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

don’t look right. All Frank Armstrong had to do was put salve on Julie’s big toe every night. All Johnny had to do was stop going to church so much. Neither one of them had to burn nothing down. Johnny didn’t have to burn down the church; Frank Armstrong didn’t have to burn down his house; not even a pair of pants. But me, I got to burn up my car. Charged us all the same thing—no, even charged me seventy-five cents more—and I got to burn up a car I can still get some use out. Now, that don’t sound right, do it?”
    â€œHanh?”
    â€œI can’t figure it,” Daddy says. “Look like I ought to be able to sell it for little something. Get some of my money back. Burning it, I don’t get a red copper. That just don’t sound right to me. I wonder if she was fooling. No. She say she wasn’t. But maybe that wasn’t my advice she seen in that fireplace. Maybe that was somebody else advice. Maybe
she gived me the wrong one. Maybe it belongs to the man coming back there after me. They go there three times a day, she can get them mixed up.”
    â€œI’m scared of Madame Toussaint, Daddy,” I say.
    â€œMust’ve been somebody else,” Daddy says. “I bet it was. I bet you anything it was.”
    I bounce on Daddy’s back and I close my eyes. I open them and I see me and Daddy going ’cross the railroad tracks. We go up the quarter to Gran’mon’s house. Daddy squats down and I slide off his back.
    â€œRun in the house to the fire,” Daddy says. “Tell your mama come to the door.”
    Soon ’s I come in the yard, Spot runs down the walk and starts barking. Mama and all of them come out on the gallery.
    â€œMy baby,” Mama says. Mama comes down the steps and hugs me to her. “My baby,” she says.
    â€œLook at that old yellow thing standing out in that road,” Gran’mon says. “What you ought to been done was got the sheriff on him for kidnap.”
    Me and Mama go back on the gallery.
    â€œI been to Madame Toussaint’s house,” I say. Mama looks at me and looks at Daddy out in the road. Daddy comes to the gate and looks at us on the gallery.
    â€œAmy?” Daddy calls. “Can I speak to you a minute? Just one minute?”
    â€œYou don’t get away from my gate, I’m go’n make that
shotgun speak to you,” Gran’mon says. “I didn’t get you at twelve o’clock, but I won’t miss you now.”
    â€œAmy, honey,” Daddy calls. “Please.”
    â€œCome on, Sonny,” Mama says.
    â€œWhere you going?” Gran’mon asks.
    â€œFar as the gate,” Mama says. “I’ll talk to him. I reckon I owe him that much.”
    â€œYou leave this house with that nigger, don’t ever come back here again,” Gran’mon says.
    â€œYou oughtn’t talk like that, Rachel,” Uncle Al says.
    â€œI talk like I want,” Gran’mon says. “She’s my daughter; not yours, neither his.”
    Me and Mama go out to the gate where Daddy is. Daddy stands outside the gate and me and Mama stand inside.
    â€œLord, you look good, Amy,” Daddy says. “Honey, didn’t you miss me? Go on and say it. Go on and say how bad you missed me.”
    â€œThat’s all you want to say to me?” Mama says.
    â€œHoney, please,” Daddy says. “Say you missed me. I been grieving all day like a dog.”
    â€œCome on, Sonny,” Mama says. “Let’s go back inside.”
    â€œHoney,” Daddy says. “Please don’t turn your back on me and go back to Freddie Jackson. Honey, I love you. I swear ’fore God I love you. Honey, you listening?”
    â€œCome on, Sonny,” Mama says.
    â€œHoney,” Daddy says, “if I burn the car like Madame
Toussaint say, you’ll come back home?”
    â€œWhat?” Mama says.
    â€œShe say for