Where Southern Cross the Dog by Allen Whitley Page A

work one day, and then all those pickers won’t have any pickin’ to do, and they’ll head north. Save us all a lot of trouble.”
    Collins and Wilson each got in their cars and headed back into town. Travis walked back to the commissary and went inside to let Rachel know he had arrived. He was instantly engulfed in the day’s-end frenzy, people scurrying in and out with their purchases.
    â€œExcuse us, sir,” two young girls said, bumping into Travis on their way out the door.
    â€œHave a good evening,” Travis said. They quickened their pace, startled at his civility.
    Travis looked around for Rachel but didn’t see her. Most of the patrons were Gilman’s sharecroppers, most of the help Gilman’s family or friends. Rachel got a job because Bill Montgomery and Hank Gilman knew each other from college.
    â€œHey, Travis,” one of the employees shouted from behind a counter.
    Travis replied with a nod and a wave.
    The store was stocked with a large variety of provisions to ensure that the laborers would not have to go anywhere else to shop. It was also the only store where tenants and sharecroppers were offered credit. Although the prices were high and the 20 percent credit terms usurious, the plantation laborers’ options were limited. All debts were settled at the end of the year, when the cotton crop was in.
    Travis strolled through the store, looking at shelves of canned foods, bags of sugar and flour, sewing supplies, and some toys. He glanced around for Rachel every so often. Eventually, he made his way behind the wide and deep counter and peeked in the back for her.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raymond Wilkins recording a customer’s order. Travis had known Raymond since they were kids, and he had never cared for him. Raymond had grown up in townbut decided he liked it better out here for some reason. After high school, he took a job at one plantation and then another. Recently, he had been hired at the Gilman plantation as the store’s assistant manager. Raymond was a bully—always had been—and life on the plantation offered him the opportunity to flourish.
    Travis eased along behind the counter until he was just a few feet from Raymond, who was still busy ringing up some purchases. The buyer was a widow Travis had met once when Rachel introduced them. She was about seventy years old, and her children worked the land her husband, their father, had worked. Because she didn’t produce crops, the widow’s balance was always added to her children’s account at the end of the year.
    Travis peered over Raymond’s right shoulder while the clerk noted the widow’s purchases in the tenant-transaction ledger. “These cans all together are thirty-four cents,” Raymond said, while writing down the amount in the ledger, then picking up another item. “These are twenty-three cents.”
    Travis watched closely. Raymond recited a price for each item, but for a few, he wrote a different—higher—price in the book.
    â€œTwelve cents,” Raymond droned. Travis watched him write twenty-one cents.
    â€œWhoa there, Raymond,” Travis said.
    Raymond jumped a little, startled.
    â€œYou said twelve cents, like on the label, but you reversed the numbers when you wrote it.”
    Raymond picked up the can and compared its price to the number he had written.
    â€œYou wrote twenty-one cents,” Travis said. “It should be twelve cents.”
    â€œOh, I guess I did write down the wrong number,” Raymond said, putting the can down to erase his last notation.
    â€œAnd you did it here and here,” Travis said, pointing to two more lines in the book.
    â€œThanks, college boy. Or maybe Aunty should thank you.”
    The old woman nodded her head in Travis’s direction when Raymond looked away.
    Travis acknowledged her with a smile. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m just trying to help