Losing Battles by Eudora Welty Page B

through.”
    “Her pincushion, her needles and thread, and her scissors are all things I’ve seen her reach out of there,” Aunt Beck said. “Her specs. Bah.”
    “And there’s that big pot o’ rouge she piles on her cheeks on Saturday,” said Aunt Nanny.
    “The only thing anybody ever found was the mortgages,” whispered Uncle Percy. “They was all together in one pile in the bed of Panther Creek. Hadn’t been a single drop of rain to fall.”
    “Who found those? The mortgages?” Aunt Beck asked with a sigh.
    “Vaughn Renfro, the little brother, and run to carry ’em straight back to the store—all Curly had to do was snap on a new rubber band. Ants had eat up the old one, but left the signatures alone. Sure is a pity the weather had been so dry.”
    “Just pull me out of this chair. Lead me in your woods. If all you want’s that ring, I bet I could turn it up,” Aunt Cleo said with spirit.
    Miss Beulah was back out here, holding an egg in her hand as if ready to crack it. “Sister Cleo, if you’re the one knows and can tell where that ring rolled to, you’ll get a more wholehearted welcome out of this family than you’ll ever know what to do with,” she said. “But the truth is you don’t know, nor I don’t, nor anybody else within the reach of my voice, because that ring—it’s our own dead mother’s, Granny’s one child’s wedding ring, that was keeping safe in her Bible—it’s gone, the same as if we never had it.” She returned to the kitchen, and hard, measured strokes began in a bowl of batter.
    Granny spoke. “Time’s a-wasting.”
    “There, Granny, never mind,” said Aunt Birdie. “We’re all remembering it’s your birthday.”
    “Bring him here to me, will you?” said Granny. “Don’t keep Granny waiting a good deal longer.”
    “That’s what we’re doing, Granny—we’re bringing him,” said Uncle Noah Webster, going over to pat her shoulder, fragile as a little bit of glass. “Just as fast as we can.”
    “And next morning at the earliest,” Uncle Percy continued, “weaving up the road to the house comes Homer Champion’s chicken van from Foxtown. And when it bucks to a stop, it’s two of ’em hops out—Homer and Curly Stovall! Just like they’s buddies.
    “ ‘Here’s your proof, Homer Champion! Here’s my safe, and Jack’s turned it over to babies to play with!’ says Curly. ‘If they won’t give it back, you can arrest him!’ And it’s Etoyle and Elvie and Vaughn, Beulah’s three youngest, playing store to their hearts’ content under a chinaberry tree. And they don’t do a thing but quick sit down on that safe in a pile. Precious children, they don’t get many play-pretties up this way.
    “ ‘Climb off my safe!’ says Curly. ‘If you don’t, old Homer’ll carry you to jail, all in one load!’
    “And Elvie don’t do a thing but open the safe and tuck her little self inside and slam the door on him.
    “ ‘Quit, you little mischiefs. Give it back to him like he says,’ says Homer. The safe ain’t hurt none, Curly, just the door needs a little lining up and oiling so it don’t hurt your ears. Let’s don’t have hard feelings. Let’s all just be friends.’
    “Old Curly scrapes the other two children off the safe and yanks that door open and shakes Elvie by the foot. ‘Hand me the money out!’ he hollers.
    “ ‘We never had any money but chinaberries, we’re too little,’ pipes Elvie out of the safe.
    “And Curly, the big bully! Has to haul out Elvie kicking and fighting, and he pulls that safe right out through their little arms that’s twined around it! Elvie cried for her safe till dark.
    “Etoyle knows enough to holler Jack from the barn. Here he comes, straight from the cow, carrying two full buckets, calling to say it’s never too early for company, and asking if they won’t come sit on the steps and enjoy a glass of foaming milk and the sunrise.
    “ ‘Jack, you’re under arrest!’ says