Читать книгу A Yellow Watermelon - Ted Dunagan - Страница 12

I returned to the sawmill by my usual route, stopping to retrieve the dozen eggs on the way. I found Jake sitting on his usual block of wood, staring into his fire. But something seemed wrong. He didn’t flash his big toothy smile when he saw me. He just said, “Hey, Mister Ted. What you got in dat basket? Mo’ fried chicken, I hopes.”

“No chicken, but I brought you a dozen fresh eggs,” I said as I held the basket out for him to see the light brown globes.

He picked up one of the eggs, caressed it, and said, “Lawd a-mercy, dese sho be some beautiful eggs. I think I gonna scramble me up a mess of ’em tonight. No need to wait for morning.”

Jake went into the tar paper shack and returned with an empty coffee can. He carefully removed the eggs from the basket, handling them like jewels as he placed them in the can. “I know yo’ momma be looking for her basket back,” he said. “I sho does ’preciate de eggs, Mister Ted.”

He did seem appreciative, but Jake just wasn’t his buoyant self. His smile faded too quickly and he seemed dejected despite the fresh eggs. We sat in silence for a few moments, then I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Jake, you feeling bad?” I asked.

“Naw, I feels fine. It’s just that I believes we got us a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“I had some more visitors late yesterday, after you left.”

“Who?”

“Does you know a family of black folks who lives about three miles down de road towards Coffeeville?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Dey say dey chops and picks cotton for yo’ Uncle Curvin.”