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'Nothing like thin wire or human hair strung on a limber stick
would do？'
Bill rubbed his feet against each other and didn't answer。
Anger made beads of sweat come out on her forehead。
Her voice was hoarse。 'It's not even a bad violin。 It's only
a cross between a mandolin and a ukulele。 And I hate
them。 I hate them'
Bill turned around。
'It's all turned out wrong。 It won't do。 It's no good。' Tipe down；'
said Bill。 'Are you just carrying on about that old broken
ukulele you've been fooling with？ I could have told you at first
it was crazy to think you could make any violin。 That's one
thing you don't sit down and make —you got to buy them。 I
thought anybody would know a thing like that。 But I figured it
wouldn't hurt yon if you found out for yourself。'
Sometimes she hated Bill more than anyone else in the world。
He was different entirely from what he used to be。 She started
to slam the violin down on the floor and stomp on it； but
instead she put it back roughly into the hatbox。 The tears were
hot in her eyes as fire。 She gave the box a kick and ran from
the room without looking at Bill。
As she was dodging through the hall to get to the back yard
she ran into her Mama。
39
'What's the matter with you？ What have you been into now？'
Mick tried to jerk loose； but her Mama held on to her arm。
Sullenly she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her
hand。 Her Mama had been in the kitchen and she wore her
apron and house…shoes。 As usual she looked as though she had
a lot on her mind and didn't have time to ask her any more
questions。
'Mr。 Jackson has brought his two sisters to dinner and there
won't be but just enough chairs； so today you're to eat in the
kitchen with Bubber。'
'That*s hunky…dory with me；' Mick said。
Her Mama let her go and went to take off her apron。 From the
dining…room there came the sound of the dinner bell and a
sudden glad outbreak of talking。 She could hear her Dad
saying how much he had lost by not keeping up his accident
insurance until the time he broke bis hip。 That was one thing
her Dad could never get off his mind —ways he could have
made money and didn't。 There was a clatter of dishes； and
after a while the talking stopped。
Mick leaned on the banisters of the stairs。 The sudden crying
had started her with the hiccups。 It seemed to her as she
thought back over the last month that she had never really
believed in her mind that the violin would work。 But in her
heart she had kept making herself believe。 And even now it
was hard not to believe a little。 She was tired out。 Bill wasn't
ever a help with anything now。 She used to think Bill was the
grandest person in the world。 She used to follow after him
every place he went— out fishing in the woods； to the
clubhouses he built with other boys； to the slot machine in the
back of Mr。 Bran…non's restaurant—everywhere。 Maybe he
hadn't meant to let her down like this。 But anyway they could
never be good buddies again。
In the hall there was the smell of cigarettes and Sunday
dinner。 Mick took a deep breath and walked back toward the
kitchen。 The dinner began to smell good and she was hungry。
She could hear Portia's voice as she talked to Bubber； and it
was like she was half…singing something or telling him a story。
'And that is the various reason why I'm a whole lot40
more fortunate than most colored girls；' Portia said as she
opened the door。 'Why？' asked Mick。
Portia and Bubber were sitting at the kitchen table eating their
dinner。 Portia's green print dress was cool…looking against her
dark brown skin。 She had on green earrings and her hair was
combed very tight and neat。
'You all time pounce in on the very tail of what somebody say
and then want to know all about it；' Portia said。 She got up and
stood over the hot stove； putting dinner on Mick's plate。
'Bubber and me was just talking about my Grandpapa's home
out on the Old Sardis Road。 I was telling Bubber how he and
my uncles owns the whole place themself。 Fifteen and a half
acre。 They always plants four of them in cotton； some years
swapping back to peas to keep the dirt rich； and one acre on a
hill is just for peaches。 They haves a mule and a breed sow
and all the time from twenty to twenty…five laying hens and
fryers。 They haves a vegetable patch and two pecan trees and
plenty figs and plums and berries。 This here is the truth。 Not
many white farms has done with their land good as my
Grandpapa。'
Mick put her elbows on the table and leaned over her plate。
Portia had always rather talk about the farm than anything
else； except about her husband and brother。 To hear her tell it
you would think that colored farm was the very White House
itself。
'The home started with just one little room。 And through the
years they done built on until there's space for my Grandpapa；
his four sons and their wives and chil…drens； and my brother
Hamilton。 In the parlor they haves a real organ and a
gramophone。 And on the wall they haves a large picture of my
Grandpapa taken in his lodge uniform。 They cans all the fruit
and vegetables and no matter how cold and rainy the winter
turns they pretty near always haves plenty to eat。'
'How come you don't go live with them； then？' Mick asked。
Portia stopped peeling her potatoes and her long； brown
fingers tapped on the table in time to her words。 〃This here the
way it is。 See—each person done built on his room for his
fambly。 They all done worked hard during all these years。 And
of course times is hard for ever
41
body now。 But see—I lived with my Grandpapa when I were
a
little girl。 But I haven't never done any work out there since。
Any time； though； if me and Willie and Highboy gets in bad
trouble us can always go back。
'
'Didn't your Father build on a room？
'
Portia stopped chewing。 'Whose Father？ You mean my
Father？
'
〃Sure；' said Mick。
'You know good and well my Father is a colored doctor right
here in town。
'
Mick had heard Portia say that before； but she had thought it
was a tale。 How could a colored man be a doctor？
。This here the way it is。 Before the tune my Mama married my
Father she had never known anything but real kindness。 My
Grandpa is Mister Kind hisself。 But my Father is different
from him as day is from night。'
'Mean？'asked Mick。
〃No； he not a mean man；' Portia said slowly。 'It just that
something is the matter。 My Father not like other colored
mens。 This here is hard to explain。 My Father all the time
studying by hisself。 And a long time ago he taken up all these
notions about how a fambly ought to be。 He bossed over ever
little thing in the house and at night he tried to teach us
children lessons。'
〃That don't sound so bad to me；' said Mick。
'listen here。 You see most of the time he were very quiet。 But
then some nights he would break out hi a kind of fit。 He could
get madder than any man I ever seen。 Everbody who know my
Father say that he was a sure enough crazy man。 He done
wild； crazy things and our Mama quit him。 I were ten years
old at the time。 Our Mama taken us children with her to
Grandpapa's farm and us were raised out there。 Our Father all
the time wanted us to come back。 But even when our Mama
died us children never did go home to live。 And now my
Father stay all by hisself。'
Mick went to the stove and filled her plate a second time。
Portia's voice was going up and down like a song； and nothing
could stop her now。
'I doesn't see my Father much—maybe once a week— but I
done a lot of thinking about him。 I feels sorrier for
I42
him than anybody I knows。 I expect he done read more books
than any white man in this town。 He done read more books
and he done worried about more things。 He full of books and
worrying。 He done lost God and turned his back to religion。
All his troubles come down just to that。'
Portia was excited。 Whenever she got to talking about God—
or Willie； her brother； or Highboy； her husband— she got
excited。
'Now； I not a big shouter。 I belongs to the Presbyterian Church
and us don't hold with all this rolling on the floor and talking
in tongues。 Us don't get sanctified ever week and wallow
around together。 In our church we sings and lets the preacher
do the preaching。 And tell you the truth I don't think a little
singing and a little preaching would hurt you； Mick。 You
ought to take your little brother to the Sunday School and also
you plenty big enough to sit in church。 From the biggity way
you been acting lately it seem to me like you already got one
toe in the pit。'
'Nuts；' Mick said。
'Now Highboy he were Holiness boy before us were married。
He loved to get the spirit ever Sunday and shout and sanctify
hisself。 But after us were married I got him to join with me；
and although it kind of hard to keep him quiet sometime I
think he doing right well。'
'I don't believe in God any more than I do Santa Oaus；' Mick
said。
'You wait a minute！ That's why it sometime seem to me you
favor my Father more than any person I ever knowed。'
'Me？ You say / favor him？'
'I don't mean in th