Ma swung around. “Why, evenin’, Mis’ Wainwright. We done good. Three an’ a half. Three fifty-seven, exact.”
“We done four dollars.”
“Well,” said Ma. “’Course they’s more of you.”
“Yeah. Jonas is growin’ up. Havin’ pork chops, I see.” Winfield crept in through the door. “Ma!”
“Hush a minute. Yes, my men jus’ loves pork chops.”
“I’m cookin’ bacon,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Can you smell it cookin’?”
“No—can’t smell it over these here onions in the potatoes.”
“She’s burnin’!” Mrs. Wainwright cried, and her head jerked back. “Ma,” Winfield said. “What? You sick from Cracker Jack?”
“Ma—Ruthie tol’.”
“Tol’ what?”