Free Flying Home by Ralph Ellison

noisily.
    Buster dug in the weeds again, then stopped:
    “Guess ain’t nothing in here.”
    He looked at Riley. Riley was grinning to himself.
    “Boy, what’s the matter with you?”
    “Buster, I’m still thinking about ’em throwing that liquor down the toilet. You know one thing? When I was little and they would set me on the seat, I useta think the devil was down there gitting him some cigars. I was scaired to sit down. Man, one time my ole lady like to beat the hell outa me ’cause I wouldn’t sit down.”
    “You crazy, man,” Buster said. “Didn’t I tell you, you was crazy?”
    “Honest,” Riley said. “I useta believe that.”
    They laughed. Buster dragged his stick through the weed tops. A hen cackled in the yard beyond the fence they were moving past. The sound of someone practicing scales on a piano drifted to them. They walked slowly.
    The narrow road through the alley was cut with dried ruts of wagon wheels, the center embedded with pieces of broken glass. “Where we going?” Buster asked. Riley began to chant:
    “Well I met Mister Rabbit

down by the pea vine …”
    Buster joined in:
    “An’ I asked him where’s he gwine

Well, he said, Just kiss my behind

And he skipped on down the pea vine.”
    Buster suddenly stopped and grabbed his nose.
    “Look at that ole dead cat!”
    “Ain’t on my mama’s table.”
    “Mine neither!”
    “You better spit on it, else you’ll have it for supper,” Buster said.
    They spat upon the maggot-ridden body, and moved on.
    “Always lots a dead cats in the alley. Wonder why?”
    “Dogs get ’em, I guess.”
    “My dog ate so many dead cats once, he went crazy and died,” said Riley.
    “I don’t like cats. They too sly.”
    “Sho stinks!”
    “I’m holding my breath.”
    “Me too!”
    Soon they passed the smell. Buster stopped, pointing.
    “Look at the apples on that tree.”
    “Gittin’ big as hell!”
    “Sho is, let’s git some.”
    “Naw, they’ll give you the flux. They too green.”
    “I’m taking a chance,” Buster said.
    “Think anybody’s home?”
    “Hell, we don’t have to go inside the fence. See, some of ’em’s hanging over the alley.”
    They walked over to the fence and looked into the yard. The earth beneath the trees was bare and moist. Up near the house the grass was short and neat. Flagstones leading out of the garage made a pattern in the grass.
    “White folks live here?”
    “Naw, colored. White folks moved out when we moved in the block,” Buster said.
    They looked up into the tree: the sun broke through the leaves and apples hung bright green from dull black branches. A snake-doctor hummed by in long, curving flight. It was quiet and they could hear the thump, thump, thump of oil wells pumping away to the south. Buster stepped back from the fence, and held his stick ready.
    “Look out now,” Buster said. “They might fall in the weeds.”
    The stick ripped the leaves. An apple rattled through the branches, thumping to the ground inside the fence.
    “Damn!”
    He picked up the stick and threw again. The leaves rustled; Riley caught an apple. Another fell near Buster’s toes. He looked at Riley’s apple.
    “I git the biggest! You scaired to eat ’em anyway.”
    Riley watched him an instant, rolling the apple between his palms. There was a spot of red on the green of the apple.
    “I don’t care,” he said finally. “You can have it.”
    He pitched the apple to Buster. Buster caught it and touched first base with his toe.
    “He’s out on first!”
    “Let’s go,” Riley said.
    They walked close to the fence, the weeds whipping their thin legs. A woodpecker drummed on a telephone pole.
    “I’m gonna remember that tree. Won’t be long before them apples is ripe.”
    “Yeah, but this
here’n
sho ain’t ripe,” Riley said. Buster laughed as he saw Riley’s face twist into a wry frown.
    “We need some salt,” he said.
    “Man, damn! Hot springs water won’t help this apple