“How come Joy don’ fetch e own answer?”
“Joy’s too troub-led.”
Big Sue shot a look at him and sucked her teeth. “Joy’s mighty late gittin’ troub-led,” and a hard, wicked smile touched her mouth.
“Joy’s troub-led about April. April ain’ well, Miss Big Sue.”
Big Sue sniffed and said April was due to have something wrong with him, wicked as he had lived, hard as he had been with everybody that crossed him. What kind of sickness did April have?
“Somet’ing ails his feets.”
“Dat ain’ surprisin’. April slept wid a death-sheet on ’em a whole night.”
“Uncle Isaac took dat spell off em.”
“Well, who put dis spell on em, den?”
Uncle Bill sat down on the step. He was so troubled in his mind, it was difficult for him to say what ailed April. At first it favored chilblains; then ground-itch, for April went out barefooted in the dew every morning God sent, and any little scratch that lets dew get inside your skin may give you ground-itch. But none of the chilblain or ground-itch cures helped him at all. His appetite was clean gone. He had eaten nothing but spoon-victuals for a week. He was thin as a fence rail.