hand in his back pocket and one hand rubbing his lower lip in indecision. It didn’t take him long. He pulled out his billfold and opened it. He took some money out and thrust it at the old man as if it were burning his fingers.
“Take this,” he said. “She might need somethin else.”
Wade didn’t look at the money but shook his head firmly. “I couldn’t take that,” he said. “I
can’t
take that.”
The farmer shook the money at him. “Go on,” he said. “Hell fire. Take it.”
“I sure hate to, mister. You done been so good already.”
The farmer walked close and stuffed the money down in the old man’s pocket. Wade stood with his head down, shaking it. He did that for about a minute. Then he turned and took five steps and stopped and looked back. The farmer was standing in the gravel watching him, his face touched with compassion or maybe something else.
“I got a bunch of stuff to do here or I’d carry you on into town,” he said, and he seemed still ashamed. “But if I’m here when you come back by I’ll be proud to give you a ride back home.”
“I thank you,” Wade said. “I reckon I better get on uptown and see about that medicine.”
“Well. I hope your youngun gets all right,” the farmer said softly.
The old man nodded and walked away.
In the air-conditioned cool of the supermarket he plucked a small bunch of grapes from the produce stand and had them all in his mouth by the time he got to the peanut butter. Squatting against the shining jars of jelly, he worked his mouth stealthily, firing the seeds down between his feet into a razored-open carton that he pulled from beneath the shelves. He went up front and got a cart and loaded the little section in the rear with dented cans of Vienna sausage and purple hull peas from a crate of damaged goods markeddown to quarter price. He was a careful shopper, a bargain hunter adding figures in his head, carrying the ones. Like a blank-eyed countryman, he stopped in the middle of the aisle with his face up, as if the computations he performed so swiftly in his mind were written on the ceiling panels. He paused beside the dairy case, idly inspecting the merchandise, noting with disbelief the price of real butter. When no one was looking he opened a plastic half-pint of grape juice from the shelf and poured it down his throat, placing the empty carton behind the full ones. A few feet away, a boy in a green apron came pushing out from the double metal doors that led to the back. He got a quick glimpse of baled flour tiered to the roof, dog food on skids, block walls against which pallets of beer and soft drinks were neatly arrayed. He pushed his cart down to the meat case and examined the chickens and pork chops. Leg quarters were on sale for twenty-nine cents a pound but he passed them by. He picked up a package of sliced smoked picnic ham, the meat so brown and delicately marbled, the cooked hub of sawn bone in the middle. It was $6.97 for eight slices. He dropped it in his cart. Through the glass he could see a great hanging side of beef on a hook and butchers at work around tables. There was a button to summon the meatcutters set into the front of the case, and he pushed his cart down to it and pressed it with his finger, watching them. Heads looked up, looked back down. A young black man with a white paper cap on his head stared at him with thinly veiled disgust and wiped his hands on a paper towel before coming out to the front. He bent over the meat case and rearranged sirloin steaks and chuck roasts as he worked his way down to this customer.
“Can I help you,” the butcher said, when he stopped in front of Wade.
“Y’all got any meat scraps?” Wade said.
“Meat scraps?” He looked out from under his cap, his hands moving busily and with trained efficiency over his goods. He stopped and rested his forearms over the back of the case and looked up the aisle.
“Yeah. Just
“Take this,” he said. “She might need somethin else.”
Wade didn’t look at the money but shook his head firmly. “I couldn’t take that,” he said. “I
can’t
take that.”
The farmer shook the money at him. “Go on,” he said. “Hell fire. Take it.”
“I sure hate to, mister. You done been so good already.”
The farmer walked close and stuffed the money down in the old man’s pocket. Wade stood with his head down, shaking it. He did that for about a minute. Then he turned and took five steps and stopped and looked back. The farmer was standing in the gravel watching him, his face touched with compassion or maybe something else.
“I got a bunch of stuff to do here or I’d carry you on into town,” he said, and he seemed still ashamed. “But if I’m here when you come back by I’ll be proud to give you a ride back home.”
“I thank you,” Wade said. “I reckon I better get on uptown and see about that medicine.”
“Well. I hope your youngun gets all right,” the farmer said softly.
The old man nodded and walked away.
In the air-conditioned cool of the supermarket he plucked a small bunch of grapes from the produce stand and had them all in his mouth by the time he got to the peanut butter. Squatting against the shining jars of jelly, he worked his mouth stealthily, firing the seeds down between his feet into a razored-open carton that he pulled from beneath the shelves. He went up front and got a cart and loaded the little section in the rear with dented cans of Vienna sausage and purple hull peas from a crate of damaged goods markeddown to quarter price. He was a careful shopper, a bargain hunter adding figures in his head, carrying the ones. Like a blank-eyed countryman, he stopped in the middle of the aisle with his face up, as if the computations he performed so swiftly in his mind were written on the ceiling panels. He paused beside the dairy case, idly inspecting the merchandise, noting with disbelief the price of real butter. When no one was looking he opened a plastic half-pint of grape juice from the shelf and poured it down his throat, placing the empty carton behind the full ones. A few feet away, a boy in a green apron came pushing out from the double metal doors that led to the back. He got a quick glimpse of baled flour tiered to the roof, dog food on skids, block walls against which pallets of beer and soft drinks were neatly arrayed. He pushed his cart down to the meat case and examined the chickens and pork chops. Leg quarters were on sale for twenty-nine cents a pound but he passed them by. He picked up a package of sliced smoked picnic ham, the meat so brown and delicately marbled, the cooked hub of sawn bone in the middle. It was $6.97 for eight slices. He dropped it in his cart. Through the glass he could see a great hanging side of beef on a hook and butchers at work around tables. There was a button to summon the meatcutters set into the front of the case, and he pushed his cart down to it and pressed it with his finger, watching them. Heads looked up, looked back down. A young black man with a white paper cap on his head stared at him with thinly veiled disgust and wiped his hands on a paper towel before coming out to the front. He bent over the meat case and rearranged sirloin steaks and chuck roasts as he worked his way down to this customer.
“Can I help you,” the butcher said, when he stopped in front of Wade.
“Y’all got any meat scraps?” Wade said.
“Meat scraps?” He looked out from under his cap, his hands moving busily and with trained efficiency over his goods. He stopped and rested his forearms over the back of the case and looked up the aisle.
“Yeah. Just
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