Fried Chicken

“Where are you going?” she’ll ask pleasantly after a while, and the young mother will say Atlanta or Norfolk or Richmond or Washington, even L. A., it could be anyplace, and then Mrs. Pegram will ask where they’re from, and the young mother will tell her, and then Mrs. Pegram will say, “My goodness, that’s quite a trip,” and the young mother, warming to her, will tell all about it, why they’re going and how long they’ll be there, and sometimes it will be a long story and sometimes not. The little boy will be climbing all over his mother, eyeing Mrs. Pegram’s basket. Finally she will say, “I’m just taking my son some fried chicken, it’s real good and I’ve got plenty, would you like a piece?” and when she takes off the tinfoil, the heavenly smell of fried chicken will be everywhere as she offers it to them. The mother will eat a breast, then a thigh. “It’s so good!” she’ll cry. The little boy will eat all the drumsticks. His eyes are as round as a plate, he’s so cute, he is the most important thing in the world to his mother, he is her whole life. The good-looking young man will call their bus. Mrs. Pegram will wrap up two more pieces in tinfoil and insist upon giving them to the mother as they hurry to get in line. It’s okay—she’s got plenty of chicken left. Plenty! Mrs. Pegram clutches the basket to her beating heart, and waits for the next bus to come.