A Yellow Watermelon. Ted Dunagan

rest of the day.”

      “I may stop by Pa Will’s for a little bit.” He was her daddy and my grandfather. I knew she wouldn’t fuss about that.

      “You just be sure and have yourself home before dark.”

      “Yes ma’am,” I answered, comforting myself with the fact that I had said “may.”

      I kept my eyes peeled for that snake as I walked past the corn crib.

      Actually, I was scared to death of snakes, and there were a lot of them around. I was constantly lectured, warned, and educated about them, especially the poisonous ones. The cottonmouth moccasin and the big rattlesnakes were the ones to be really concerned about. But there was another kind of snake, a coachwhip, which everyone said was nonpoisonous but that struck fear into my heart. This snake was long and shiny brown with a golden yellow belly, and the unique thing about it was that it could run along the ground with two-thirds of its body rising straight up in the air. I had heard people say that if one of them caught you it would wrap around you and whip you.

      Earlier this summer I had taken the short cut through the woods to Pa Will’s house rather than the road. I was almost there when this giant coachwhip snake came tearing out of the tall weeds heading straight toward me. It seemed like it was raised up in the air so far it was taller than me, and I could see its red eyes and forked tongue. It felt like that snake chased me forever, but I outran it. By the time I got to my grandfather’s house it was nowhere to be seen.

      I heard the high-pitched whine of the big saw blade as it bit into a log after I passed the store and entered the woods with my eggs. Carefully, I counted out a dozen into a nest I formed with my hands in the pine straw. Then I covered them with more straw with hopes that no egg-sucking varmint would find them before I returned.

      By the time I entered the store the sawmill had shut down and all the workers had departed. When Miss Lena counted out the eggs she asked, “What’s wrong with your mother’s chickens?”

      “Ma’am?”

      “There’s only two dozen eggs here.”

      “I guess them hens were just lazy this week.”

      “Well, fine, then. Here’s twenty cents for your momma. You take care and don’t lose it.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” I called out as I went through the door.

6

       Bullies

      I returned to the sawmill by my usual route, stopping to retrieve the dozen eggs on the way. I found Jake sitting on his usual block of wood, staring into his fire. But something seemed wrong. He didn’t flash his big toothy smile when he saw me. He just said, “Hey, Mister Ted. What you got in dat basket? Mo’ fried chicken, I hopes.”

      “No chicken, but I brought you a dozen fresh eggs,” I said as I held the basket out for him to see the light brown globes.

      He picked up one of the eggs, caressed it, and said, “Lawd a-mercy, dese sho be some beautiful eggs. I think I gonna scramble me up a mess of ’em tonight. No need to wait for morning.”

      Jake went into the tar paper shack and returned with an empty coffee can. He carefully removed the eggs from the basket, handling them like jewels as he placed them in the can. “I know yo’ momma be looking for her basket back,” he said. “I sho does ’preciate de eggs, Mister Ted.”

      He did seem appreciative, but Jake just wasn’t his buoyant self. His smile faded too quickly and he seemed dejected despite the fresh eggs. We sat in silence for a few moments, then I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Jake, you feeling bad?” I asked.

      “Naw, I feels fine. It’s just that I believes we got us a problem.”

      “What kind of a problem?”

      “I had some more visitors late yesterday, after you left.”

      “Who?”

      “Does you know a family of black folks who lives about three miles down de road towards Coffeeville?”

      “No, I don’t think so.”

      “Dey say dey chops and picks cotton for yo’ Uncle Curvin.”