Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [297]
“What git me is you talk like Virgil grown awready,” said Matilda. “Don’ you realize dat chile ain’t but six years ol’? Jes’ half de twelve you was when dey drug you off down dere.” She paused. “But I knows he got to work now he’s six. So reckon can’t do nothin’ ’cept what you says, much as I jes’ gits mad every time I thinks ’bout how dem chickens stole you!”
“Anybody listen to you an’ mammy! Y’all soun’ like chickens done snatched me up an’ off crost de ocean somewheres!”
“Jes’ well’s to, mos’ de time, much as you’s gone.”
“Gone! Who settin’ up here talkin’ to you? Who been here every day dis month?”
“Dis month maybe, but where you gwine be fo’ long?”
“If you’s talkin’ ’bout de fightin’ season, I be wherever massa tell me we’s gwine. If you talkin’ ’bout right now, soon’s I eats, I sho ain’t gwine set here ’til some varmints creeps roun’ down dere an’ eats some chickens, or den I really be gone!”
“Oh! You’s finally ’greein’ he’d sell you, too!”
“I b’lieves he sell missis, she let his chickens git et!”
“Look,” she said, “we done got by widout no big fallin’ out ’bout Virgil, so let’s sho’ don’t start none ’bout nothin’ else.”
“I ain’t arguin’ in de firs’ place, it’s you de one!”
“Awright, George, I’se through wid it,” Matilda said, setting steaming bowls on the table. “Jes’ eat yo’ supper an’ git on back, an’ I sen’ Virgil down dere in de mornin’. Less’n you wants to take ’im back wid you now. I can go git ’im from over at ’is gran’mammy’s.”
“Naw, tomorrow be fine.”
But within a week it became clear to Chicken George that his eldest son lacked totally what had been his own boyhood fascination with gamebirds. Six years old or not, it seemed inconceivable to George that after completing an assigned task, Virgil would either wander off and play alone, or just sit down somewhere and do nothing. Then Virgil would leap up as his father angrily exclaimed, “Git up from dere! What you think dis is? Dese ain’t no pigs down dere, dese fightin’ chickens!” Then Virgil would do acceptably well whatever new task he was set to, but then once more, as George watched from the corner of his eye, he would see his son soon either sitting down again or going off to play. Fuming, he remembered how, as a boy, he had spent what little free time he had scampering around admiring the cockerels and the stags, plucking grass and catching grasshoppers to feed them, finding it all incredibly exciting.
Though Uncle Mingo’s way of training had been cool and businesslike—an order given, a watchful silence, then another order—George decided to try another approach with Virgil in hopes that he’d snap out of it. He’d talk to him.
“What you been doin’ wid yo’self up yonder?”
“Nothin’, Pappy.”
“Well, is you an’ de other young’uns gittin’ ’long all right an’ mindin’ yo’ mammy an’ gran’mammy?”
“Yassuh.”
“Reckon dey feeds you pretty good, huh?”
“Yassuh.”
“What you like to eat de mos’?”
“Anythin’ Mammy cooks us, yassuh.”
The boy seemed to lack even the faintest imagination. He’d try a different tack.
“Lemme hear you tell de story ’bout yo’ great-gran’daddy like you done once.”
Virgil obediently did so, rather woodenly. George’s heart sank. But after standing there thoughtfully for a moment, the boy asked, “Pappy, is you seed my great-gran’pappy?”
“Naw, I ain’t,” he replied hopefully. “I knows ’bout ’im same as you does, from yo’ gran’mammy.”
“She used to ride in de buggy wid ’im!”
“Sho’ she did! It was her pappy. Jes’ like one dese days you tell yo’ chilluns you used to set down here ’mongst de chickens wid yo’ pappy.”
That seemed to confuse Virgil, who fell silent.
After a few more such lame efforts, George reluctantly gave up, hoping that he’d have better luck with Ashford, George, and