4

I look down there again, but it still ain’t coming. I almost say, “It ain’t coming yet,” but I keep my mouth shut. ’Cause that’s something else she don’t like. She don’t like for you to say something just for nothing. She can see it ain’t coming, I can see it ain’t coming, so why say it ain’t coming. I don’t say it, I turn and look at the river that’s back of us. It’s so cold the smoke’s just raising up from the water. I see a bunch of pool-doos not too far out—just on the other side the lilies. I’m wondering if you can eat pool-doos. I ain’t too sure, ’cause I ain’t never ate none. But I done ate owls and blackbirds, and I done ate redbirds, too. I didn’t want kill the redbirds, but she made me kill them. They had two of them back there. One in my trap, one in Ty’s trap. Me and Ty was go’n play with them and let them go, but she made me kill them ’cause we needed the food.

“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t.”

“Here,” she say. “Take it.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t. I can’t kill him, Mama, please.”

“Here,” she say. “Take this fork, James.”

“Please, Mama, I can’t kill him,” I say.

I could tell she was go’n hit me. I jerked back, but I didn’t jerk back soon enough.

“Take it,” she say.

I took it and reached in for him, but he kept on hopping to the back.

“I can’t, Mama,” I say. The water just kept on running down my face. “I can’t,” I say.

“Get him out of there,” she say.

I reached in for him and he kept on hopping to the back. Then I reached in farther, and he pecked me on the hand.

“I can’t, Mama,” I say.

She slapped me again.

I reached in again, but he kept on hopping out my way. Then he hopped to one side and I reached there. The fork got him on the leg and I heard his leg pop. I pulled my hand out ’cause I had hurt him.

“Give it here,” she say, and jerked the fork out my hand.

She reached in and got the little bird right in the neck. I heard the fork go in his neck, and I heard it go in the ground. She brought him out and helt him right in front of me.

“That’s one,” she say. She shook him off and gived me the fork. “Get the other one.”

“I can’t, Mama,” I say. “I’ll do anything, but don’t make me do that.”

She went to the corner of the fence and broke the biggest switch over there she could find. I knelt ’side the trap, crying.

“Get him out of there,” she say.

“I can’t, Mama.”

She started hitting me ’cross the back. I went down on the ground, crying.

“Get him,” she say.

“Octavia?” Auntie say.

’Cause she had come out of the house and she was standing by the tree looking at us.

“Get him out of there,” Mama say.

“Octavia,” Auntie say, “explain to him. Explain to him. Just don’t beat him. Explain to him.”

But she hit me and hit me and hit me.

I’m still young—I ain’t no more than eight; but I know now; I know why I had to do it. (They was so little, though. They was so little. I ’member how I picked the feathers off them and cleaned them and helt them over the fire. Then we all ate them. Ain’t had but a little bitty piece each, but we all had a little bitty piece, and everybody just looked at me ’cause they was so proud.) Suppose she had to go away? That’s why I had to do it. Suppose she had to go away like Daddy went away? Then who was go’n look after us? They had to be somebody left to carry on. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. Auntie and Monsieur Bayonne talked to me and made me see.