Chapter 4 #2
Six weeks ago, Frances’d stopped answering our letters altogether.
So Mama’d asked me to drive the thirty-two miles to Port Gibson and send her a telegram asking was she alright, but she still didn’t write us back.
So I sent another asking would she call us on the telephone please.
The call should be on Monday, June 26, at two o’clock at the Foote, which was actually Footely Farm I wasn’t going to pay out all our money and leave us broke.
And just about everybody was in the same situation.
Poor Mr. Parkins hadn’t made money in years for all the credit he’d given—we owed him twelve dollars ourselves.
“There’s nothing we can do about it right now. ”
“There’s one thing we can do,” Meemaw said. Innocent, aiming it at the window. “We could ask Frances and her husband to give us some to get by on.”
“We’ve never even met the man before.”
Meemaw patted my hand. “I said we, but I really meant you.”
“But I’m the one who’s got the job here. What would I tell Mr. Parkins?” It wasn’t my nature not to go to work. If he’d let me, I’d have gone in on Christmas.
“Tell him we’n pay our tab if he’ll give you time off,” Meemaw said.
“Gotta dangle the carrot, the way the world works.” She had the coverlet up under her chin now and she yawned; I knew she was fading.
“And when you get up there, try and meet you some men, Birdie. Only requirement is they’re better off than us.
” She chuckled, her eyes already closed.
“And have a good back. And a nicer truck.”
“Do it for your family, please, Bird,” Mama said.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, but I could tell it’d already been decided.