standing separate and apart at the back of the house. It was this latter structure that he watched now, seeing people go earlier to-and-fro over the walkway to the back veranda and in through a door to what had to be the dining room, a heavy-set woman in a dark dress with a bun of hair pinned at the back of her head, hurrying through the chill air with platters and bowls of what had to be steaming food. He could smell meats and gravy as he slipped closer to the house and spied in through the dining room windows—bowls and plates and serving dishes sat on the heavily-varnished table, heaped high with potatoes, beans, and corn. Nearby sat a platter covered with meat, another with what looked to be fresh-baked bread and creamy yellow butter; there was the smell of coffee, the sight of a deep-dish pie for dessert—his mouth was watering, and his empty stomach aching as he moved back into the darkness away from the house and waited for the lights to go out and the place to quiet down. He had come to a decision, a decision he had not wanted to make. Never once in all his life had he ever stolen from anyone—but tonight he would. Tonight he would steal food because he had to eat to live. Tonight he would become a thief.
He waited in the darkness, his resolve becoming easier with the passing minutes and with the smell of good food that came to him from both the house and the separate kitchen. He had known what he would have to do, had passed by the houses of the small farmers, and the shacks and shanties of the sharecroppers, until he had come upon this place. If he had to steal, then he would steal from someone who could afford it, from these rich folks, and not from some poor farmer or sharecropping family. These people, with their motor cars and their fancy clothes, their electric lights and running water and big table covered with fine china and silver—folks like these would hardly miss the little it would take to fill his stomach.
He crouched in the darkness, listening to the faint sound of a radio from somewhere within the house—no one should have so much, he told himself. Not the Easons, not these folks, not anybody. Not when all he wanted was those red acres back in Eason County, the old house, things to be like they used to be. Not when he was hungry and cold and tired and only God knew where.
After a time that seemed to him to stretch into forever, the big house grew still and quiet, and the electric lights downstairs shut out. He continued to watch until the light went out in the kitchen as well, waiting until the dark form of a woman emerged, and then blended into the greater darkness leading away from the house. Then he cautiously crept closer to the kitchen, listening, wary. He knelt for a moment near the back veranda, his eyes moving through the darkness, then he quickly moved up the few steps to the covered walkway and hurried toward the door to the kitchen. He paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob—then he was suddenly inside with the door closed behind him, safe and alone.
He stood there for a moment, looking around the room in the darkness, thinking again of what it was he was doing—but the smell of food that still hung in the air spurred him to action. He made his way across the bare wood floor, past the kitchen table and some kind of fancy stove, his eyes on an open doorway at the rear of the room—he could see shelves of glass canning jars gleaming in the bare light that filtered through the single window beyond. There were barrels nearby, the smell of apples coming from them, bins of flour and meal, sacks of onions, and strings of dried pepper hanging from the ceiling. He closed the second door behind himself and made his way toward the shelves, kneeling in the darkness and taking up first one of the glass jars, and then another, trying to discern the contents: tomatoes, corn, jelly, what looked to be preserves, sweet pickles, relish, pepper sauce, peaches. His empty stomach aching, he tested the lid on one of the jars, straining against it, and finally feeling it loosen and unscrew in his hands. He stuck his fingers in the jar, smelling the scent of the peaches inside, taking out one of the halves with his fingers and shoving it greedily into his mouth—I’m a thief, he told himself, so hungry that he did not care as he licked the syrup from his fingers. I’ll be damned if it’s right for any man to go hungry, he thought, and stuck his fingers back into the jar for another peach half. I’ll be damned if—
There was a sound from the kitchen, a creaking of the floorboards, and then the door flew inward, rebounding off the wall nearby, and then caught and held in a firm grip. Janson turned quickly, almost dropping the jar in his hands, almost choking on the food in his mouth. There was no way out—he knew he was caught.
“You put that jar down an’ come on out ’a there where I can see you!” the woman demanded, her broad body effectively blocking the doorway into the kitchen, a large, black cast-iron skillet held raised in one hand as if she were intent on using it as a weapon. “Come on out ’a there, I tell you!”
Janson stood slowly, setting the jar of peaches down on the shelf nearby, his eyes moving to the room beyond her—he’d never make it. Even if he could shove her aside and get past her, she would yell and bring help from the big house. He would be caught, treated as a thief, when his only crime had been to—
She cautiously backed away as he moved forward, then again, moving toward the center of the room as they entered the kitchen. One of her hands moved upward, feeling in the air for something and finally hitting it, then pulling on a drawstring to flood the room with electric light from the bare lamp that hung suspended there at the end of a long cord from the ceiling. Janson raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring light, and blinked painfully, trying to adjust his sight to the sudden brightness in the room. When he could see again, he looked at the woman—she was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of iron-gray hair drawn into a heavy bun at the back of her neck. Her dress was loose and dark, pinned at the throat by a simple brooch; her coat plain and shapeless, hanging to within inches of the ugly black shoes on her feet. She stared at him as he lowered his hand, something in her eyes clearly saying that she did not trust him any more than the thief she thought him to be.
“I knowed I saw somebody movin’ aroun’ outside in th’ dark,” she said, lowering the skillet only slightly. “What you got t’ say for yourself, boy? What’s your name?—I don’t know your face; you ain’ from aroun’ here.”
When Janson did not answer, she raised the skillet again. “Speak up, boy, what’s your name?”
“My name’s Janson Sanders,” he said, raising his chin slightly.
“‘Janson Sanders’, sayin’ it all kind ’a prideful like—ain’ nothin’ prideful ’bout bein’ a thief.”
“I ain’t no thief.”
“Ain’ no thief!—when I caught you in th’ storeroom myself! It’s a good thing I forgot my pocketbook an’ had t’ come back for it, or you’d ’a likely stole us out ’a house an’ home! What you got t’ say for yourself, boy, stealin’ from good, hones’ folks like—”
“Somebody like you’d ’a never missed what it took for me t’ eat.”
“Somebody like me! It don’t matter who you’re stealin’ from, stealin’s still stealin’—an’ this place ain’ mine; it b’longs t’ Mist’ Whitley, like most everythin’ else aroun’ here does. An’ you better be glad it was me that caught you, an’ not him; he’d ’a been likely as not t’ shot you first—why didn’t you just knock at th’ door an’ ask t’ be fed if you was hongry?”
“I don’t take no charity!”
“Don’t take charity!—stealin’s better ’n charity t’ you, boy? That don’t make too much sense!” she said, but Janson did not answer her, angry—he did not know whether more at her, or at himself. “Looks t’ me like a strong young man like you’d be workin’ for his way, ’stead ’a stealin’ what other folks—”
“I tried all day t’ find work I could do for food an’ a place t’ sleep, an’ all I got around here was dogs set on me an’ guns pulled on me an’ I got run off folks land—” The words came out in an angry rush, and he immediately regretted them, seeing the look of pity that came to her face. She lowered the skillet and stared at him, but Janson only returned the look, lifting his chin defiantly.
“Where’re you from, boy?” she asked. When he did not answer she raised her voice. “Don’t do no good havin’ a chip on your shoulder so big that folks can see