Mare's War Read Online Free Page A

listening to the radio with Feen and Toby, I took the hatchet to the whetstone out back and sharpened it.

    Sundays are always the best day of the week. Sundays, me and Feen get up early, slop the hogs, and collect the eggs. We go with Mama to the African Methodist Episcopal church on Fourth Street. We wear our good hats. We step down the road, looking this way and that, seeing and being seen. On Sundays, the whole world is fine.
    Even Josephine starched up a little this Sunday. Not only is it three weeks till Thanksgiving, yesterday Toby made some talk about how he had to see about his mother, so he had to get out of town. You should have seen the smile on that girl’s face. Toby up and left just after dark.
    He’ll be back. But now I’m ready.
    Last night before dinner, I made Feen slop the hogs, and I got the eggs myself, so Feen could stop crying about thatsetting hen that pecked her. I went into the henhouse, and Toby was there so fast I dropped my basket. He put his arm ’cross my throat and pushed me against the wall. He tried to reach down and pinch my privates, but I fought him like he was the devil. “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,” isn’t that what the Book say? The chickens got riled and started cluckin’ and Mama hollered I better stop fooling around out there. Toby sucked his teeth and grinned at me.
    Mama uses the hatchet to take the heads off the chickens after she wrings their necks. It ain’t big, but it’s sharp like it’s stropped. Last night, I slid it up under my bed.
    Now I’m ready.

    At Bible study this Sunday, I heard tell that one of Saphira Watkins’s boys is leavin’ for the navy. Now she’s braggin’ that her boy’s gonna “see the world” before he settles down. That Sister Watkins just about always got something to say. Mama says most likely her boy’s gonna see a mop and a bucket to swab the deck, and that’s all. At services, Reverend Morgan preached a sermon all about the prophet Deborah and how she prophesied to the general Barak that a woman would slay the evil tyrant Sisera, that the Lord would bring about His plan through the powerless and not the general and his army. Then, just like she said, Sisera ran away from the battle and came to Jael to sleep in her tent, then Jael nailed his head to the floor with a tent peg. What God says, He does—ain’t that the truth? Then little Ananias Caldwell sang with the choir. Now, that boy has got a sweet voice. He might be famous someday. I’m gonna say I knew him when.
    We came home for Sunday dinner, it being First Sunday and all. Mama made some corn bread to go with our beans,
and
she fried up a chicken, even though she was fussed that she couldn’t find that hatchet. I scraped out some fatback for the corn bread, and it was good, good. Mama made us save half the chicken for Toby. She hopes he’ll be back on Monday.
    He’ll be back. But now I’m ready.
    Then Mama took a little rest with her bourbon, and Feen and me went to sew quilts for the needy with the Dials girls. While we was sewing, Sister Dials announced we having a Christmas social next Sunday. Sundays are always the best days of the week.

    Monday, Miss Ida’s daughter, Beatrice, is home from her ladies’ college, talking about she’s going to Daytona Beach to join the U.S.
Army
. Now, this is a
women’s
army, she tells Miss Ida. She’s gonna be working with
women
to free up a man for the fight. It’s her duty, she says. Well, sir, Miss Ida sure pitched a fit, said no daughter of hers was going to join no women’s army like she ain’t got no breeding.
    “You know what kind of women they have there, Bébé,” Miss Ida says, twisting up her face like she gone crazy. She still calls Miss Beatrice by her baby name.
    Miss Bébé says it don’t matter what kind of girls they got there, but Miss Ida shouted her down, talking about, “No child of mine!” Sent her from the table, too, like she was no more grown than a child. Miss Bébé