• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1386 0

we knows is full o’ samples whatever dat ’ticular drummer’s sellin’. Miss Nancy says dey’s real gen’lmens, keeps deyselves clean as pins, an’ really ’preciates bein’ took good care of, an’ I likes ’em, too. Some jes’ quick to give you a dime as a nickel fo’ carryin’ dey bags, shinin’ dey shoes, or doin’ nigh ’bout anythin’! Gin’ly dey washes up an’ walks roun’ town talkin’ wid folks. After eatin’ dinner, dey’ll set on de porch, smokin’ or chawin’ ’baccy an’ jes’ lookin’, or talkin’ til dey goes on upstairs to bed. Den nex mornin’ after breakfas’, dey calls one us niggers to tote dey samples cases over crost to dat blacksmith’s what fo’ a dollar a day rents ’em a hoss an’ buggy, an’ off dey drives to sell stuff at I reckon ’bout all de stores ’long de roads in dis county—”

In a spontaneity of sheer admiration that Amos worked amid such wonders, the chubby L’il George exclaimed, “Amos, boy, I ain’t realized you is leadin’ some life!”

“Miss Nancy say de railroad bigges’ thing since de hoss,” Amos modestly observed. “She say soon’s some mo’ railroads gits dey tracks jines togedder, things ain’t gwine never be de same no mo’.”

CHAPTER 108

Chicken George slowed his galloping, lathered horse barely enough for its sharp turning off the main road into the lane, then abruptly his hands jerked the reins taut. It was the right place, but since he had seen it last: unbelievable! Beyond the weeds’ choked lane ahead, the once buff-colored Lea home looked a mottled gray of peeling old paint, rags were stuffed where some window panes had been; one side of the now heavily patched roof seemed almost sagging. Even the adjacent fields were barren, containing nothing but old dried weathered stalks within the collapsing split-log fences.

Shocked, bewildered, he relaxed the reins to continue with the horse now picking its way through the weeds. Yet closer, he saw the big-house porch aslant, the broken-down front steps; and the slave-row cabins’ roofs were all caving in. Not a cat, dog, or chicken was to be seen as he slid off the horse, leading it now by its bridle alongside the house to the backyard.

He was no more prepared for the sight of the heavy old woman sitting bent over on a piece of log, picking poke salad greens, dropping the stems about her feet and the leaves into a cracked, rusting washbasin. He recognized that she had to be Miss Malizy, but so incredibly different it seemed impossible. His unnecessary loud “Whoa!” caught her attention.

Miss Malizy quit picking the greens. Raising her head, looking about, then she saw him, but he could tell she didn’t yet realize who he was.

“Miss Malizy!” He ran over closer, halting uncertainly as he saw her face still querying. Her eyes squinting, she got him into better focus... suddenly pushing one hand heavily down against the log, she helped herself upward. “George... ain’t’cha dat boy George?”

“Yes’m, Miss Malizyl” He rushed to her now, grasping and embracing her large flabbiness within his arms, close to crying. “Lawd, boy, where you been at? Used to be you was roun’ here all de time!”

Her tone and words held some vacantness, as if she were unaware of nearly five years’ time lapse. “Been crost de water in dat Englan’, Miss Malizy. Been fightin’ chickens over dere—Miss Malizy, where my wife an’ mammy an’ chilluns at?”

So was her face blankness, as if beyond any more emotion no matter whatever else might happen. “Ain’t nobody hardly here no mo’, boy!” She sounded surprised that he didn’t know it. “Dey’s all gone. Jes’ me an’ massa’s lef ’—”

“Gone where, Miss Malizy?” He knew now that her mind had weakened.

With a puffy hand she gestured toward the small willow grove still below the slave row. “Yo’ mammy... Kizzy her name... layin’ down yonder—”

A whooping sob rose and burst from Chicken George’s throat. His hand flew up to muffle it.

“Sarah, too, she down dere... an’ ol’ missy... in de front yard—ain’t you seed ’er when you rid by?”

“Miss Malizy, where ’Tilda an’ my chilluns?”

He didn’t want to rattle her. She had to think a moment.

“’Tilda? Yeh. ’Tilda good gal, sho