“’Tain’t nothin’ at all,” she invariably protested, in answer to Polly’s anxious questions. “Folks that’s had the fever ginerally feel this way every year about the same time. When the weather gits warmer I’ll be stout as ever.”
But Polly knew better. She had seen that look of deadly weariness too often to be deceived.
“Ain’t you never heard from Tobe?” Polly asked one evening when she sat on the steps of Mary’s shack watching her friend’s strenuous attempts to hold herself erect while she patched a pair of faded little trousers.
Mary bowed her head very low as she answered, “No.”
“Where’s he at?”
“In Atlanta, workin’ in the engine shops, an’ doin’ well; his maw told Billy Sanders a while back.”
“An’ he knows you’re down here slavin’ like a nigger for all them chillun?”
“I reckon he does, ’cause his maw writes to him.”
“Then all I’ve got to say is that he must be a turrible no-count feller to let his wife—”
“’Tain’t his fault,” Mary flung back, lifting her deathly pale face for a moment. “It’s them Lomuxes that made all the trouble to start with. If his maw hadn’t found fault with the chillun he never would a’ done what he did.”