Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [339]
“Where, Miss Malizy, where to?” Rage flooded him. “Where massa, Miss Malizy?”
Her head turned toward the house. “Up in dere still ’sleep, I reckons. Git so drunk don’ git up ’til late, hollerin’ he want to eat ... ain’t no vittles, hardly... boy, you bring anything to cook?”
His “No’m” floating back to the confused old lady, Chicken George burst through the shambles of the kitchen and down the peeling hallway into the smelly, messy living room to stop at the foot of the short staircase, bellowing angrily “Massa Lea!”
He waited briefly.
“MASSA LEA!”
About to go stomping up the stairs, he heard activity sounds. After a moment, from the right doorway the disheveled figure emerged, peering downward.
Chicken George through his anger stood shocked to muteness at the shell of his remembered massa, gaunt, unshaven, unkempt; obviously he had slept in those clothes. “Massa Lea?”
“George!” The old man’s body physically jerked. “George!” He came stumbling down the creaking staircase, stopping at its foot; they stood staring at each other. In Massa Lea’s hollowed face, his eyes were rheumy, then with high, cackling laughter he rushed with widening arms to hug Chicken George, who sidestepped. Catching Massa Lea’s bony hands, he shook them vigorously.
“George, so glad you’re back! Where all you been? You due back here long time ago!”
“Yassuh, yassuh. Lawd Russell jes’ lemme loose. An’ I been eight days gittin’ here from de ship in Richmon’.”
“Boy, come on in here in the kitchen!” Massa Lea was tugging Chicken George’s wrists. And when they reached there, he scraped back the broken table’s two chairs. “Set, boy! ’LIZY! Where my jug? ’LIZY!”
“Comin’, Massa—” the old woman’s voice came from outside. “She’s done got addled since you left, don’t know yesterday from tomorrow,” said Massa Lea.
“Massa, where my fam’ly?”
“Boy, less us have a drink fore we talk! Long as we been together, we ain’t never had a drink together! So glad you back here, finally sombody to talk to!”
“Ain’t fo’ talkin’, Massa! Where my fam’ly—”
“’LIZY!”
“Yassuh—” Her bulk moved through the door frame and she found and put a jug and glasses on the table and then went back outside as if unaware of Chicken George and Massa Lea there talking.
“Yeah, boy, I sure am sorry ’bout your mammy. She just got too old, didn’t suffer much, and she went quick. Put ’er in a good grave—” Massa Lea was pouring them drinks.
On purpose ain’t mentionin’ ’Tilda an’ de chilluns, it flashed through Chicken George’s mind. Ain’t changed none... still tricky an’ dangerous as a snake... got to keep from gittin’ ’im real mad...
“‘Member de las’ things you said to me, Massa? Said you be settin’ me free jes’ soon’s I git back. Well, here I is!”
But Massa Lea gave no sign he’d even heard as he shoved a glass three-quarters filled across the table. Then, lifting his own, “Here y’are, boy. Le’s drink to you bein’ back—”
I needs dis... quaffing of the liquor, Chicken George felt it searing down and warming within him.
He tried again, obliquely. “Sho’ sorry to hear from Miss Malizy you los’ missis, Massa.”
Finishing his liquor, grunting, Massa Lea said, “She just didn’t wake up one mornin’. Hated to see her go. She never give me any peace since that cockfight. But I hated to see her go. Hate to see anybody go.” He belched. “We all got to go—”
He ain’t bad off as Miss Malizy, but he ’long de way. He went now directly to the point.
“My ’Tilda an’ young’uns, Massa, Miss Malizy say you sol’ ’em—”
Massa Lea glanced at him. “Yeah, had to, boy. Had to! Bad luck got me down so bad. Had to sell off near ’bout the last of my land, everything, hell, even the chickens!”
About to flare, Chicken George got cut off.
“Boy, I’m so po’ now, me an’ Malizy’s eatin’ ’bout what we can pick an’ catch!” Suddenly he cackled. “Hell, sure ain’t nothin’ new! I was borned po’!” He got serious again. “But now you’re back, you and me can get this place agoin’ again, you hear me? I know we can do ’er, boy!”
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