Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [305]
“Bless ’is heart!” ... “He look so good!” ... “Don’t he now! See how dem shoulders an’ arms done filled out!” ... “Gran’mammy, leave me kiss Tom!” ... “Don’t squeeze ’im all day, lem’me git holt of ’im too, chile!”
Over their shoulders, Tom caught a glimpse of his two younger brothers, James and Lewis, wearing awed expressions; he knew that L’il George was down among the gamecocks with his father, and Virgil had told him that Ashford had gotten the massa’s permission to visit a girl on another plantation.
Then he saw the usually bedridden Uncle Pompey sitting outside his cabin in an old cane chair, bundled in a heavy quilt. As soon as he could maneuver clear, Tom hurried over to shake the old man’s puffy, trembling hand, bending closer to hear the cracked and almost whispery voice.
“Jes’ wants to make sho’ you’s really back to see us, boy—”
“Yassuh, Uncle Pompey, mighty glad to git back!”
“Awright, see you later on,” the old man quavered.
Tom was having trouble with his emotions. In his now sixteen years, not only had he never been treated so much like a man, but also he had never before felt such an outpouring of his slave-row family’s love and respect.
His two little sisters were still pulling and clamoring over him when they heard a familiar voice trumpeting in the distance.
“Lawd, here come Mr. Rooster!” exclaimed Matilda, and the women went scurrying to set the Thanksgiving meal on the table.
When Chicken George came striding into the slave-row area, seeing Tom, he beamed. “Well, look what done got loose an’ come home!” He clapped Tom heavily across the shoulders with his hand. “Is you makin’ any money yet?”
“Nawsuh, not yet, Pappy.”
“What kin’ of blacksmith you is ain’t makin’ no money?” demanded George in mock astonishment.
Tom remembered that he had always felt caught in a windstorm whenever closely exposed to his father’s bombastic way of expressing himself. “Long ways yet from bein’ no blacksmith, Pappy, jes’ tryin’ to learn,” he said.
“Well, you tell dat Isaiah nigger I say hurry up an’ learn you sump’n!”
“Yassuh,” said Tom mechanically, his mind flashing that he could probably never master even so much as half of what Mr. Isaiah was patiently making every effort to help him learn. He asked, “Ain’t L’il George comin’ up here fo’ dinner?”
“He might git here in time, an’ he might not,” said Chicken George. “He too lazy to finish what I give ’im to do firs’ thing dis mornin’, an’ I tol’ ’im I don’t want to see his face up here ’til he git it done!” Chicken George was moving over to Uncle Pompey. “Sho’ glad to see you out’n yo’ cabin, Uncle Pompey. How’s you doin’?”
“Po’ly, son, mighty po’ly. Ol’ man jes’ ain’t no mo’ good, dat’s all.”
“Don’t give me dat stuff, nary bit!” boomed Chicken George, and laughing, he turned to Tom, “Yo’ ol’ Uncle Pompey one dem ol’ lizard kin’ o’ niggers gwine live to be a hunnud! Done got real low sick reckon two, three times since you been gone, but every time de wimminfolks all snifflin’ ready to bury ’im, he git right back up ag’in!”
The three of them were laughing when the voice of Gran’mammy Kizzy shrilled at them, “Y’all bring Pompey on over here to de table now!” Though the day was crisp, the women had set up a long table under the chinquapin tree so that everybody could enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner together.
James and Lewis seized Uncle Pompey’s chair, with Sister Sarah running up solicitously behind them.
“Don’ drop ’im, now, he still ain’t too ol’ to fan y’all’s britches!” called Chicken George.
When they were all seated,