“Was it four, fo’ true, Uncle?” Sherry asked doubtfully.
“Yes, suh! An e’d ’a’ been holdin’ on till now if it didn’t thunder,” Uncle Bill spoke solemnly.
“What did you do all dem four days, Uncle?” Sherry asked.
“I watched de clouds an’ prayed for de thunder to roll, son.”
When Breeze hoped one would never bite him, Uncle Bill grunted. “You right to hope so, son. I hope so too. A cooter is a contrary creeter.”
“De people used to say Uncle Isaac was crippled by a cooter. E makes like e’s plagued wid rheumatism, but I have hear tell e ain’ got no big toe on one foot. Did you know dat, Sherry?”
“How come so?” Breeze inquired.
“Well, now, I tell you, dis might not be so. But I used to hear de people say it was. Old man Isaac is a heap older’n me an’ all dis happened before I was born. But my mammy used to laugh ’bout em. Plenty o’ times when e’d come hoppin’ up to de house a-talkin’ ’bout how it must be gwine rain soon by de misery in his knee was so bad, my mammy use to say his big toe wasn’t buried straight an’ dat was what hurt Uncle Isaac. T’ings have to be buried right or dey can’ rest at all.”
“Whe’ was de cooter?” Breeze asked.
“De cooter was in de corn-field, son.”