Anse rubs his hands on his knees. “The Lord giveth,” he says. We can hear Cash a-hammering and sawing beyond the corner.
It’s true. Never a truer breath was ever breathed. “The Lord giveth,” I say.
That boy comes up the hill. He is carrying a fish nigh long as he is. He slings it to the ground and grunts “Hah” and spits over his shoulder like a man. Durn nigh long as he is.
“What’s that?” I say. “A hog? Where’d you get it?”
“Down to the bridge,” he says. He turns it over, the underside caked over with dust where it is wet, the eye coated over, humped under the dirt.
“Are you aiming to leave it laying there?” Anse says.
“I aim to show it to ma,” Vardaman says. He looks toward the door. We can hear the talking, coming out on the draught. Cash, too, knocking and hammering at the boards. “There’s company in there,” he says.
“Just my folks,” I say. “They’d enjoy to see it, too.”
He says nothing, watching the door. Then he looks down at the fish laying in the dust. He turns it over with his foot and prods at the eye-bump with his toe, gouging at it. Anse is looking out over the land. Vardaman looks at Anse’s face, then at the door. He turns, going toward the corner of the house, when Anse calls him without looking around.
“You clean that fish,” Anse says.
Vardaman stops. “Why can’t Dewey Dell clean it?” he says.
“You clean that fish,” Anse says.
“Aw, pa,” Vardaman says.