The men trooped in. “Meat, by God!” said Tom. “And coffee. I smell her. Jesus, I’m hungry! I et a lot of peaches, but they didn’ do no good. Where can we wash, Ma?”
“Go down to the water tank. Wash down there. I jus’ sent Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ to wash.” The men went out again.
“Go on now, Rosasharn,” Ma ordered. “Either you set in the door or else on the bed. I got to break that box up.”
The girl helped herself up with her hands. She moved heavily to one of the mattresses and sat down on it. Ruthie and Winfield came in quietly, trying by silence and by keeping close to the wall to remain obscure.
Ma looked over at them. “I got a feelin’ you little fellas is lucky they ain’t much light,” she said. She pounced at Winfield and felt his hair. “Well, you got wet, anyway, but I bet you ain’t clean.”
“They wasn’t no soap,” Winfield complained.
“No, that’s right. I couldn’ buy no soap. Not today. Maybe we can get soap tomorra.” She went back to the stove, laid out the plates, and began to serve the supper. Two patties apiece and a big potato. She placed three slices of bread on each plate. When the meat was all out of the frying pan she poured a little of the grease on each plate. The men came in again, their faces dripping and their hair shining with water. “Leave me at her,” Tom cried. They took the plates. They ate silently, wolfishly, and wiped up the grease with the bread. The children retired into the corner of the room, put their plates on the floor, and knelt in front of the food like little animals.
Tom swallowed the last of his bread. “Got any more, Ma?”
“No,” she said. “That’s all. You made a dollar, an’ that’s a dollar’s worth.”
“That?”