“Oh shut up,” Sylvia Gray tossed a stone at the red rooster crowing in the dusty yard.
“You nasty old thing, you’ll probably go for my bare toes again. I’m just trying to feed you, ungrateful . . .”
She wore a shabby flour sack dress and carried her Ma’s old broom under her bony arm. She was damn tired of those little pokes that bleed and the walloping she got if one of the eggs broke.
They’d killed all the laying hens that weren’t laying, using every last part, including the feet. Her Ma had hidden Pa’s rifle after he started the moonshine for breakfast.
“Billy Joe,” she called to her twelve-year-old brother, “fetch some wood for the stove.”
Her little brother, Barry, answered her call. “Billy Joe ain’t here Syl, he done took off with Travis and the other boys to go swim in the creek. He’s planning on skipping his bath tomorrow. Says he won’t share water with me and Sam no more.”
“That good for nothing, smart mouth...” she mumbled under her breath. Looking at her brother she sighed. “Barry, I guess ten’s old enough to split firewood. Don’t be stupid and cut your foot off with that axe. And take Sam with you, he can pick up kindling.”
“Ah Syl, I done split wood before. Billy Joe has me doing it all the time.”
She glared at him, so he scooted out the door.
Turning back to the sink, she slammed the gray tin cup into the drainer. “Dammit. Billy Joe’s old enough to pull his weight around here. He ain’t brought home a squirrel to eat in a long time.” She wasn’t his Ma, but next to it, since Ma worked at the diner every day. “He gets away with everything,” she muttered. Her Ma favored her first born son, who was tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin.
She often said, “Your brother Billy Joe has a lot going for him. He’ll do great things one day.”
Thoughts buzzed in Sylvia’s head and spewed forth. “Well, if I was his Ma and he was stealing watermelons and corn from the neighbors farm, I’d take a stick to him. Great things my foot. He’ll end up shot in the back one of these days.” She was fourteen and in charge while her Ma was gone. She’d fix that Billy Joe. It felt good to air out her thoughts where no one could hear.
As she slowly dried the dishes, Sylvia’s dark brown eyes stared into space while she thought about what kind of a man her little brother Barry might be. The quietest of the three boys, he was short and stocky with raven hair and black eyes. He helped a lot with little Sam, so maybe he’d be a good man someday.
Their Pa hadn’t been sober enough to teach Barry to hunt yet, but he’d been practicing, shooting moonshine jars off the back fence. Maybe it was time he tried his hand at getting some meat. She wouldn’t tell Ma, though. Ma was too afraid something would happen to her precious little boys.
Sylvia slammed the dishtowel onto the drainer. “Well, I’m just as important as those no good boys. I cook and clean and wash.” With a sigh, a tear fell from her cheek as she looked into the dirty dishwater, searching for her future in the greasy swirls.
Looking out the kitchen window, she could see Sam with his pudgy little arms full of sticks. At six he was a sweet handful, with blue twinkling eyes. She knew her Ma missed him something awful, and resented the time Sylvia spent with her littlest boy. Sylvia wanted to go back to school, but there wasn’t anybody to watch Barry and Sam. She closed her eyes and wished her Pa would find a job. But when she opened them and looked around at the peeling linoleum floor with the frayed rag rug, she knew he wouldn’t be finding one soon. She knew she had to get a diploma if she was ever going to get out of there.
“Here you go, Syl,” Barry said as he dropped an armload of split wood in the bin.
“I got kindlin’,” Sam said with a huge dirty grin and a lock of curly hair in his eyes.
A smile creased her face, as she dried her hands on the threadbare dishtowel. “You and Barry go dig some potatoes and onions.”
“Ah, Syl, I wanna go down to the creek with Billy Joe and his pals,” Barry whined.
“That good for nothing Billy Joe is too big for his britches. You do as I say now. He thinks he’s too grand to dig in the dirt, but I remember when he ate dirt and that time may come again. Go on now.”
She shooed them out the back door. Her Ma had always said, “It’s boys that matter on a farm.” Some farm, she thought. “Can’t even grow enough to feed this family, let alone sell anything.”
“I sure hope Ma brings ham tonight.” Sam smacked his lips and rolled three fat onions from his shirttail onto the table.
On Saturday nights, Ma brought home roast beef or fried chicken, but Pa always managed to wake up and get the best pieces himself. Sylvia had to fight the boys over the rest. They just couldn’t get enough to eat. Ma says she eats at work, so she doesn’t eat at home, but her dresses hanging on her thin frame said otherwise. “She’s saving that food for her boys,” thought Sylvia.
They got stew on Sundays after church. It was the stick-to-your-ribs kind with little pieces of meat and carrots, lots of potatoes and onions, and thick gravy. Ma made heavenly biscuits, too. Sylvia tried learning how to make biscuits, but hadn’t got the hang of it yet.
She remembered her Ma saying, “the key is in the bacon grease, Syl.” But they didn’t have bacon much anymore, so Sylvia’s biscuits were never as good. The boys would fetch honey from the hive up the hill. Sticky, golden honey on warm biscuits from the oven, it doesn’t get much better than that.
Late that afternoon, Sylvia was favoring a bruise on her heel from that damned rooster. Her Pa was passed out under the eve of the porch. She thought he looked sad, all slumped over with his mouth hanging slack, his few raggedy teeth hanging loose, and his Adams apple bobbing. His shirt was filthy, and his britches had holes in both knees, but he didn’t seem to mind. She could hear the boys teasing each other out back while picking the leftover beans.
“Bet I can pick more than you, Barry,” Billy Joe called out.
“Bet you can’t,” Barry yelled back.
“Watch me!” squealed Sam.
Sylvia couldn’t see them, but she knew Billy Joe had just fooled Barry into doing most of the work, as usual. She hauled the wet laundry basket to the line strung between two old maples and started pinning up the corners of the sopping clothes. Her arm ached from turning the wringer crank, so she’d given up and tried squishing the water out of the last few things. It hadn’t worked out very well, and she mumbled behind the wooden pin stuck in the corner of her mouth. One hand was on the tail of her Pa’s faded green flannel shirt folded over the wire, and the other was pushing the pin to secure it when someone slapped her behind.
“Dammit.” She figuring it was Billy Joe or Barry spoiling for a fight. As she swung around with her hand raised to strike she found herself nose to nose with her Pa.
He looked like he would bleed from his eyes, and his breath was sully as he hissed, “Don’t raise your hand to me girl. And watch your mouth.”
“Sorry Pa,” she said. Grabbing the pin from her mouth, she locked her hands together behind her back. She couldn’t look into those runny eyes, so she concentrated on the big toe she dug in the dirt.
“I need something, girl,” he slurred, grabbing her chin in his fingers.
“Okay, Pa. You hungry? I’ll go get you something to eat,” she said as she smiled at him.
“Nah, come here. You look mighty grown up there, standing on your tippy toes hanging the wash. Makes your legs look right pretty, and the wind blowing your skirt around your hips looks mighty fine.”
Her Pa had never talked that way before. She was momentarily stunned, but sidestepped his grasping hands just in time, leaping on the porch. He stumbled as he lunged, catching only air. She went inside and threw the hook down on the screen, locking him out.
“What are you doin’, Pa? I’m Sylvia, your daughter. Don’t you know me?”
“Open this here door, girl. I’m hungry, but not for food. Your Ma’s gone, the boys is gone, come to me, girl. Right now.” He grabbed the bottom of the door screen and tore it all the way up, then dove inside to grab her legs.
She hollered, “The boys ‘re out back in the garden, Pa, don’t!” She grabbed the nearest thing resembling a weapon. There was a resounding bong as the cast iron skillet ricocheted off his skull. His body hit the floor with a thud. He lay like a heap of dirty laundry, half in and half out of the doorway. Sylvia poked at his shoulder with her dirty toe, hopping back to make sure she was out of reach. When he didn’t lift his head, she pushed his shoulders back through the destroyed screen door.
“Billy Joe, get in here!”
He came around the corner of the house, “What’s the matter with you, Syl?”
“Pa just fell through this screen. Go get something to keep the flies out.”
“Damn, Syl, what a mess. Ma’s gonna holler big when she sees this.”
“That’s why you’re gonna fix it before she gets home. Now git.” For once Billy Joe did as he was told, and went to the shed for the tools to patch the door.
Sylvia climbed the ladder to the loft and flopped onto her cot. She made no effort to stem the silently gushing tide. “Why’d he have to do that? I hate this place and I hate him. I’m sick of being dirty and wearing rags. I’m tired of working for nothing and scratching for not much more.”
She bolted upright and with a defiant lift of her chin, she vowed, “I’m going back to school and find me a job, so I can get out of this filthy shack. I’m gonna buy me some nice shoes and clothes and get my hair done. I’m gonna leave this place and never come back.”
The next day, after the boys went off to school, Sylvia washed her face and changed into a faded but clean, cotton dress. She put on her shoes and gave Sam a cracker, taking his pudgy hand in hers. They passed their loudly snoring Pa, slouched against the stoop, and walked down the dirt road to the neighbors’ place.
The Dumont family lived just over the rise and behind the stand of Poplars. They were just as poor as the Grays. Mr. Dumont worked at the grocers in town and the Missus stayed home with their eight kids. They had twice as many mouths to feed, but seemed to make do. They had a nice truck garden in back and sold the extra at the crossroads. Mrs. Dumont raised the fattest tomatoes around and canned the best sauces this side of the river. The smells made your mouth water. The diner bought spaghetti sauce from Mrs. Dumont, which kept her in pin money.
“Hey there, Sylvia and Sam. How’re ya doing?” Mrs. Dumont, a tall, round woman with permanently flushed cheeks, greeted the two children while wiping her hands on her red and white checkered apron. The two youngest, Timmy and Cindy were hanging one on each of her sturdy legs.
Sylvia and Sam returned her greeting with smiles.
“Howdy, Mrs. Dumont. I need to go into town today to see about school and a job. Could I leave Sam with you? I could help you around the house some to pay you back.”
“I done had a cracker,” Sam announced to Timmy, who seemed content to hang on to his mommy’s leg with a thumb buried to the second knuckle. Cindy giggled.
“Well, Sam is always welcome here. He’s right between Timmy and Cindy in age, and they play real nice. You just take all the time you need. He’ll be fine here.”
“Why thank you, ma’am. If I do get a job and go back to school, well, you know my Pa’s not working and Ma’s at the diner . . .would you be willin’ to keep Sam ‘til the boys get home from school?” Sylvia kicked at a rock with her shoe, unable to meet Mrs. Dumonts’ gaze.
“Well, I don’t know. I’d have to talk to the Mister.” She knew the Grays had fallen on hard times, and the kids were the ones who suffered the most. The Dumonts had barely enough to feed their own flock.
“When I get a job, I’ll pay you what I can. Please just think on it, Mrs. Dumont.”
“I’ll talk with Mr. Dumont and we’ll see if we can work something out.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sylvia beamed. “You be a good boy Sam. No sassin’ and play nice.”
“Ok, Syl, I’ll be good,” Sam said, as he let go of her hand and dashed up to the porch.
Sylvia walked away with a spring in her step. There was a chance she could be back in school with her friends soon. It was only a half-mile of dirt road to the blacktop and the bus stop. She had just enough change for fare to and from the crossroads. As she neared the covered waiting bench, she drug her feet.
This would be hard. She had less than five miles to think about what to tell her Ma. She had to say things just right, or she’d get a licking for wasting time and money, especially when there were chores to be done.
She stared down the road as the oncoming bus grew in size. The driver, Mr. Penny, had a gap tooth smile, and white straw hair jumped out from under his hat. He always watched out for the kids who rode his bus, giving them change when they were short, and making sure they got off at the right stop.
“Well, how-de-do Miss Sylvia. You look right smart today. Going to town?” he asked.
“No, just the crossroads, Mr. Penny. I gotta go see Ma at the diner. I may walk to town, though, and see about a job. Do you know of anyone hiring?”
As her money jangled in the glass box, he swung the doors shut with the black handle by his seat. Sylvia sat behind him, so he could talk into the mirror and not have to turn his head.
“As a matter of fact, I think Mrs. Veazy is looking for someone to help at the Five and Dime.”
“Oh, that might be just fine. I could go in after school.” Her eyes sparkled as she considered that things might not be so bad after all.
Sylvia stared out the window at the splashes of yellow and red whizzing by. The oak and maple trees were dense and close together, intertwined, and draped over the road. You couldn’t see the sun, but specks of light stubbornly fought to shine through the canopy. The two-lane highway curved back and forth, rolling with the Arkansas hills.
It wasn’t long before they came to the crossroads where the Last Stop Diner and Gas-N-Go sat facing the asphalt. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen around the buildings. The trees and travelers choked or stomped it into drab brown dirt. A rusty old pick-up sat on cement blocks beside the Gas-N-Go. Patches of black paint freckled the red rust. There were no cars at the pump.
Joe Boswell’s black Model-T sat in front of the diner. It was early yet for the dinner crowd. As Sylvia stepped down from the bus, Mr. Penny called out, “You take care now Miss. I’m back this way every hour and will see that you get to the half mile stop to your place.”
“Thank you Mr. Penny,” she said as the glass doors closed. She waited beside the road as he pulled the bus back onto the highway, dust swirling in its wake. As she stood facing the gravel parking lot and the front of the diner, she saw her Ma wiping down a table through the windows.
Regina Gray straightened stiffly and rubbed the small of her back. Her eyes shifted from the now clean table to the lone figure standing at the edge of the asphalt.
“What now?” she said aloud, looking over her shoulder to see if someone had noticed. Joe’s table had been cleared, his coffee refilled, and his head was in the weekly paper. Regina stepped to the screen door to intercept her daughter.
“I’m taking a break, Shorty,” she called to the cook while tossing the dishrag behind the counter. She smoothed her dark brown hair, tucking stray strands back into her hairnet. Her daughter watched her pat her apron pocket and extract a cigarette and matches.
Sylvia shuffled across the lot, her palms were damp as she opened and closed her fists. Wiping her hands on her cotton skirt, she jumped when the screen door slammed. Her Ma stomped down the wooden steps.
“What are you doing here Sylvia? Why aren’t you home minding Sam?”
Taking a deep breath, she met her mother’s hard gaze. “We have to talk, Ma.”
“Oh what now, Sylvia?” Regina scowled. She pointed to the bench at the side of the building. “Let’s go over yonder then.”
Sylvia breathed a sigh of relief. This was hard enough without nosey Joe Boswell hearing.
Regina sat on the weathered bench, warped gray with age. It was perched under an old elm. Dead butts littered the ground between the rocks and the few weeds that dared to grow. Regina lit her cigarette and took a long drag, flicking the match in the dirt and turned her gaze to her first born.
“Make it fast Sylvia, I’m working.” Regina crossed her legs and leaned an elbow on one knee, as she blew a puff of smoke up into the air.
Sylvia stepped in front of her Ma. “I’m going back to school. I’m gonna get a job at the Five and Dime and move out. I’ll get me a room at old Mrs. Peterson’s Boarding house and send part of my pay home every week.”
“Is that so?” Regina said, stubbing out her butt with a vengeance. “And whose gonna keep the house, and cook, and watch the boys while I’m working?”
“Barry can watch Sam after school, and Billy Joe can get a job at the gas station to help out. Mrs. Dumont’ll watch Sam during the day. If I have to, I’ll use part of my money to pay for it.”
Regina lit another cigarette and used it to punctuate her next words. “Billy Joe’s gonna do better than the gas station. Why, with his charm and good looks, he’ll go farther than this dirty old backwater.”
“Billy Joe’s lazy, Ma. He could help if you’d just make him.”
Regina glared, “Since your Pa’s been jug bitten, Billy Joe’s been the man of the house. That’s a lot of responsibility Sylvia.”
“Yeah, right Ma,” she snapped, hands on hips. “And what’s he done? Nary a thing that’s what! Barry’s chopping and picking and fetching and doing ALL Billy Joe’s chores. Billy Joe just smokes and steals sips off Pa’s jug, strutting around his friends and telling stories. He ain’t doing nothing!”
"Don't you talk about your brother like that. Billy Joe is gonna be something big some day, girl. You'll just up and get married. That ain’t nothing, I know."
Sylvia stood with fists clinched. "I'm fourteen, and I’ve got to finish school so I can get a good job. I ain’t married yet, Ma, and I ain’t gonna find anybody worth nothin’ here."
"You need to stay home and take care of Sam."
"I'm not his Ma, you are!" She stomped her foot.
Regina narrowed her eyes, and her voice sliced her daughter; "You'll do as I say. We're not gonna waste time and money on you, girl. Your Pa ain’t found a job yet, so I have to work here to pay the bills."
"Pa ain’t even looking for a job, Ma. He drinks and sleeps all day long."
"He tries Sylvia. He's just had a run of bad luck. You'll see. He and Billy Joe'll get jobs, and then you can go back to school."
"No. I won't stay home with Pa anymore. Sam can stay with the neighbor. I can't get hardly anything done with him around and Pa pawing after me." She sucked in her breath as she realized what just leaked out.
"What do you mean, pawing after you? Have you been sashaying yourself around tempting him? You hussy. I knew you couldn't be trusted, you and those black eyes and that dishwater blonde hair. Oh, yeah, you can move out honey. And you'd better not be tempting the boys in town and end up with a brat in your belly, or there'll be hell to pay."
Sylvia just stood there with her mouth open, tears streaming down her face. None of this was her fault, but she didn't care how she got out as long as she was out.
“You get, girl, and the sooner, the better. I don’t need your kind around my boys.” Regina viciously ground the stub of her cigarette into the dirt as she shouted at her daughter’s stricken face. She straightened her apron, patted her hair, and plastered on a smile as she walked to the diner steps.
With all the dignity she could muster, Sylvia walked away from her Ma towards town. She didn’t look back. Her Ma’s words had cut, and a hard cold rock began to form in her chest. “I’ll show them who’s worth something.”
Her face was dry, and her eyes were bright by the time she’d walked the mile to town. The Five and Dime was midway down Main Street, between the post office and the dry goods store. A help wanted sign hung in the window. Sylvia opened the door, a brass bell announcing her presence.
“Miss Veazy?” she called out, eyes adjusting to the dim.
“Well, Sylvia Gray, how are you?” Miss Veazy smiled as she rounded the candy counter. She was the same height as the counter, which came to about Sylvia’s breastbone. Mr. Veazy was tall and skinny with pop bottle glasses and a shiny baldhead. He kept to his office in the back.
“Well, I’m doing pretty good, ma’am. I noticed your sign in the window, and I’d like to have that job.”
“Are you sure, Sylvia? It’s evenings and Saturdays, and I was hoping to get someone to stay above the store at night,” she studied Sylvia’s face.
“Why, that would be perfect. I’m going back to school, and I could work nights and Saturdays. I could study after the store closes.” Sylvia vibrated with excitement.
“I don’t like the idea of a young girl working nights and living alone, Sylvia. Even if I am right across the alley, I just don’t know if it’d be safe.”
“Miss Veazy, I need this job. I’m strong and I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been taking care of the house and the farm and my brothers since my Pa’s been out of work. Please give me a chance.”
“How old are you Sylvia?”
“I’m sixteen,” she said, looking the shopkeeper straight in the eye.
“What grade are you in?”
“I’m in eighth grade. Since I had to stay home with the boys, I’m a bit behind.”
“Well, I’ll give you a try. There’s a phone on the stairs. If someone breaks in, you call Janice and have her get Sheriff Henry over here on the double.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You’ll get $.35 cents an hour, cash. Your room is free, but you have to pay for your food. You’ll wait on customers, restock shelves, dust, and sweep every night. Uncle Bob mops after closing on Wednesday and Saturday, unless someone tracks in mud. Make sure all the glass cases are clean of smudges. You can buy your supplies on account, but it’ll be deducted from your wages. Mr. Veazy will keep the tally sheet for you.”
“Thank you. I don’t need much.”
“You can start tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia said with a grin. “I’ll do a good job. You’ll see.”
Sylvia skipped down the boardwalk. The peeling buildings didn’t look as desperate as they had a few minutes ago. The sun shone in the oil of the black top as she strode to the school.
It took Sylvia almost two hours to complete her business in town. By the time she got back to the crossroads, she was tired, but her spirits were high. Mr. Penny’s bus was just pulling up to the bench, so she ran the last bit to catch it.
She huffed out, “Hello, Mr. Penny. I got that job at the Five and Dime. I start tomorrow.”
“Well, that is just wonderful, Miss Sylvia. I’m glad it worked out for you. Did you see your Ma?”
“Yessir, I did.”
Her thoughts churned, along with her stomach. Barry would’ve picked up Sam from the Dumonts’ by now. No doubt they had eaten anything worth eating, but she’d make do for dinner.
As she approached the porch, her Pa’s prone body was conspicuously missing. Glancing over her shoulder, she didn’t see him in the yard or by the shed. She peered in the screen door before opening it. Barry and Sam were building something with pieces of kindling from the wood box. Billy Joe was absent, and still there was no sign of their Pa.
“Hi, Syl. I was a good boy, honest,” Sam said as he ran up and threw a hug around her knees.
“Hi, Sam. I’ve got to start supper now, you go wash up.”
“I’m not dirty.”
“Well, go wash anyway.”
“Alright, Syl.” He shuffled over to the pump and splashed his face and hands. Brown smudges appeared on the towel.
Sylvia and the boys ate dinner late. It was quiet around the table as each child was deep into their own thoughts. Even Sam understood something was wrong and didn’t chatter as usual. Neither their Ma nor Pa had come home by bedtime.
Sylvia finished the dishes and went to the loft. The boys shared the living room downstairs, sleeping on pallets by the warm fireplace. In summers, they slept in the yard in a makeshift tent strung over the clothesline.
All her personal things were in a box under the cot. She had a few clothes, a couple of books, a pencil, and scraps of paper, which weren’t used up yet. She had a hand mirror and a horse hair brush, her grandmother Ressie had given her, along with a set of fake pearl ear bobs and a watch that didn’t run. There was one pair of shoes, two cotton dresses, and a flour sack apron. She had a string top bag of patches she’d scrounged, and a beat up old china doll in a homemade rag dress she’d made.
She looked at her meager pile of treasures as silent tears fell in her lap. She pulled off her dress and slipped into one of her Ma’s old nightgowns. Staring into the dark rafters she waited for the sound of her parent’s return. Sometime during the night, she drifted into a fitful sleep; dreamy images just out of reach.
The smell of coffee woke her, so she quickly dressed for breakfast. Coming down the stairs, she saw her Pa sitting at the table and her Ma at the stove. The boys were still asleep. No one spoke to her as she walked to the drainer to get the dishes for the table.
“Never mind,” Regina said without looking up. “You go on about your business now.”
For a minute, Sylvia just stood there, looking from her Ma’s back to the top of her Pa’s bowed head. No one moved or turned to her, so she mounted the stairs to retrieve her belongings.
As she descended the stairs for the last time, no one spoke. She crossed the dusty floor to the doorway, exited it with a slam, and never looked back.
# # #
Like most six-year-old boys, Drew liked to play outdoors. For his birthday, his Grandpa and Grandma bought him a bright green fishing rod and promised to take him to a fishing pond.
Early Saturday morning they headed to the county park, with several small fishing lakes. They stopped at the bait shop, but unlike the fish, the bait shop owner wasn’t awake.
The sign on the door read, Open 9:00 until Noon.
“By 9:00 o’clock,” Grandpa said, “the fish will be taking their morning naps.”
So Drew, Grandpa and Grandma climbed back into the truck and went home.
“I really wanted to try out my new fishing pole,” Drew said.
Grandpa grinned, “I know where we can find some fish bait. We’ll get some juicy earth worms from behind the shed.”
As soon as the truck was parked, Drew jumped out and dashed through the yard to the shed. Grandpa went to get a shovel, while Grandma got an empty plastic butter tub and poked holes in the lid. When they rounded the corner of the shed they found Drew hunkered down staring at the ground.
“Where are the worms?” he asked. “I don’t see them anywhere.”
“They live deep in the cool earth and only come up when it rains,” Grandpa explained.
“How do they see under the dirt?”
“They don’t. They sort of feel their way.” Grandpa inserted the spade and turned over a dark scoop of earth. A tiny red form poked out from a hole and quickly slipped back inside. “Did you see that?”
“Yes. How do we get it out?” Drew said, as he squatted beside the pile of dirt.
“We just poke our fingers in and pull him out.” Grandpa knelt down next to the boy and stuck his fingers in the moist soil where the worm had been. The dirt broke into smaller pieces where they found not one worm, but three.
“Look, there’s a whole bunch of them,” Drew said.
Grandma held out the plastic butter dish for Grandpa to drop the dirt and slimy creatures inside.
Drew took the container and poked and stretched the wiggling forms with his fingers. “Do fish really eat these?”
“Yes, they like them,” Grandma said.
They watched as Grandpa turned over another shovel full of dirt, producing yet a larger batch of wiggling worms, which he dropped into the plastic bowl.
As Drew studied and prodded them he asked, “Do worms taste good?”
Grandma grinned, “They taste good to the fish.”
“And birds like them, too,” Grandpa added.
“But, do they taste good?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never eaten one,” Grandma said.
“Can I taste one?” Drew asked.
Grandpa winked at Grandma over Drew’s head and said, “Young man, you do what you have to do.”
The boy stood for a moment, fingering first one worm then another. He finally decided on the smallest squirming form. As Grandma and Grandpa watched in silence, Drew stuck it in his mouth.
Drew’s eyes scrunched up and he spat it back into the bowl. “Yuck.”
“How was it?” Grandma asked.
Drew wiped his mouth on his sleeve and smiled. “I think it’d be better without the dirt.”
# # #