the fence.”
Guitar felt like a frustrated detective. “What year?”
“The year they shot them Irish people down in the streets. Was a good year for guns and gravediggers, I know that.” Pilate put a barrel lid on the table. Then she lifted the eggs from the wash basin and began to peel them. Her lips moved as she played an orange seed around in her mouth. Only after the eggs were split open, revealing moist reddish-yellow centers, did she return to her story. “One morning we woke up when the sun was nearly a quarter way cross the sky. Bright as anything. And blue. Blue like the ribbons on my mother’s bonnet. See that streak of sky?” She pointed out the window. “Right behind them hickories. See? Right over there.”
They looked and saw the sky stretching back behind the houses and the trees. “That’s the same color,” she said, as if she had discovered something important. “Same color as my mama’s ribbons. I’d know her ribbon color anywhere, but I don’t know her name. After she died Papa wouldn’t let anybody say it. Well, before we could get the sand rubbed out of our eyes and take a good look around, we saw him sitting there on a stump. Right in the sunlight. We started to call him but he looked on off, like he was lookin at us and not lookin at us at the same time. Something in his face scared us. It was like looking at a face under water. Papa got up after a while and moved out of the sun on back into the woods. We just stood there looking at the stump. Shaking like leaves.”
Pilate scraped the eggshells together into a little heap, her fingers fanning out over and over again in a gentle sweeping. The boys watched, afraid to say anything lest they ruin the next part of her story, and afraid to remain silent lest she not go on with its telling.
“Shaking like leaves,” she murmured, “just like leaves.”
Suddenly she lifted her head and made a sound like a hoot owl. “Ooo! Here I come!”
Neither Milkman nor Guitar saw or heard anyone approaching, but Pilate jumped up and ran toward the door. Before she reached it, a foot kicked it open and Milkman saw the bent back of a girl. She was dragging a large five-bushel basket of what looked like brambles, and a woman was pushing the other side of it, saying, “Watch the doorsill, baby.”
“I got it,” the girl answered. “Push.”
“About time,” said Pilate. “The light be gone before you know it.”
“Tommy’s truck broke down,” the girl said, panting. When the two had managed to get the basket into the room, the girl stretched her back and turned around, facing them. But Milkman had no need to see her face; he had already fallen in love with her behind.
“Hagar.” Pilate looked around the room. “This here’s your brother, Milkman. And this is his friend. What’s your name again, pretty?”
“Guitar.”
“Guitar? You play any?” she asked.
“That ain’t her brother, Mama. They cousins.” The older woman spoke.
“Same thing.”
“No it ain’t. Is it, baby?”
“No,” said Hagar. “It’s different.”
“See there. It’s different.”
“Well, what is the difference, Reba? You know so much.”
Reba looked at the ceiling. “A brother is a brother if you both got the same mother or if you both—”
Pilate interrupted her. “I mean what’s the difference in the way you act toward ’em? Don’t you have to act the same way to both?”
“That’s not the point, Mama.”
“Shut up, Reba. I’m talking to Hagar.”
“Yes, Mama. You treat them both the same.”
“Then why they got two words for it ‘stead of one, if they ain’t no difference?” Reba put her hands on her hips and opened her eyes wide.
“Pull that rocker over here,” said Pilate. “You boys have to give up your seats unless you gonna help.”
The women circled the basket, which was full of blackberries still on their short, thorny branches.
“What we have to do?” Guitar asked.
“Get them little berries off them
Guitar felt like a frustrated detective. “What year?”
“The year they shot them Irish people down in the streets. Was a good year for guns and gravediggers, I know that.” Pilate put a barrel lid on the table. Then she lifted the eggs from the wash basin and began to peel them. Her lips moved as she played an orange seed around in her mouth. Only after the eggs were split open, revealing moist reddish-yellow centers, did she return to her story. “One morning we woke up when the sun was nearly a quarter way cross the sky. Bright as anything. And blue. Blue like the ribbons on my mother’s bonnet. See that streak of sky?” She pointed out the window. “Right behind them hickories. See? Right over there.”
They looked and saw the sky stretching back behind the houses and the trees. “That’s the same color,” she said, as if she had discovered something important. “Same color as my mama’s ribbons. I’d know her ribbon color anywhere, but I don’t know her name. After she died Papa wouldn’t let anybody say it. Well, before we could get the sand rubbed out of our eyes and take a good look around, we saw him sitting there on a stump. Right in the sunlight. We started to call him but he looked on off, like he was lookin at us and not lookin at us at the same time. Something in his face scared us. It was like looking at a face under water. Papa got up after a while and moved out of the sun on back into the woods. We just stood there looking at the stump. Shaking like leaves.”
Pilate scraped the eggshells together into a little heap, her fingers fanning out over and over again in a gentle sweeping. The boys watched, afraid to say anything lest they ruin the next part of her story, and afraid to remain silent lest she not go on with its telling.
“Shaking like leaves,” she murmured, “just like leaves.”
Suddenly she lifted her head and made a sound like a hoot owl. “Ooo! Here I come!”
Neither Milkman nor Guitar saw or heard anyone approaching, but Pilate jumped up and ran toward the door. Before she reached it, a foot kicked it open and Milkman saw the bent back of a girl. She was dragging a large five-bushel basket of what looked like brambles, and a woman was pushing the other side of it, saying, “Watch the doorsill, baby.”
“I got it,” the girl answered. “Push.”
“About time,” said Pilate. “The light be gone before you know it.”
“Tommy’s truck broke down,” the girl said, panting. When the two had managed to get the basket into the room, the girl stretched her back and turned around, facing them. But Milkman had no need to see her face; he had already fallen in love with her behind.
“Hagar.” Pilate looked around the room. “This here’s your brother, Milkman. And this is his friend. What’s your name again, pretty?”
“Guitar.”
“Guitar? You play any?” she asked.
“That ain’t her brother, Mama. They cousins.” The older woman spoke.
“Same thing.”
“No it ain’t. Is it, baby?”
“No,” said Hagar. “It’s different.”
“See there. It’s different.”
“Well, what is the difference, Reba? You know so much.”
Reba looked at the ceiling. “A brother is a brother if you both got the same mother or if you both—”
Pilate interrupted her. “I mean what’s the difference in the way you act toward ’em? Don’t you have to act the same way to both?”
“That’s not the point, Mama.”
“Shut up, Reba. I’m talking to Hagar.”
“Yes, Mama. You treat them both the same.”
“Then why they got two words for it ‘stead of one, if they ain’t no difference?” Reba put her hands on her hips and opened her eyes wide.
“Pull that rocker over here,” said Pilate. “You boys have to give up your seats unless you gonna help.”
The women circled the basket, which was full of blackberries still on their short, thorny branches.
“What we have to do?” Guitar asked.
“Get them little berries off them
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