“I hear Miss Gail’s back home.” It was the ice man. He had given her slivers of ice in the days when she had wished that she were a boy.
“Yassum.” Mammy Emma. She said “Yassum” to everybody; men, women, and children.
Gail, still snuggled in the pillows, smiled affectionately, and knew what time it was. She reached lazily out and pressed the button.
“Prettier than ever, I suppose.” A slam and a bang and a rattle of crockery.
“Heaps.” The clink of a muffin pan. Gail knew the peculiar sound from that of all the other pans in the house. “I thought I done tole you yeahs ago to saw that ice straight. Does it fit that away?”
“All right, Emma.” The slam of a lid. “I’ll remember it next time. Miss Gail home for good?”
“Praise the Lawd, yes.”
The clank of ice tongs.
“She’s a fine girl!” This with profound conviction. “She didn’t get her head turned and marry any of those rich New Yorkers.”
“She could if she’d ‘a’ wanted to!” This indignantly.