permanent frown crease between her brows. Stout put Phoebe at a long metal table on which w ere piled hundreds and hundreds of boiled crabs, backs off. When Phoebe sat down she couldn’t see over the mountain of seafood to the worker on the opposite side who shared the table with her. She picked up a crab and looked at it. It didn’t resemble any picture she’d ever seen in National Geographic. In the first place it was dead. It wasn’t the kind of creature a sensible person would eat.
She got up and went around the table. Her table mate had a pleasant face. Phoebe cleared her throat. The woman looked up. Phoebe said, “You got children?”
“ Got seven.”
“ I got two. One’s sick, I need money and I ain’t never picked a crab before in my life. I only picked cotton and shucked corn.”
The woman laughed. “Better not let Stout hear that. You got a picker?” Phoebe said no. The woman reached into her apron pocket and handed Phoebe a set of nut pickers. “Use them like this.” She demonstrated, breaking open a crab and plucking out the meat. “White meat goes in the clear plastic tubs, claw in the brown. Stout’ll come around and collect your full tubs and give you a chit for every pound. You turn in your chits to Hank and he pays you at the end of the day.”
“ What time do we get off?”
“ When all the crabs are picked.”
“ Lor! I got to be home before dinner.”
“ You will be. This here is a short run.”
Phoebe couldn ’t imagine ever wanting to see a long run. “How many pounds does a good picker pick?” she asked.
“ The best pickers? Forty, fifty pounds a shift. That’s when the crabs are running. You’d better get started. Stout’s looking this way.”
Phoebe learned about crabs. Cooked, they were juicy, sticky, sharp-edged and often hot as they came to the picking tables direct from the huge steam pots out back. They had a sweet, fishy smell that got into her head and stayed there. No sooner was the pile down to where she could see her table mate, Essie, Stout came and dumped another huge bucket atop the table. The crabs that fell to Phoebe seemed to get smaller, the meat more difficult to reach. At two o’clock the last crab had been picked. She turned in her chits and collected thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. Hank counted out the money.
“ Had an off day, did you?” he asked.
Phoebe listened for displeasure in his tone. There wasn ’t any. She smiled wearily.
“ I been away from pickin’ for a while. My fingers are rusty. Reckon I’ll have a better day tomorrow.” She folded the bills into her change purse. It was the first money she’d earned in weeks. She didn’t want to have to hand it over to Gage Morgan. That’d just put her closer to getting out of his house. All the way back to the junkyard she examined first one plot then another.
The only certain thought she had was that she didn ’t want to look at, pick at or smell another crab.
The house was quiet. On the kitchen table were breakfast dishes. Phoebe fumed. She ’d told Maydean to wash up. Willie-Boy wasn’t in bed. Phoebe went along the path far enough to see that the doors to the welding shed were open. On the breeze she could hear the ping of metal on metal. That took care of the whereabouts of Gage Morgan.
She heard laughter and squeals. Maydean’s cackle. Willie-Boy’s yelp. Dorie’s laughter was more musical. She found the youngsters lying flat out on the rickety wharf, their heads hanging over the edge. Willie-Boy was without his shirt. Maydean had cut off a pair of pants so short immodest parts of her were hanging out. “Maydean Hawley! Is this your idea of being mindful!”
“ Phoebe!” Maydean scrambled to her feet. “Lookit. We’re crabbin’. Dorie showed us how. You tie a chicken neck to a string—”
Crabbing! “You wasted a good boiling chicken neck on a crab? Maydean, I oughta tear into you. And Willie-Boy was supposed to stay in bed. Throw them crabs back
She got up and went around the table. Her table mate had a pleasant face. Phoebe cleared her throat. The woman looked up. Phoebe said, “You got children?”
“ Got seven.”
“ I got two. One’s sick, I need money and I ain’t never picked a crab before in my life. I only picked cotton and shucked corn.”
The woman laughed. “Better not let Stout hear that. You got a picker?” Phoebe said no. The woman reached into her apron pocket and handed Phoebe a set of nut pickers. “Use them like this.” She demonstrated, breaking open a crab and plucking out the meat. “White meat goes in the clear plastic tubs, claw in the brown. Stout’ll come around and collect your full tubs and give you a chit for every pound. You turn in your chits to Hank and he pays you at the end of the day.”
“ What time do we get off?”
“ When all the crabs are picked.”
“ Lor! I got to be home before dinner.”
“ You will be. This here is a short run.”
Phoebe couldn ’t imagine ever wanting to see a long run. “How many pounds does a good picker pick?” she asked.
“ The best pickers? Forty, fifty pounds a shift. That’s when the crabs are running. You’d better get started. Stout’s looking this way.”
Phoebe learned about crabs. Cooked, they were juicy, sticky, sharp-edged and often hot as they came to the picking tables direct from the huge steam pots out back. They had a sweet, fishy smell that got into her head and stayed there. No sooner was the pile down to where she could see her table mate, Essie, Stout came and dumped another huge bucket atop the table. The crabs that fell to Phoebe seemed to get smaller, the meat more difficult to reach. At two o’clock the last crab had been picked. She turned in her chits and collected thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. Hank counted out the money.
“ Had an off day, did you?” he asked.
Phoebe listened for displeasure in his tone. There wasn ’t any. She smiled wearily.
“ I been away from pickin’ for a while. My fingers are rusty. Reckon I’ll have a better day tomorrow.” She folded the bills into her change purse. It was the first money she’d earned in weeks. She didn’t want to have to hand it over to Gage Morgan. That’d just put her closer to getting out of his house. All the way back to the junkyard she examined first one plot then another.
The only certain thought she had was that she didn ’t want to look at, pick at or smell another crab.
The house was quiet. On the kitchen table were breakfast dishes. Phoebe fumed. She ’d told Maydean to wash up. Willie-Boy wasn’t in bed. Phoebe went along the path far enough to see that the doors to the welding shed were open. On the breeze she could hear the ping of metal on metal. That took care of the whereabouts of Gage Morgan.
She heard laughter and squeals. Maydean’s cackle. Willie-Boy’s yelp. Dorie’s laughter was more musical. She found the youngsters lying flat out on the rickety wharf, their heads hanging over the edge. Willie-Boy was without his shirt. Maydean had cut off a pair of pants so short immodest parts of her were hanging out. “Maydean Hawley! Is this your idea of being mindful!”
“ Phoebe!” Maydean scrambled to her feet. “Lookit. We’re crabbin’. Dorie showed us how. You tie a chicken neck to a string—”
Crabbing! “You wasted a good boiling chicken neck on a crab? Maydean, I oughta tear into you. And Willie-Boy was supposed to stay in bed. Throw them crabs back
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