I said, “et tu Brute?” which is from William Shakespeare.
“Look at the likes of him,” says Eunice, “lying around all day not doing so much as licking a postage stamp.”
“Pitiful,” clucks Olivia-Ann.
“You’d think he was having a baby instead of that poor child.” Eunice speaking.
Bluebell tosses in her two cents, “Ain’t it the truth?”
“Well, if it isn’t the old pots calling the kettle black,” says I.
“After loafing here for three months does this runt have the audacity to cast aspersions in my direction?” says Eunice.
I merely flicked a bit of ash from my sleeve and not the least bit fazed said, “Dr. A. N. Carter has informed me that I am in a dangerous scurvy condition and can’t stand the least excitement whatsoever—otherwise I’m liable to foam at the mouth and bite somebody.”
Then Bluebell says, “Why don’t he go back to that trash in Mobile, Miss Eunice? I’se sick and tired of carryin’ his ol’ slop jar.”
Naturally that coal-black nigger made me so mad I couldn’t see straight.
So just as calm as a cucumber I arose and picked up this umbrella off the hat tree and rapped her across the head with it until it cracked smack in two.
“My real Japanese silk parasol!” shrieks Olivia-Ann.
Marge cries, “You’ve killed Bluebell, you’ve killed poor old Bluebell!”
Eunice shoves Olivia-Ann and says, “He’s gone clear out of his head, Sister! Run! Run and get Mr. Tubberville!”
“I don’t like Mr. Tubberville,” says Olivia-Ann staunchly. “I’ll go get my hog knife.” And she makes a dash for the door but seeing as I care nothing for death I brought her down with a sort of tackle. It wrenched my back something terrible.
“He’s going to kill her!” hollers Eunice loud enough to bring the house down. “He’s going to murder us all! I warned you, Marge. Quick, child, get Papa’s sword!”
So Marge gets Papa’s sword and hands it to Eunice. Talk about wifely devotion! And, if that’s not bad enough, Olivia-Ann gives me this terrific knee punch and I had to let go. The next thing you know we hear her out in the yard bellowing hymns.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the
coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where
the grapes of wrath are stored.…
Meanwhile Eunice is sashaying all over the place wildly thrashing Papa’s sword and somehow I’ve managed to clamber atop the piano. Then Eunice climbs up on the piano stool and how that rickety contraption survived a monster like her I’ll never be the one to tell.
“Come down from there, you yellow coward, before I run you through,” says she and takes a whack and I’ve got a half-inch cut to prove it.
By this time Bluebell has recovered and skittered away to join Olivia-Ann holding services in the front yard. I guess they were expecting my body and God knows it would’ve been theirs if Marge hadn’t passed out cold.
That’s the only good thing I’ve got to say for Marge.
What happened after that I can’t rightly remember except for Olivia-Ann reappearing with her fourteen-inch hog knife and a bunch of the neighbors. But suddenly Marge was the star attraction and I suppose they carried her to her room. Anyway, as soon as they left I barricaded the parlor door.
I’ve got all those black and olive plush chairs pushed against it and that big mahogany table that must weight a couple of tons and the hat tree and lots of other stuff. I’ve locked the windows and pulled down the shades. Also I’ve found a five-pound box of Sweet Love candy and this very minute I’m munching a juicy, creamy, chocolate cherry. Sometimes they come to the door and knock and yell and plead. Oh, yes, they’ve started singing a song of a very different color. But as for me—I give them a tune on the piano every now and then just to let them know I’m cheerful.
The End
