Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [47]
“I saved two pork chops for you, Randy,” Frances said quickly.
“No, thanks. Just coffee. Save the chops for my lunch.” Randall smiled abstractedly, clasped his fingers behind his head and studied the ceiling. “It isn't difficult to divine the purpose of your visit, Bubba,” he continued. “When you're flush, you wheel up in a convertible, your pockets stuffed with dollar cigars. When you're broke, you're completely broke, and on your uppers. But if the purpose of your visit is to collect the honest debt I owe you, you're out of luck. Three hundred dollars!” He shook his head and snorted. “Frankly, Bubba, I'd have a hard time raising twenty!”
He leaned forward in his chair and said derisively, “But you can live here as long as you like. We can still eat, and thanks to Daddy there's a wonderful roof over our heads. And whether we pay our bills in town or not, the Mansfield credit is still good'
To drink the coffee Frances set before him, Randall gripped the large white mug with both hands. His fingers didn't tremble, but it must have taken a good deal of concentrated effort to hold them steady.
“Going to see Mary Elizabeth?” he asked suddenly.
I shrugged and lit a cigarette. I offered the pack to my brother. He held up a palm in refusal, changed his mind and took one out of the pack. He held both of his hands in his lap, after putting the cork tip in his mouth, and I had to lean across the table to light it for him.
“You kind of believe in long engagements, don't you, Bubba?” he said, smiling sardonically. “It's been about seven years now, hasn't it?”
“Eight.” Frances emended. “Eight years come November.”
“Well, you can't say I haven't done my part to bring you together,” Randall said wryly, watching my face closely. “Five years ago our farms were almost three miles apart. But thanks to selling land to Wright Gaylord, we're less than a mile away from them now!” He laughed with genuine amusement.
I was unable to listen to him any longer. He made me feel sick to my stomach. I rose from the table, and picked up my shaving kit from the sideboard.
“There's plenty of hot water upstairs if you want to shave, but not enough yet for a bath. Lately I've taken to turning the heater off at night and not lighting it again till I get up,” Frances said. “Your room is dusty, too, but when Leona comes over this morning I'll have her do it up and put fresh sheets on the bed.”
I nodded at my sister-in-law and left the room. As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, Randall said, “Maybe you'd better scramble me a couple of eggs, Hon. But don't put any grease in the skillet, just a little salt...
Not only was Randall weak, he was a petty tyrant to his long-suffering wife. Before she could scramble eggs she would have to pour the good milk gravy into a bowl, and wash and dry the frying pan.
My old room was at the very end of the upstairs hallway, next to the bathroom. When Daddy bought the farm and moved us out from town, I had been elated about the move because it meant having a room to myself. And somehow, Daddy had made a go of the farm when many other good farmers were half starving in Georgia. He had earned a fair sum by not planting things and by collecting checks from the government. But even when times were excellent, he had never made any real money out of the farm. He was a fair farmer, but a poor businessman. Daddy had only been good for giving Randall and me advice, cheap advice, and he had never found anything in either one of us except our faults.
My room was dusty all right, as Frances had said. It had also been used as a catchall storeroom during the two years I had been away. The stripped double bed had been stacked with some cardboard cartons full of books, two shadeless table lamps and two carelessly rolled carpets. Extra pieces of dilapidated furniture had been tossed