“You shut up, or get on home!” said Susan at her daughter. “He’s a good man. I worked for his family when he’s no bigger’n my hand. Used to carry him downtown on my shoulder. He’s not ashamed!”
“That’s a long time ago, fifteen years; he’s big now.”
“He sent me his book, didn’t he?” cried Susan indignantly. She reached out her hand to the worn chair and picked the book up and opened it and read from the inscription on the title page. “To my dear Mammy Susan, with all my love, from Richard Borden.” She snapped the book shut. “There you are!”
“That don’t mean nothin’, that’s just writin’, anyone can write that.”
“You heard what I said.”
“He makes a hunerd thousan’ dollars a year now, why he goin’ to bother with you, come outa his way?”
“’Cause I remembers his mother an’ his father an’ his grandma an’ grandpa,’cause I worked for all of ’em, thirty years I worked, that’s why, an’ him being a writer why wouldn’ he wanta see me, an’ talk about all that?”
“I don’t know.” Linda shook her head. “Don’t ask me.”
“He’s comin’ on that seven-fifteen train, you watch and see.”
The Grafanola started to play the Knickerbocker Quartette singing “Pretty Baby.”
“Shut that thing off,” said Susan.
“I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
“I can’t hear.”
“You don’t need your ears, you got eyes, you see him comin’.”
Susan went over and flipped the switch. The voices died. The silence was sharp and heavy. “There,” said Susan, looking at her daughter. “Now I can think.”
“What you going to do to him when he come?” asked Linda, looking up, eyes white and sly.
“What you mean?” Susan was careful.
“You goin’ to kiss him, hug him?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t think about that.”
Linda laughed. “You better start thinkin’. He’s a big boy now. He ain’t no kid. Maybe he won’t like being hugged and kissed.”
“I’ll do what I’ll do when the time comes,” replied Susan, turning away. A little frown formed on her brow. She felt like slapping Linda. “Stop puttin’ ideas in my head. We’ll just act natural, like always.”
“I bet he just shakes hands and sits on the edge of his chair.”
“He won’t do that. He was always one to laugh.”
“I bet he don’t call you Mammy in person. Bet he calls you Mrs. Jones.”
“He used to call me Aunt Jemima, said I looked just like her, always wanted me to fix his pancakes. He was the cutest little boy you ever seen.”
“He’s not bad now, from the pictures I seen.”
Susan shut her eyes for a long moment and said nothing. Then she said, “You ought to have your mouth washed out with lye.” She touched the window curtains, searching the land again, looking for the smoke on the horizon. Suddenly, she set up a cry. “There it is! There she comes! I knew it, I knew it!” She glanced wildly at the clock. “Right on time! Come look!”
“I seen a train before.”
“There she comes, look at that smoke!”
“I seen smoke enough to last me all my life.”