OCR Text |
Show Chick Sales 9 Mr. Scanelli would notice how his mother trusted him with her purse, the one that clicked when i t opened and closed. "Two peppermint sticks," he would say. Then he would hold the penny up between his thumb and f i r s t finger. "I earned this all by myself. I plucked twelve chickens for my mother." Then he'd see i f he could make the candy last the whole day, sucking slower than ever before. He promised himself that he wouldn't bite into the red and white stripes. Herman guided his wagon to the back door that said "Ely Meat" in red paint and tugged on the rope handle. Sawdust powdered Herman's shoes as he s l i d the box off the rim of his wagon to a place just inside the door. He pulled the door shut behind him, adjusted his eyes to the cool darkness and made his way through the hanging sides of beef. He'd tell his father that the chickens had arrived and then be on his way to Scanelli's. But Alfred was busy. "A breast or a thigh, Miss Lily?" his father was saying to the dark-eyed lady with long red fingernails. "You know, my dear, that the quality of mercy is not strained but droppeth as the gentle rain, don't you?" "Why, I can only buy wings today, Mr. Jensen." "Wings for the lady. And they shall f l y as a winged angel unto the archangel himself." "Oh, Mr. Jensen. Where'd you learn that fancy talking?" "The Bible mostly. I'm a church man on some Sundays. But could you please remember to call me Alf. I feel better when people call me Alf." "Oh, we do want you to feel welcome. How is your family doing, sir?" |