“I know enough. Was I borned last week? For God’s sake!”
“You hate me, Lethe,” Theodosia said after a little, speaking through Stig’s garbled recitative that continued. “You hate me. What makes you hate me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Was I borned last week? Don’t you reckon I know your tricks? Is he anybody to me?”
Americy began to play one of her tunes, laboring with the chords and humming softly, half whispering, and Theodosia watched the fingers on the strings or she plucked her own strings to make harmonious chords with the tune. The music set Stig’s eyes in a dance and renewed his memory of the scene in the corn room. His voice was lifted to a higher pitch.
“We all says ‘Whoopee! Come see ol’ rat.’ Crawl on his belly. Go a leetle piece, stop, go a leetle piece. Three weeks in that-there tank and ne’er a bite inside him.”
“For God’s sake!” Lethe said. She turned wearily toward the table again. “Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Ol’ rat,” Stig said. “Rat go crawl, crawl down towarge corn room. We all walk behind ol’ rat and see ol’ rat go crawl down towarge corn room. Skeeter Shoots says ‘Come see ol’ rat.’ Says, ‘Naw, don’t kill yet. Watch ’im crawl down towarge corn room.’ Take ol’ rat, I reckon, hour. I go water Rose and hitch up Beckie. Come back. ‘Ain’t ol’ rat got there yet?’”
“To let Minnie Harter take your man away. For God’s sake! You’re easy. To let Min Harter get ahead on you. The lame slut.” Lethe spoke with great passion, turning half about and staring at Theodosia, eyeing her form up and down.
“What you know about that?” Theodosia asked. She turned back to Americy’s playing again. “What do you know about that?”
“Plays a tune right outen his spit,” Stig said.