Francie by Karen English Page B

about that boy they after.”
    â€œSure did,” said Nola.
    Mama glanced over at me and gave a little quick nod that was meant to convey something to them. They all turned to stare at me then. I’d found a little corner to sit in, hoping to just sit and catch some grownup conversation, which was always interesting. “Go on, Francie, and get to washing them diapers,” Mama said now. “Auntie’s gonna need some before you know it.”

    â€œThey offerin’ a reward,” Miss Mabel said as I walked out into the blistering-hot morning.
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    A pile of wet diapers and sheets sat at my feet. One by one, I pulled them out of the basket, shook them, and pinned them to the line. It had taken all morning to wash them, and now the sun beat ferociously on my back and biting flies were making mad dashes at my arms. The baby was sleeping peacefully and the company had gone home to start their dinners.
    I grabbed a sheet and sunk my hot face into its cool, clean scent, almost missing a bright flash of red skirting the edge of the woods. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. I squinted, staring at the place until I wondered if I’d imagined it. Just trees and undergrowth stared back. I finished hanging up the laundry, put the basket up against the porch, and skipped out of there. I had money from my can under the bed. I smiled, thinking of Daddy’s pleasure when I gave him his present.

Run, Jesse, Run
    Some white farmers stood just inside the door at Green’s, huddled in conversation. When I squeezed by, they stopped talking until I passed. I found the rack of pipes. I chose a shiny black one with a white mouthpiece. At the register, Mr. Green leaned on the counter, picking his teeth with a toothpick and watching the group by the door.
    I put my pipe on the counter. Mrs. Early came up then with boxes of Musterole and Triscuit Shredded Wheat. She set her items on the counter and with the back of her hand moved my item to the side.
    I looked up at her sagging chin and limp hair the color of mud. She started up some talk with Mr. Green about the hot humid weather. I waited. I whistled “Camptown
Races.” My eyes drifted to the wall behind the register. Something pasted up there made me stop dead.
    It was a black-and-white “wanted” picture of Jesse Pruitt. My lips parted and my heart pounded and my hands shook. My mouth went dry. I nearly spoke his name: Jesse …
    The photograph was hazy, as if it had been part of a group picture once and someone had cut out his face and made it bigger. But the straight brow and hesitant eyes were unmistakable. Under it were the words:
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    WANTED: A colored boy who goes by the name of Jesse Pruitt for the attempted murder of Mr. Rosco Bellamy, the foreman for Mr. Robert Early. Use precaution. He is considered armed and dangerous. Reward offered.
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    â€œWhat you starin’ at, Francie?” Mr. Green asked me.
    I looked down, feeling like I’d been caught stealing candy.
    â€œNothin’, Mr. Green.”
    â€œYou seen that boy?” he asked.
    â€œNo, sir,” I was able to answer honestly.
    â€œWell, if you do, you let me know directly, you hear?”
    I said nothing.
    â€œYou hear me?” he said louder.
    Mrs. Early narrowed her eyes at me, making her face ugly and mean. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
    â€œNothing, ma’am.”

    â€œThen what’s taking you so long to answer Mr. Green, here?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I said quietly. Mrs. Early gathered up her purchases, dropped her change in her pocketbook, and snapped it shut.
    â€œYou takin’ up smokin’, Francie?” Mr. Green laughed at his own joke.
    â€œIt’s for my daddy. He’s comin’ home on Sunday.” I paid and stepped out onto the sidewalk in time to see Mrs. Early making her way across the road, where her husband was starting the engine of their car, his straw hat pushed to