disappeared into another room. When she came back a minute later, she was carrying a little brown paper package.
“Tell your mama to get this in salt as soon as you get home.”
“We need some salt too, Mrs. Hammond.”
“How much—five pounds, ten pounds, twenty pounds?”
“Uh … twenty pounds, I think,” said Katie. “And the cheesecloth, please.”
Mrs. Hammond muttered something else about Katie’s intelligence, then went to get the other two items. As she did Katie looked around the store. First she noticed the newspapers and remembered that her mama always bought one every time she came into town. Maybe she ought to get one too. After that the stick candy particularly caught her eye.
“All right then, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, setting the salt on the floor and a roll of cheesecloth on the counter, “is there anything else?”
“I want to get a newspaper, and would you please give me four of these peppermints,” she said, pointing to the glass jar on the counter.
Mrs. Hammond glanced at her with a curious expression.
“Four?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. And four of the molasses drops.”
“Does your mama eat candy, Kathleen?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you going to eat these all yourself, then?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And you want … four of each?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Deciding it was best not to wait for any more questions, Katie bent down to pick up the bag of salt to carry it outside.
“Oh, I think it’s too heavy for me,” she said. “I won’t be able to lift it up.”
“Here is your candy, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, handing her a bag, “and the rennet skin … and the cheesecloth and the paper. You take those. I’ll put the salt in the wagon for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” Katie said and followed her to the door.
Ten minutes later, as Katie was sitting in the buggy waiting for Mr. Watson to load in the second bag of oats, Katie saw Henry walking slowly toward her from the direction of the livery stable.
“Mo’nin, Miz Kathleen,” he said as he ambled up.
“Where dat little black frien’ er yers?”
“Uh … she’s back at the plantation,” answered Katie.
“What she doin’?”
“Working.”
“ ’Peers ter me you been a workin’ mighty hard too,
Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, glancing toward Katie’s hands as they sat holding the reins in her lap. “ ’Specially seein’ all dem blisters on yo han’s.”
Unconsciously Katie pulled back her hands and stuffed them into the folds of her dress.
“Uh, yes … it’s hard work for Mama and me.”
“Why, ain’t yo daddy back? I hear’d folks sayin’ dey ain’t seen hide or hair o’ him since da war ended.”
“I don’t know. He just isn’t back.”
“Effen you say so, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, looking out of the corner of his eye with a bit of a suspicious expression. “But sounds ter me like sumfin a mite peeculiar’s goin’ on.”
Mr. Watson came with the oats and dumped the bag off his shoulder into the back of the buggy, bouncing it up and down a few times.
“There you are, Miss Clairborne,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Watson,” said Katie. “Well, goodbye … good-bye, Henry.”
“Now jes’ you hol’ on er minute, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry before Katie could start up, while Mr. Watson walked back inside. He laid a hand on one of the reins to hold the horses back. “Is you sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ you want ter tell yo frien’ Henry?”
As he said it he looked straight into Katie’s eyes.
Katie glanced away nervously. Back in the direction of the livery stable, she saw Henry’s son standing watching.
“You sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ I kin do fer you, Miz Kathleen?” Henry added.
“Thank you, Henry,” said Katie. “I’ll tell Mama—”
“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout yo mama, Miz Kathleen,” he said even more insistently. “I’m ax’in’ effen dere ain’t sumfin I kin do fer you.
” “No … no,