Free A Long Day in November by Ernest J. Gaines Page A

drunk off them two dollars and sleep in a cold bed tonight.”
    â€œYou mean she’ll come back tonight?” Daddy asks.
    â€œShe’s ready to come back right now,” Madame Toussaint says. “Poor little thing.”
    I look round Daddy’s leg at Madame Toussaint. Madame Toussaint’s looking in the fire. Her face ain’t red no more; her eyes ain’t big and white, either.
    â€œShe’s not happy where she is,” Madame Toussaint says.
    â€œShe’s with her mama,” Daddy says.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me my business,” Madame Toussaint says. “I know where she is. And I still say she’s not happy. She much rather be back in her own house. Women like to be in their own house. That’s their world. You men done messed up the outside world so bad that they feel lost and out of place in it. Her house is her world. Only there she can do what she want. She can’t do that in anybody else house—mama or nobody else. But you men don’t know any of this. Y’all never know
how a woman feels, because you never ask how she feels. Long’s she there when you get there you satisfied. Long’s you give her two or three dollars every weekend you think she ought to be satisfied. But keep on. One day all of you’ll find out.”
    â€œCouldn’t I sell the car or something?” Daddy asks.
    â€œYou got to burn it,” Madame Toussaint says. “How come your head so hard?”
    â€œBut I paid good money for that car,” Daddy says. “It wouldn’t look right if I just jumped up and put fire to it.”
    â€œYou, get out my house,” Madame Toussaint says, pointing her finger at Daddy. “Go do what you want with your car. It’s yours. But just don’t come back here bothering me for no more advice.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Daddy says.
    â€œI’m through talking,” Madame Toussaint says. “Rollo? Come here, baby.”
    Big old jet-black Rollo comes up and puts his head in Madame Toussaint’s lap. Madame Toussaint pats him on the head.
    â€œThat’s what I got to do, hanh?” Daddy says.
    Madame Toussaint don’t answer Daddy. She starts singing a song to Rollo:
    Mama’s little baby,
Mama’s little baby.
    â€œHe bad?” Daddy asks.

    Mama’s little baby,
Mama’s little baby.
    â€œDo he bite?” Daddy asks.
    Madame Toussaint keeps on singing:
    Mama’s little baby,
Mama’s little baby.
    â€œCome on,” Daddy says. “I reckon we better be going.”
    Daddy squats down and I climb up on his back. I look down at Madame Toussaint patting big old jet-black Rollo on his head.
    Daddy pushes the door open and we go outside. It’s cold outside. Daddy goes down Madame Toussaint’s three old broken-down steps and we go out in the road.
    â€œI don’t know,” Daddy says.
    â€œHanh?”
    â€œI’m talking to myself,” Daddy says. “I don’t know about burning up my car.”
    â€œYou go’n burn up your car?” I ask.
    â€œThat’s what Madame Toussaint say to do,” Daddy says.
    â€œYou ain’t go’n have no more car?”
    â€œI reckon not,” Daddy says. “You want me and Mama to stay together?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œThen I reckon I got to burn it up,” Daddy says. “But I sure hope there was another way out. I put better than three hundred dollars in that car.”

    Daddy walks fast and I bounce on his back.
    â€œGod, I wish there was another way out,” Daddy says. “Don’t look like that’s right for a man to just jump up and set fire to something like that. What you think I ought to do?”
    â€œHanh?”
    â€œGo back to sleep,” Daddy says. “I don’t know what I’m educating you for.”
    â€œI ain’t sleeping,” I say.
    â€œI don’t know,” Daddy says. “That