Текст книги "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe"

Автор книги: Фэнни Флэгг

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"Good God, girl, what's the matter with you? You look like a lizard with a hangover!"

Hank Williams was singing his heart out about how he was so lonesome he could die.

Idgie said, "Ruth moved out."

Eva's mood changed. "What?"

"Moved out. Went over to Cleo and Ninny's house."

Eva sat down. "Well, good Lord, Idgie, why did she do that?"

"She's mad at me."

"I figured that. But what did you do?"

"I lied to her."

“Uh-oh. What did you say?"

“I told her I was going to Atlanta to see my sister Leona and John.”

"Didn't you go?"

"No."

"Where did you go?"

"Out in the woods."

"With who?"

"By myself. I just wanted to be by myself, that's all."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"I don't know. I guess I just kinda got mad at having to tell somebody where I am all the time. I don't know. I was beginning to feel kinda trapped, like I needed to get out for a while. So I lied. That's all. What's the big deal? Grady lies to Gladys, and Jack lies to Mozell."

"Yeah, but now, honey, you ain't Grady or Jack . . . and Ruth ain't Gladys or Mozell, either. Oh Lord, girl, I hate to see this happen, don't you remember the fits you was having until she came over here?"

"Yeah, but sometimes I just need to take off for a while. I feel like I need my freedom. You know."

"Course I know, Idgie, but you got to look at this thing from her point of view. That girl give up everything she had to come over here. She left her hometown and all her friends she grew up with—gave up all that just to be here and make a life for you. You and Stump are all she has. You've got all your friends and your family . . ."

"Yeah, well, sometimes I think they like her better than they do me."

"You listen, Idgie, I'm gonna tell you something. Don't you think she couldn't have anybody that she wanted around here? All she'd have to do is snap her fingers. So I'd think long and hard before I'd go flying off."

At that moment, Helen Claypoole, a woman of about fifty, who'd been hanging around the River Club for years, picking up men and drinking with anything that moved and would buy her drinks, came out of the bathroom so drunk that she had stuffed the back of her dress in her panties and was staggering to her table, where the men were waiting for her.

Eva pointed toward her. "Now, there's a woman who's got her freedom. Nobody gives a shit where she is and ain't nobody checkin' up on her, you can be damn sure of that."

Idgie watched Helen, with her lipstick smeared and her hair falling in her face, sitting there, looking at the men with her boozy eyes, not seeing them.

Pretty soon Idgie said, "I gotta go. Gotta think this thing out."

"Yeah, well, I thought you might."

Two days later, Ruth received a neatly typed note that said, "If you cage a wild thing, you can be sure it will die, but if you let it run free, nine times out of ten it will run back home."

Ruth called Idgie for the first time in three weeks. "I got your note and I've been thinking, maybe we should at least talk."

Idgie was thrilled. "I think that would be great. I'll be right over," and started out the door, planning to swear on a Bible in front of Reverend Scroggins's house, if she had to, that she would never lie to Ruth again.

As she turned the corner and saw Cleo and Ninny's house, something Ruth said dawned on her. What note? She hadn't sent any note.

OCTOBER 15, 1947

One-Armed Quarterback Leads Team to Fifth Straight Victory

In a 27 to 20 win over Edge wood, with the score tied 20-20 throughout the fourth quarter, victory for Whistle Stop came in the thrilling 43-yard pass made by Whistle Stop's one-armed quarterback, Buddy (Stump) Threadgoode, a senior.

"Stump is our most valuable player," said Coach Delbert Naves in an interview earlier today. "His winning attitude and team spirit has made the difference. Despite his handicap, he has been able to complete 33 out of 37 attempted passes this year. He is able to take the snap from center and hug the ball to his chest, get the correct grip, and throw the ball in less than two seconds, and his speed and accuracy are outstanding."

This B-average student is also on the first string baseball and basketball team. He is the son of Mrs. Ruth Jamison, of Whistle Stop, and when asked how he became so proficient in sports, he said that his Aunt Idgie, who helped raise him, taught him everything he knows about football.

OCTOBER 28, 1947

Stump had just come in from practice and got himself a Coke. Idgie was behind the counter fixing Smokey Lonesome a second cup of coffee, and she said to him as he passed by, "I want to talk to you, young man."

Uh-oh, thought Smokey, and buried his head in his pie.

Stump said, "What'd I do? I didn't do anything . . ."

"That's what you think, little fella," she said to Stump, who at the time was six feet tall and shaving. "Let's go in the back room."

He followed her slowly and sat down at the table. "Where's Momma?"

"She's over at the school at a meeting. Now, young man, what did you say to Peggy this afternoon?"

He looked innocent. "Peggy? Peggy who?"

"You know Peggy who. Peggy Hadley."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't say anything."

"No."

"Then why do you suppose she came in the cafe, no more than an hour ago, Just crying her eyes out?"

"I don't know. How should I know?"

"Didn't she ask you to go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with her this afternoon?"

"Yeah, I guess she may have. I don't remember."

"And what did you say?"

"Aw, Aunt Idgie, I don't want to go to any dance with her. She's just a kid."

"What did you say?"

"I told her I was busy or something. She's crazy, anyhow."

"Mister, I am asking you what you said to that girl."

"Aw, I was just kidding."

"You were just kidding, huh? What you were doing is standing around, trying to be a big shot in front of all your friends, is what you were doing."

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"You told her to come back when she had grown some tits and ask you again. Isn't that right?"

He didn't answer.

"Isn't that right?"

"Aunt Idgie, I was just kidding."

"Well, you're lucky you didn't get your face popped."

"Her brother was standing right there with me."

"Well, he ought to have his butt kicked, too."

"She's just making a big thing out of nothing."

"A big thing out of nothing? Do you have any idea how much nerve it took for that poor little thing to ask you to the dance, and then for you to say something like that in front of all those boys? Now, you listen, buddy boy. Your mother and I didn't raise you to be an ignorant, knothead redneck. How would you feel if somebody talked like that to your mother? What if some girl told you to come back when you grew a penis?"

Stump turned red. "Don't talk like that, Aunt Idgie."

"Yes I will talk like that. I will not have you acting like white trash. Now, if you don't want to go to the dance, that's one thing, but you are not going to talk to Peggy or any other girl like that. Do you hear me?"

"Yes'm."

"I want you to go down to her house right now and apologize to her. And I don't mean maybe. Do you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am.”

He got up.

"Sit down. I'm not through with you!" Stump sighed and slumped back down in his chair. "What now?"

"I need to talk to you about something. I wanna know what's going on with you and the girls."

Stump looked uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"I've never pried into your personal life. You're seventeen years old and big enough to be a man, but your mother and I are worried about you."

"Why?"

"We thought you might outgrow this stage you're in, but you're too old to keep hanging around the boys like you do."

"What's the matter with my friends?"

"Nothing, it's just that they're all boys."

"So?"

"There are a whole bunch of girls that are just crazy about you, and you never even give them the time of day."

No answer.

"You act like a horse's ass whenever one of them tries to talk to you. I've seen you."

Stump started picking a hole in the checked oilcloth on the table.

"Look at me when I talk to you . . . your cousin Buster is already married, with a baby on the way, and he's only a year older than you."

"So?"

"So you've never even asked a girl out to a picture show, and every time there's a dance over at the school, you decide to go hunting."

"I like to hunt."

"So do I. But you know, there's more to life than hunting and sports."

Stump sighed again and closed his eyes. "I don't like to do anything else."

"I bought you that car and had it fixed up for you because I thought you might want to take Peggy somewhere, but all you do is run it up and down the road with the boys."

"Why Peggy?"

"Well, Peggy or anybody—I don't want you winding up all alone like poor Smokey in there."

"Smokey's all right."

"I know he's all right, but he'd be a whole lot better if he had a wife and a family. What's gonna happen to you if something happens to me or your mother?"

"I'll get by. I'm not stupid."

"I know you'd get by, but I'd like to think you'd have somebody to love and take care of you. Before you know it, all the best girls are gonna be taken. And what's the matter with Peggy?"

"She's all right."

"I know you like her. You used to send her valentines before you got to be so high and mighty."

No answer.

"Well, is there anybody else you like?"

"Naw."

"Why not?"

Stump began to squirm and yelled, "I JUST DONT, THAT'S ALL. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Listen, bub," Idgie said, "you may be a big deal on that football field, but I changed your diapers and I'll knock you to hell and back! Now what is it?"

Stump didn't answer.

"What is it, son?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I gotta go."

"Sit down. You don't have to go anywhere."

He sighed and sat back down.

Idgie quietly asked, "Stump, don't you like girls?"

Stump looked away. "Yeah, I like 'em all right."

"Then why don't you go out with them?"

"Well, I'm not weird or anything, if that's what you're worried about. It's just—" Stump was wiping his sweaty palm on his khaki pants.

"Come on, Stump, tell me what it is, son. You and I have always been able to talk things out."

"I know that. I just don't want to talk to anybody about this."

"I know you don't, but I want you to. Now, what is it?”

"Well, it’s just that . . . oh Jesus!" Then he mumbled, "It’s just that what if one of them wanted to do it . . ."

"You mean, wanted to have sex?"

Stump nodded and looked at the floor. Idgie said, "Well then, I'd consider myself a lucky boy, wouldn't you? I think it would be a compliment."

Stump wiped the perspiration off his upper lip.

"Son, are you having some kind of physical trouble, you know, getting yourself up? Because if you are, we can take you to the doctor and have you checked out."

Stump shook his head. "No. It's not that. Nothing's the matter with me, I've done it a thousand times."

Idgie was amazed at the number, but remained calm and said, "Well then, at least we know you're all right."

"Yeah, I'm all right, it's just that, well, I haven't done it with anybody . . . you know . . . I've just done it by myself."

"That's not gonna hurt you, but don't you think you should try it out with some girl? I cain't believe you haven't had the chance, a good-looking boy like you."

"Yeah, I had the chance. It's not that—it's just—" Idgie heard his voice crack. "It's just. . ."

"Just what, son?"

All of a sudden he couldn't stop the hot tears from running down his face. He looked up at her. "It's just that I'm scared, Aunt Idgie. I'm just plain scared."

The one thing Idgie had never suspected was that Stump, who had been so brave all of his life, could be scared of anything.

"What are you afraid of, son?"

"Well, I’m kinda afraid I’ll fall on her or lose my balance because of my arm and maybe I just won't know how to do it right. You know, I might hurt her or something . . . I don't know." He was avoiding her eyes.

"Stump, look at me. What are you really afraid of?"

"I told you.”

"You're afraid some girl might laugh, aren't you?"

Finally, after a moment, he blurted out, "Yes. I guess that’s it,” and he put his hand over his face, ashamed to be crying.

At that moment, Idgie's heart went out to him and she did something she very rarely did; she got up and put her arms around him and rocked him like a baby.

"Oh, honey, don't you cry. Everything's gonna be all right, angel. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Aunt Idgie's not gonna let anything bad ever happen. No I'm not. Have I ever let you down?"

"No ma'am."

"Nothing bad's gonna happen to my boy. I won't have it." The whole time she was rocking Stump back and forth, she was feeling helpless and was trying to think if she knew someone who might be able to help him.

Early Saturday morning, Idgie drove Stump over to the river, as she had so many years ago, and through the white wagon-wheel gate and up to a cabin with a screened-in porch; and let him out.

The door of the cabin opened, and a freshly bathed, powdered, and perfumed woman with rust-colored hair and apple-green eyes said, "Come on in, sugar," as Idgie drove away.

OCTOBER 30, 1947

Stump Threadgoode Makes Good

Stump Threadgoode, son of Idgie Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison, got a big write-up in the Birmingham News. Congratulations. We're all mighty proud of him, but don't go in the cafe unless you're willing to spend an hour having Idgie tell you all about the game. Never saw a prouder parent. And after the game, the whole team and the band and the cheerleaders were treated to free hamburgers at the cafe.

My other half has no fashion sense. I came home the other afternoon looking so smart in my new snood that I got over at Opal's beauty shop, and he said my snood looked like a goat's udder with a fly net on it. . . . Then, on our anniversary, he carries me over to Birmingham to a spaghetti restaurant, when he knows I'm on a diet. . . . Men! Can't live with them and can't live without them.

By the way, we were sorry to hear about Artis O. Peavey’s bad luck.

. . . Dot Weems . . .

OCTOBER 17, 1949

Artis O. Peavey had been staying with his second wife, the former Miss Madeline Poole, who was employed as a first-class domestic. She worked for a family on the exclusive Highland Avenue. They were living at her house at No. 6 Tin Top Alley, over on the south side of town. Tin Top Alley was nothing more than six rows of wooden shack houses with tin roofs and dirt yards, most of which had been decorated with washtubs planted with colorful flowers to offset the drab gray wood of the shacks.

It was a step up from their last address. That had been the old servants' quarters in the back of a house, whose address was simply No. 2 Alley G.

Artis found the neighborhood extremely pleasant. One block away was Magnolia Point, where he could hang out in front of stores and visit with other husbands of domestics. In early evenings, after a supper, usually of white folks' leftovers, they would all sit on the porches, and many a night one family would start to sing, and one by one the others would join in. Recreation was plentiful because the walls were so thin that you could enjoy your neighbor's radio or phonograph along with them; when Bessie Smith sang on somebody's Victrola, "I ain't got nobody," everybody in Tin Top Alley felt sorry for her.

The area was certainly not lacking in other social activities, and Artis was invited to all of them; he was the most popular man in the alley, with men and women alike. Every night there would be at least one or two chitlin fryings or barbecuing . . . or if the weather was bad, you could just sit under the yellow light on your front porch and enjoy the sound of the rain hitting the tin roofs.

This fall afternoon, Artis had been sitting on the porch watching a thin trail of blue smoke rise up from his cigarette, happy because Joe Louis was the champion of the world and the Birmingham Black Barons baseball team had won all their games that year. Just then, a skinny, mangy yellow dog came loping around the alley, scrounging for something to eat; he belonged to After John, a friend of Artis's, named such because he had been born after his brother John. The dog wigwagged his way up the porch steps to Artis and got his daily pat on the head.

"I ain't got nuthin' for you today, boy."

The yellow dog was mildly disappointed, and wandered off in search of leftover cornbread or even a few greens. The Depression had never ended here, and dogs were in it too, for better or for worse; and most times for the worse.

Artis saw the dogcatchers' truck drive up and the man in the white uniform got out with his net. The back was already loaded with yelping dogs unfortunate enough to have been caught that afternoon.

The man who got out whistled for the yellow dog, who was up the street.

"Here, boy . . . here, boy . . . Come on, boy . . ."

The friendly, unsuspecting dog ran over to him and in a second was in the net, flipped over on his back, and was being carried to the truck.

Artis came off the porch. "Hey, whoa, mister. That dog belongs to somebody."

The man stopped. "Is he yours?"

"Naw, he ain't mine. He belong to After John, so you cain't be carrying him off, no suh."

"I don't care who it belongs to, it don't have a license and we're taking him in."

The other man in the truck got out and just stood there.

Artis began to plead, because he knew that once that dog got down to the city pound, there wasn't a chance in hell of ever getting him back; particularly if you were black.

"Please, mister, let me go and call him. He works over at Five Points, fo' Mr. Fred Jones, making ice cream. Jes’ let me call him."

"Do you have a phone?"

"No suh, but I can run up to the grocery store. Won't take but a minute." Artis pleaded harder with the man. "Oh please, suh, After John is jes' a simpleminded boy no woman would marry and that dog is all he's got. I don't know what he'd do if anything happened to that dog of his. He's liable to kill hisself."

The two men looked at each other, and the larger one said, "Okay, but if you ain't back in five minutes, we're leaving. You hear me?"

Artis starting moving. "Yes suh, I'll be right back." As he ran, he realized that he didn't have a nickel, and prayed that Mr. Leo, the Italian man that ran the grocery store, would loan him one. He ran in the store, out of breath, and saw Mr. Leo.

"MR. LEO, MR. LEO, I GOTS TO HAVE A NICKEL . . . THEY GONNA CARRY AFTER JOHN'S DOG OFF. . . AND THEY'S WAITING FOR ME. PLEASE, MR. LEO . . ."

Mr. Leo, who hadn't understood a word that Artis had said, made him calm down and explain to him all over again, but by the time he got his nickel, there was a white boy on the phone.

Artis was sweating, moving from one foot to another, knowing he couldn't make that fellow get off that phone. One minute . . . two . . .

Artis moaned.

"Oh Lord."

Finally, Mr. Leo passed by and knocked on the glass booth. "Get off!"

The young man begrudgingly said goodbye to his party for the next sixty seconds and hung up.

After he left, Artis jumped in the booth and realized he did not know the number.

His hands were wet and shaking as he searched through the telephone directory, hanging from a small chain. "Jones . . . Jones . . . Oh Lord . . . Jones . . . Jones . . . four pages full . . . Fred B. . . . Oh man, that's his residence . . ."

He had to start all over in the Yellow Pages. "What do I look under . . . Ice Cream? Drugstore?" And he couldn't find it. He dialed information.

"Information," a crisp white voice answered. "Yes, please, may I help you?"

"Uh, yes ma'am. Uh, I's looking for the number of Fred B. Jones."

"I'm sorry, could your repeat that name, please?"

"Yes ma'am, Mr. Fred Jones in Five Points." His heart was pounding.

"I have about fifty Fred Joneses, sir. Do you have a street address?"

"No ma'am, but he's over in Five Points."

"I have three Fred Joneses in the Five Points area . . . would you like all three numbers?"

"Yes ma'am."

He searched his pockets for a pencil—and she started . . . "Mr. Fred Jones, 18th South, 68799; and Mr. Fred Jones, 141 Magnolia Point, 68745; and Fred C. Jones, 15th Street, that number is 68721. . ."

He never found a pencil and the operator hung up. Back to the book.

He could hardly breathe. The sweat was running down his eyes, blurring his vision. Drugstore. . . Pharmacy. . . Ice Cream . . . Food . . . Catering . . . THAT'S IT! Here it was, Fred B. Jones Catering, 68715 . . .

He mashed the nickel in the slot and dialed the number. Busy. Tried again. Busy . . . busy . . .

“Oh Lord.”

After trying eight times, Artis didn’t know what to do, so he just ran back to the men.  He turned the corner, and Thank God they were still there, leaning up against the truck.  They had the dog tied to the door handle with a rope.

“You get him?” the big one asked.

“No suh,” he said gasping.  “I wasn’t able to reach him, but if you could just ride me over to Five Points, I could get him . . .”

“Naw, we’re not gonna do that.  We already wasted enough time with you boy,” and he began to untie the dog and put him in the back.

Artis was desperate.  “Naw suh, I jes’ cain’t let you do it.”

He reached in his pocket, and before either one of the men knew what had happened, he had sliced the rope holding the dog in half with the four-inch switchblade, and yelled, “Scat!”

Artis turned around and watched the grateful dog scamper around the corner, and was smiling when the blackjack hit him behind his left ear.

TEN YEARS FOR THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF A CITY OFFICER WITH A DEADLY WEAPON.  It would have been thirty if those two men had been white.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1986

Ed Couch came home Thursday night and said he was having trouble with a woman at the office who was “a real ball breaker,” and that none of the men wanted to work with her because of it.

 The next day, Evelyn went out to the mall to shop for a bed jacket for Big Momma and while she was having lunch at the Pioneer Cafeteria a thought popped into her head unannounced:

What is a ball breaker?

She’d heard Ed use that term quite a lot along with She’s out to get my balls and I had to hold onto my balls for dear life.

Why was Ed so scared that someone was out to get his balls?  What were they anyway?  Just little pouches that carried sperm; but the way men carried on about them, you’d think they were the most important thing in the world.  My God, Ed had just about died when one of their son’s hadn’t dropped properly.  The doctor said it wouldn’t affect his ability to have children, but Ed had acted like it was a tragedy and wanted to send him to a psychiatrist, so he wouldn’t feel less of a man.  She remembered thinking at the time, how silly . . . her breasts had never developed, and nobody ever sent her for help.

But Ed had won out, because he told her she didn't understand about being a man and what it meant. Ed had even pitched a fit when she wanted to have their cat, Valentine, who had impregnated the thoroughbred Siamese cat across the street, fixed.

He said, "If you're gonna cut his balls off, you might as well just go on and put him to sleep!*'

No doubt about it, he was peculiar where balls were concerned.

She remembered how Ed had once complimented that same woman at the office when she had stood up to the boss. He had bragged on her, saying what a ballsy dame she was.

But now that she thought about it, she wondered: What did that woman's strength have to do with Ed's anatomy? He hadn't said, "Boy, she's got some ovaries"; he had definitely said what balls she had. Ovaries have eggs in them, she thought: Shouldn't they be as important as sperm?

And when had that woman stepped over the line of having just enough balls to having too much?

That poor woman. She would have to spend her whole life balancing imaginary balls if she wanted to get along. Balance was everything. But what about size? she wondered. She never heard Ed mention size before. It was the other thing's size they were so concerned about, so she guessed it didn't matter all that much. All that mattered in this world was the fact that you had balls. Then all at once, the simple and pure truth of that conclusion hit her. She felt as if someone had run a pencil up her spine and dotted an i on her head. She sat up straight in her chair, shocked that she, Evelyn Couch, of Birmingham, Alabama, had stumbled on the answer. She suddenly knew what Edison must have felt like when he discovered electricity. Of course! That was it . . . having balls was the most important thing in this world. No wonder she had always felt like a car in traffic without a horn.

It was true. Those two little balls opened the door to everything. They were the credit cards she needed to get ahead, to be listened to, to be taken seriously. No wonder Ed had wanted a boy.

Then another truth occurred to her. Another sad, irrevocable truth: She had no balls and never would or could have balls. She was doomed. Ball-less forever. Unless, she thought, if maybe the balls in your immediate family counted. There were four in hers . . . Ed's and Tommy's . . . No, wait . . . six, if she counted the cat. No, wait just another minute, if Ed loved her so much, why couldn't he give her one of his? A ball transplant . . . . That's right. Or, maybe she could get two from an anonymous donor. That's it, she'd buy some off a dead man and she could put them in a box and take them to important meetings and bang them on the table to get her way. Maybe she'd buy four . . .

No wonder Christianity had been such a big hit. Think of Jesus and the Apostles . . . And if you counted John the Baptist, why that was 14 pairs and 28 singles, right there!

Oh, it was all so simple to her now. How had she been so blind and not seen it before?

Yes, by heavens, she'd done it. She'd hit upon the secret that women have been searching for through the centuries . . .

THIS WAS THE ANSWER . . .

Hadn't Lucille Ball been the biggest star on television?

She banged her iced tea on the table in triumph and shouted, "YES! THAT'S IT!"

Everyone in the cafeteria turned and looked at her.

Evelyn quietly finished her lunch and thought, Lucille Ball? Ed might be right I probably am going crazy.

JUNE 10, 1948

Benefit for New Balls

The Dill Pickle Club will hold a womanless wedding to benefit the high school so they can get a new set of balls for the football, basketball, and baseball teams this year. This should be quite an evening, with our own Sheriff Grady Kilgore as the lovely bride and Idgie as the groom. Julian Threadgoode, Jack Butts, Harold Vick, Pete Tidwell, and Charlie Fowler will be bridesmaids.

This affair will be at the high school on June 14, at seven o'clock. Admission is 20c for adults and 5c for children.

Essie Rue Limeway will play the organ for the wedding.

Come one, come all! I intend to be there, as my other half, Wilbur, will be the flower girl.

My other half and I went to the picture show and saw The Gracie Allen Murder Mystery. It was funny, but go before the prices change at seven.

By the way, Rev. Scroggins said someone put his lawn furniture on top of his house.

. . . Dot Weems . . .

ATMORE, ALABAMA

JULY 11, 1948

Artis O. Peavey had been sent down to Kilbey Prison, better known as the Murder Farm, for pulling a knife on those two dogcatchers, and it had taken Idgie and Grady six months of trying before they could get him out.

On the way down, Grady said to Idgie, "It's a damn good thing he's coming out now. He might not of lasted in that place for another month."

Grady knew what he was talking about, having once been a guard there.

"Hell, if the guards don't get him, then the other niggers will. I've seen decent men turn into animals inside. Men, with a wife and children at home, will turn around and kill one another over some gal-boy . . . every night in the cell blocks was bad—but whenever there was a full moon, look out. They all go crazy and stick each other. We'd go in the next morning and there'd be about twenty-five stiffs we'd have to bring out. And after a while down there, the only difference between the men and the guards is the gun. Most of those guards are pretty simpleminded old boys . . . they'll go to a picture show and see Tom Mix or Hoot Gibson and then they come back and ride around the farm, pulling their guns, trying to be cowboys. Sometimes they get meaner than the prisoners. That's why I quit. Seen men that would beat a nigger to death, just to have something to do. I'm telling you, that place gets to you after a while, and I hear now that they've got those Scottsborough boys down here, things is worse than ever."

Now Idgie was really worried and she wished he would drive faster.

When they turned in the gate that led down the road to the main building, they saw hundreds of prisoners in coarse striped uniforms out in the yard digging or hoeing, and they saw the guards, just like Grady had said, showing off as the car passed by, running their horses in circles and peering at the car as it drove by. Idgie thought that most of them did look a little retarded, so when they brought Artis out, she was relieved to see that he was still alive and well.

Although his clothes were wrinkled, his hair was nappy. Artis was never so happy to see anybody in his whole life. The scars on his back from the whip didn't show, and they could not see the lumps on his head. He grinned from ear to ear as they walked out to the car. He was going home . . .

On the way back, Grady said, "Now, Artis, I'm in charge of you, so don't be going and getting in any more trouble. You hear?"

"No suh. I don't ever want to go back to that place, no suh."

Grady looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Pretty rough in there, huh?"

Artis laughed. "Yes suh, it be pretty rough, all right . . . yes suh, pretty rough."

When they first caught sight of the steel mills in Birmingham about four hours later, Artis became so excited he was like a child, and wanted to get out of the car.

Idgie tried to get him to come home to Whistle Stop first. "Your momma and daddy and Sipsey are all waiting to see you."

But he pleaded to get out in Birmingham for just a few hours, so they drove him over to 8th Avenue North, where he wanted to be let out.

Idgie said, "Please try and get on home soon, 'cause they really want to see you . . . promise?"