A muted "Hello in the place! Mother, it's me," came from the outside. She'd know that voice in a tornado. Mary nearly knocked Joe T. and his shotgun across the room as she bounded to the door, jerking it open. She and Scout raced through the door and into the dark night. The brightness from the opened door blinded J. N. for a moment but he took the ten steps up to the porch two at a time. They were as familiar as his worn brogans.
His mother grabbed him, "Son, Son, Gigaei Twodi!"
"Yes, Mother, it's me. I'm home," he squeezed out. She smelled of lye soap and lilac powder. Mary Jane Fields Mayberry weighed 101 pounds and stood five-two. Her arms felt like steel belts around her 23-year-old, 160-pound, six-foot son.
"Mother, the hand!" J. N. protested.
She let go, jumped back, "Brother, you hurt, hurt bad?"
"It's a busted hand," he said as he caught the smiling blue eyes of his father over the top of his mother's coal black hair. "I'll mend, no real damage," J. N. said reassuringly. Mary took J. N.'s good hand as gently as robbing an egg from under one of her laying hens. She turned, bumping into Joe T. as she escorted her son into the warm front room. Scout bounded in behind the two, cutting off Joe T. as he turned to follow his wife and son back into the house. Joe T. had an open smile on his freckled face.
Late supper was warmed corn bread and pinto beans with tart tomato relish on the side of his plain china plate. It was better than the feast for the prodigal. A bowl of Mama Bear's sweet butter sat in the middle of the worn poplar plank kitchen table. The cold sweet milk Joe T. had brought in from the backyard springhouse was the best stuff J. N. had drunk since leaving home in the fall of '61. Taken all together, the homecoming and near midnight supper almost brought tears to J. N.'s eyes.
His mother and father sat quietly while he ate, watching with soft smiles. Scout was asleep on his left boot toe. J. N. knew, as his folks knew, you eat first then talk. For working people, hunger's pain is to be sated before doing almost anything else.
"Well, Son, what happened?" Joe T. voiced as J. N. pushed the crumb-sprinkled plate forward.
"Still, Joe, let J. N. breathe a spell."
"It's okay, Mother." Joe thought for a second and began. "Sure glad I ain't shot.