'I ain't got a penny, Mr. Purdue,' I said. 'Papa had the money, but everything got blowed away in the storm. If you could just give me some time-'
He put his hat on and looked real sad about things, almost like it was his farm he was losing.
'I'm afraid not, son, It's an awful duty I got, but it's my duty.'
I told him again about the money blowing away, how Papa had saved it up from selling stuff during the farm season, doing odd jobs and all, and that I could do the same, providing he gave my leg time to heal and me to get the work. Just to play on his sympathy some, I then went on to tell him the whole horrible truth about how Papa was killed and Mama blowed away like so much outhouse paper, and when I got through I figured I'd told it real good, cause his eyes looked a little moist.
'That,' he said, not hardly able to speak, 'is without a doubt the saddest story I've ever heard. And of course I knew about it, son, but somehow, hearing it from you, the last survivor of the Fogg family, makes it all the more dreadful.'
He kind of choked up there on the end of his words, and I figured I had hold of him pretty good, so I throwed in how us Foggs had pride and all, and that I'd never let an owed bill go unpaid, and if he'd just give me the time to raise the money, he'd have it in his hand before long.
He told me he was tore all to hell up about it, but business was business, sad story or not. And as he wiped some tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand, he told me he would give me until tomorrow evening instead of noon, because he reckoned someone who'd been through what I had deserved a little more time.
'But that ain't enough,' I said.
'Sorry, son, that's the best I can do, and that goes against the judgment of the bank. I'm sticking my neck out to do that.'
'You are the bank, Purdue,' I said. 'Who you fooling? It ain't me. We all know you're the bank.'
'I understand your grief, your great torment,' he said, just like one of the characters from some of them dime novels Papa bought from time to time, 'but business is business.'
'You said that.'
'Yes I did, young sir.' With that, Purdue turned and walked back to his buckboard. He called out to me as I stood there leaning defeated on my crutches. 'I tell you, son, that is the saddest story I've ever heard, and I've heard some. Tragic. This will hang over my head like the shining sword of Damocles from here on out, right over my head,' he showed me exactly where it would be hanging with his hand, 'until my dying day.'
He stood there with one foot on the buckboard step a moment, looking as downcast as a young rooster without any hens, then he climbed up and cracked the whip gently over the heads of the horses. There must have been some pretty heavy tears in his eyes as he left, cause when he turned the buckboard around, the left wheels rolled right across Papa's grave.
My farming days were over before they even got started. And I'll tell you, right then and there, I decided I wasn't going to pick up another dead chicken to make the place look nicer. In fact, I went over to the ditch, got the ones I'd throwed down there out and chunked them around sorta like they'd been. Then I went back to my tent and wished I hadn't burned that old dead mule up. It was all mighty depressing.
The smartest thing to have done was go on over to Mr. Parks's place, even if it did take me all damned day on crutches, but I just couldn't. Us Foggs had our pride and I didn't want no handout. No one taking care of me when I was old enough to take care of my ownself, I decided to set out for town, get me a job there, make my own way. Even if I couldn't save the farm, I could start me some kind of living. There was probably something I could work at until my leg healed up and I got me a solid job.
I figured if I started early, like tomorrow morning, I could make town by nightfall, crutches or not. I'd most likely fall down and bust it a few times, but that didn't matter none.
Well, as I said, us Foggs are proud, and maybe just a bit stupid, so come morning I put some hard bread, jerked meat, and dried fruit in a sack, and saying adios to the dead chickens, the mule bones, and Papa's grave, I started crutching on out of there.
I must have fallen down a half-dozen times before I got to the road, but when I was on it I could crutch along better because there was a lot less ice there.
By noon my underarms were so sore from the rubbing of the crutches, they were bleeding and making blisters that kept popping as I went. Instead of making it to town by nightfall, I was beginning to think I'd be lucky to make it by next year's Thanksgiving. In fact, I was counting on dying at that moment, just keeling over beside the road there and kicking out the last of my worries.
I stopped, sat down on a rock and my coattails, ate some bread and jerky, and fretted things over. Thinking back on it now, I'm surprised I didn't hear it coming before I did. Guess I was wrapped up in my lunch and my thinking. But I finally caught sound of this tinkling, and when I looked up I seen it was bells and harness I had heard, and the harness was attached to eight big mules pulling a bright, red wagon driven by a big colored man wearing a long, dark coat and a top hat. When the sun hit his teeth they flashed like a pearl-handled revolver.
As the wagon made a little curve in the road, I got a glimpse at the side, and I could see there was a cage fixed there, balancing out the barrels of water and supplies on the other side.
At first, I thought what was in the cage was a deformed colored fella, but when it got closer, I seen it was some kind of animal covered in black fur. It was about the scariest, ugliest damned thing I'd ever seen.
Right then I was feeling a mite less proud than I had been earlier that morning, so I got them crutches under my sore arms and hobbled out into the road waving a hand at the wagon. I was aiming on getting a ride or getting run slap over so I could end the torture. I didn't feel like I could crutch another mile.
The wagon slowed and pulled alongside me. The driver yelled, 'Whoa, you old ugly mules,' and the harness bells ceased to shake.
I could see the animal in the cage good now, but I still couldn't figure on what it was. There was some yellow words painted above the cage that said, 'THE MAGIC WAGON,' and to the right of the cage was a little sign with some fancy writing on it that read: 'Magic Tricks, Trick Shooting, Fortune Telling, Wrestling Ape, Side Amusements, Medicine For What Ails You, And All At Reasonable Prices.'
Sounded pretty good to me.
'You look like you could use a ride, white boy,' the big man said.
'Yes sir, I could at that,' I said.
'You don't yes-sir a nigger.' I turned to see who had said that, and there was this fella standing in faded, red long Johns and moccasins with blond hair down to his shoulders and a skimpy little blond mustache over his lip, He had his arms crossed, holding his elbows against the cold. He'd obviously come out of the back of the wagon, but he'd walked so quiet I hadn't even known he was there till he spoke.
When I didn't say nothing, he added, 'This here's my wagon. He's just a nigger that works for me. I say who ride and who don't, and I say you don't.'
'I got some jerky, canned taters, and beans I can trade fo a ride, and I'll sit up there on the seat.'
'If you was riding you sure would,' the blond man said 'But you ain't riding.' He turned back to the wagon and noticed the flap of his long Johns were down. I snickered little, and he turned to stare at me. He had eyes like couple of big nail heads, cold, flat, and gray. 'I don't nee no beans and taters,' he said sharply, and turned back to the wagon.
'He can ride up here with me if he's got a mind to,' the colored man said.
The white fella spun around and came stomping back 'What did you say?'
'I said he could ride up here with me if he's got a mind to,' the colored man said, moving his lips real slowlike, as if he was talking to an idiot. 'It's too cold for a boy to be out here, especially one on crutches.'
'You don't say,' said the blond man. 'You're getting awfully uppity for a nigger who works for me.'
'Maybe I is,' the colored fella said. 'And it worries me something awful, Mister Billy Bob. I get so worried abouts it I can't get me no good sleep at night. When I lays myself down I just keep tossing and turning, wondering if Mr. Billy Bob is put out with me, and if I truly 'is getting uppity.'
Mister Billy Bob pointed his finger at the colored fella and shook it. 'Keep it up, nigger. Just keep it up and you're going to wake up with a crowd of buzzards on you. Hear?'
'I hear,' said the colored man, and it was almost a yawn.
Billy Bob started back for the wagon again, gave me glimpse of his exposed butt, turned, and came back. He shook his finger at the colored fella again. 'Albert,' he said, 'you and me, we're going to have to have a serious Come to-Jesus Meeting, get some things straight about who's the nigger and who ain't.'
