“Get over here to the sink and wash yourself,” his mother said without raising her eyes from the stove.
“And step on it. These grits are scorching the bottom of the pot already.”
“Momma! Not again,” Brenda whined. Lord, he was tired. There wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t ache.
“You heard what Momma said,” Ellie yelled at his back.
“I can’t stand it, Momma!” Brenda again. “Make him get his smelly self off this bench.”
Jess put his cheek down on the bare wood of the tabletop. “Jess-ie!” His mother was looking now. “And put on a shirt.”
“Yes’m.” He dragged himself to the sink. The water he flipped on his face and up his arms pricked like ice.
His hot skin crawled under the cold drops. May Belle was standing in the kitchen door watching him.
“Get me a shirt, May Belle.” She looked as if her mouth was set to say no, but instead she said, “You shouldn’t ought to beat me in the head,”
and went off obediently to fetch his T-shirt. Good old May Belle.
Joyce Ann would have been screaming yet from that little tap. Four-year-olds were a pure pain.
“I got plenty of chores needs doing around here this morning,” his mother announced as they were finishing the grits and red gravy.
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