A Long Day in November. Ernest J. Gaines

Gran’mon says.

      “There’s plenty cane to cut,” Mama says. “I’ll get me a cane knife and go out tomorrow morning.”

      “Out in all that cold?” Gran’mon says.

      “They got plenty women cutting cane,” Mama says. “I don’t mind. I done it before.”

      “You used to be such a pretty little thing, Amy,” Gran’mon says. “Long silky curls. Prettiest little face on this whole plantation. You could’ve married somebody worth something. But, no, you had to go throw yourself away to that yellow nigger who don’t care for nobody, ’cluding himself.”

      “I loved Eddie,” Mama says.

      “Poot,” Gran’mon says.

      “He wasn’t like this when we married,” Mama says.

      “Every nigger from Bayonne like this now, then, and forever,” Gran’mon says.

      “Not then,” Mama says. “He was the sweetest person—”

      “And you fell for him?” Gran’mon says.

      “He changed after he got that car,” Mama says. “He changed overnight.”

      “Well, you learned your lesson,” Gran’mon says. “We all get teached something no matter how old we get. ‘Live and learn,’what they say.”

      “Eddie’s all right,” Uncle Al says. “He—”

      “You keep out of this, Albert,” Gran’mon says. “It don’t concern you.”

      Uncle Al don’t say no more, and I can feel his hand on my shoulder. I like Uncle Al because he’s good, and he never talk bad about Daddy. But Gran’mon’s always talking bad about Daddy.

      “Freddie’s still there,” Gran’mon says.

      “Mama, please,” Mama says.

      “Why not?” Gran’mon says. “He always loved you.”

      “Not in front of him,” Mama says.

      Mama leaves the fireplace and goes to the bundle of clothes. I can hear her untying the bundle.

      “Ain’t it ’bout time you was leaving for school?” Uncle Al asks.

      “I don’t want go,” I say. “It’s too cold.”

      “It’s never too cold for school,” Mama says. “Warm up good and let Uncle Al button your coat for you.”

      I get closer to the fire and I feel the fire hot on my pants. I turn around and warm my back. I turn again, and Uncle Al leans over and buttons my coat. Uncle Al’s pipe almost gets in my face, and it don’t smell good.

      “Now,” Uncle Al says. “You all ready to go. You want take a potato with you?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Uncle Al leans over and gets me a potato out of the ashes. He knocks all the ashes off and puts the potato in my pocket.

      “Wait,” Mama says. “Mama, don’t you have a little paper bag?”

      Gran’mon looks on the mantelpiece and gets a paper bag. There’s something in the bag, and she takes it out and hands the bag to Mama. Mama puts the potato in the bag and puts it in my pocket. Then she goes and gets my book and tucks it under my arm.

      “Now you ready,” she says. “And remember, when you get out for dinner, come back here. Don’t you forget and go up home now. You hear, Sonny?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Come on,” Uncle Al says. “I’ll open the gate for you.”

      “ ’Bye, Mama,” I say.

      “Be a good boy,” Mama says. “Eat your potato at recess. Don’t eat it in class now.”

      Me and Uncle Al go out on the gallery. The sun is shining but it’s still cold out there. Spot follows me and Uncle Al down the walk. Uncle Al opens the gate for me and I go out in the road, I hate to leave Uncle Al and Spot. And I hate to leave Mama—and I hate to leave the fire. But I got to, because they want me to learn.

      “See you at twelve,” Uncle Al says.