Spring had colored the fields a light delicate green and tipped the edges of the trees faintly as if they had been barely dipped in paint, The acres that would soon be cotton stretched before his eyes like a luscious, soft smooth bed. Run! The screen door slammed behind him. He heard Beatrice yelling at him not to slam the door. He was in the field running, stumbling crying: it wasn't smooth at all. There were huge ruts, big clods of black earth hardly touched by the beautiful green he had seen in such abundance from the house. Beatrice stood at the sink over a recently killed chicken. "Ain't no way this one bird’s going to be enough for this feast." Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. "Now If you folks would just eat some of them chitlins I fixed…" She laughed. Lafe, watching, smiled. He always felt good when Beatrice laughed. The room still smelled of wet chicken feathers and hot water. Her hand moved into the gaping rear of the chicken and with a watery sucking sound emerged bloody, holding a mass of entrails. Lafe positioned himself before the glowing wood stove, turning every few seconds as each side got warm.
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