Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [246]
Amid the loud guffawing, Miss Malizy needed a while to recover herself. Then, as she reached out to take the baby back, Sister Sarah snapped, “You wait! I ain’t had ’im but a minute!”
It delighted Kizzy to see them compete over her child, and to watch Uncle Pompey watching quietly, then beaming instantly if the baby happened to look his way, when he would make funny faces or movements with his fingers to hold the child’s attention. George was crawling around one Sunday a few months later when he started crying to nurse. Kizzy was about to lift him when Miss Malizy said, “Let ’im hol’ on jes’ a bit, honey. Dat boy big enough to start eatin’ sump’n now.” Hurrying to her cabin, Miss Malizy returned in a few moments, and they all watched as she used the back of a teaspoon to mash a half teacup of cornbread and potlikker into a mush. Then, lifting George onto her ample lap, she spooned a tiny portion into his mouth. They all beamed as he wolfed it down and smacked his lips in eagerness for more.
With George now starting to explore on all fours when they were out in the fields, Kizzy tied a length of small rope about his waist to limit his range, but she soon discovered that even within its reach, he was picking up and eating dirt and crawling insects. They all agreed that something had to be done. “Since he ain’ got to nuss no mo’,” Miss Malizy suggested, “seem like if you leaves’im wid me, I can keep a good eye on ’im whilst you’s in de fiel’.” Even Sister Sarah thought that made sense, and as much as Kizzy hated to, she began delivering George to the big-house kitchen before she left each morning, then retrieving him when she returned. She almost wavered about her decision when George’s first recognizable word was “Mi’lize,” but soon after he clearly said “Mammy,” thrilling Kizzy to the core. Then his next word was “Unka’pomp,” which made the old man look like he’d swallowed the sunshine. And that was soon followed by “Sis’sira.”
At one year, George was walking without assistance. By fifteen months he was even romping about, clearly reveling in the sheer joy of being at last independent and on his own. Now he seldom permitted any of them to hold him, unless he was sleepy or didn’t feel well, which was rare, for he was fairly bursting with health and growth, thanks in no small part to his daily stuffing by Miss Malizy with the best fare that the kitchen could afford. Now during Sunday afternoons, as Kizzy and the other three doting adults carried on their conversation, they feasted their eyes on the boy waddling around, playing happily alone, with his soon baggy-wet diapers shortly matching the dirt in color. George was as delighted with tasting a twig as with catching a beetle or with chasing a dragonfly, the yard cat, or the chickens—which he sent clucking off in alarm to find another scratching place. One Sunday the three women held their sides in laughter at the spectacle of the usually somber Uncle Pompey loping awkwardly for short distances trying to get a light breeze to lift the kite he had made for the fascinated boy. “Lem’me tell you, gal, you don’t really know what you seein’ yonder,” Sister Sarah remarked to Kizzy. “Fo’ dat chile come here, once Pompey got in his cabin, we wouldn’t hardly see ’im no mo’ ’til de mornin’.”
“De truth!” said Miss Malizy. “I ain’t even knowed Pompey had no fun in ’im!”
“Well, I know I sho’ felt good when he put up dem l’il shelters for George when I first brung ’im to de fiel’s,” said Kizzy.
“You feel good! Dat chile doin’ us all good!” said Sister Sarah.
Uncle Pompey further claimed George’s attention when he began telling him stories at the age of two. With the Sunday sun setting and the evening turning cool, Pompey would build a small, smoky fire of green wood to discourage the mosquitoes as the three women would position their chairs around the fire. Then George would find his most comfortable position to watch the mobile face and gesturing hands of Uncle Pompey