Mama Black Widow by Iceberg Slim Page A

“Papa is cumin’.”
    Mama balled a fist at me and laid an index finger across her pursed lips. She shoved the bills in her bosom and started to hum a spiritual.
    Junior came in with kindling and was starting a fire in the cook stove when Papa and the twins got to the shack. Collard greens with slat pork and potato patties were on our supper table when I heard the Wilkerson’s Ford pickup coming home from Meridian.
    Mama and Junior ate like innocents. I could only swallow a few bites. I was worried about the Wilkerson money in Mama’s bosom that Papa might find out about, and said a silent prayer that it wasreal “forgot” money and that the beet red sheriff wouldn’t come and take us all to jail.
    I almost fainted when Papa looked across the table at me and said, “Otis, whut’s th’ matter yu playin’ wid them vittles? Iffen yu ailin’ en the belly, Ah have ole vet tu dose yu up good wid croton oil when he cum tumurrah.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mama giving me the evil eye.
    I said, “No sir, I’m not sick. I been messing with the treat bag that Junior brought from the big house, that’s all.”
    He grunted and went back to the mountain of food on his plate.
    It was a balmy, brilliant night after supper, and the next day was Sunday. So we kids played hide-and-seek, and Mama and Papa brought kitchen chairs and sat quietly relaxing (at least Papa was) beneath the starry sky.
    We had all gone in to go to bed when Papa said, “Ah’ll be Satan’s imp iffen old man Wilkerson ain’t out prowlin’ dis time uv night. Mayhaps uh mule is ailin’ so bad Mr. Wilkerson got tu drive an’ fetch th’ vet. Ah hope Naomi’s asthma ain’t got no wurse.”
    We all clustered around Papa at the window and watched the jouncing glow of a lantern move down the hill from the big house to a shack in the irregular line that ended with our shack.
    One of the cleanup boys lived in that first shack where they had stopped. I shivered when I thought it hadn’t been “forgot” money after all.
    Papa lit a lantern and said, “Best Ah go. Sumbody mayhaps need mah prayers.”
    The twins went to bed after a while. But Mama, Frank Jr. and I stood silently there at the window and watched the accusing orbs of the lanterns moving through the night, stopping at four more innocent shacks on the way to our guilty one.
    Finally after what seemed like endless hours, the lanterns stopped at the fifth shack. I felt Mama’s fingernails dig into my collarbone. I turned and looked up at her face drawn with tension.
    She whispered hoarsely, “We got tu hit th’ bed now, an’ we don know nuthin’ ’bout them white folk’s money. Remember, ain’t no pruf or nuthin’ nohow ’bout Junior.”
    I lay wrapped in my quilt and had chills. I was afraid Papa would drop dead or something if he found out that Junior was the thief.
    Something touched my shoulder.
    Carol whispered, “Ah heard Mama. Junior is en terrible truble, ain’t he?”
    Before I could answer, the flash of lanterns streaked through a window. Carol scooted back to her section of the floor. I closed my eyes tightly and turned my back to the door.
    I felt the flooring vibrate under the clump of brogans. I smelled Mr. Wilkerson’s distinctive musk and corn whiskey. I turned over and peeped through a hole in the quilt.
    Mr. Wilkerson’s corrugated face was flaming red in the glow of his lantern as he stooped close to Junior and prodded his chest with gnarled finger. Papa squatted down on Junior’s other side. Junior fluttered his eyes open and looked up at Mr. Wilkerson in sham surprise.
    Mr. Wilkerson jogged his fingers across Junior’s scalp and said affably, “Lil’ Frank, you woke?”
    Junior cut his wide eyes at Papa and murmured sleepily, “Yes, suh, Mr. Wilkerson.”
    Mr. Wilkerson said,