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Show page 169 kitchen x^indow. Through the wire fence she saw Mrs. Shelton's melons. They were greenish yellow, almost the shape and size of her once-extended belly; almost ripe, reflecting the sun, yawning for life, the vines sx*eet and pulpy with maturity. "Ben, Ben, why did you leave me?" she said aloud. "You must help me watch the melons, boy." Holder sat on the Shelton porch with one of the Shelton daughters he had met at a county fair a few weeks before. "Her husband was killed at the prison, her son in the war," the daughter explained. "Mother says to be kind to her. She has a proprietary interest in our watermelons." Holder learned more, that Annie came out sometimes and walked in the moonlight, particularly after rains or thunderstorms, that she seemed to seek out the fog and streaks of mist that lingered about. "She says that the mist has curlish, twisted tails, like fish swimming in the sea," said the daughter. "How can anyone understand her?" "I'll be nice to her," Holder said. "I think I understand her." "Mother remembers when her husband Will was alive," said the daughter. "Will would seat himself in a straightback chair, grunt, pull himself to the kitchen table, say grace, and eat, ravenously. He turned Annie's dining room into a storage room. Annie was stately then, mother says, a dignified woman, and wanted to entertain occasionally but Will allowed only buffets in the parlor. Mrs. Griffin is a bundle of nerves now. She talks to herself. Sometimes I hear her say 'All in the bottom of |
