6 PM: Dinner . . . 275 calories
73O PM: Arts and crafts. . . Mrs. Jamie Higdon teaching painting, with still life (using artificial fruit only)
FRIDAY ONLY Mrs. Alexander Bagge teaches us how to make basket pots out of dough (nonedible)
NOVEMBER 7, 1967
Hank Roberts had just turned twenty-seven and owned his own construction company. This morning, he and his buddy Travis, with the long hair, had just started a new job. The big yellow bulldozer grumbled and whined as he dug up the vacant lot alongside the old Threadgoode place on First Street. They were getting ready to put a red brick annex to the Baptist church.
Travis, who had smoked two joints already this morning, was walking around, kicking at the ground with his boot, and began mumbling to himself.
"Hey, man, look at this shit. This is heavy, gross stuff, man . . ."
Pretty soon Hank stopped for lunch, and Travis called over to him, "Hey, man, look at all this shit!”
Hank came over and looked at the ground he had just dug up. It was full of fish heads, now mostly just rows of little sharp teeth, along with dried-up skulls of hogs and chickens eaten for supper by people long forgotten.
Hank was a country boy and used to such sights, so he just looked and said, "Yeah, look a-there."
He walked back over and sat down, opened his black tin lunch pail, and began eating one of his four sandwiches. Travis was still struck by what they had uncovered, and continued to poke around. He began to trip out on the bones and skulls and teeth. "Jesus Christ! There must be hundreds of these things! What are they doing here?"
"How the hell do I know?"
"Shit, man, this is bizarre as hell"
Hank, who was getting disgusted, called out, "It's just a bunch of hogs' heads, dammit! Don't go getting weird on me!"
Travis kicked at something and stopped dead in his tracks. After a minute, he said in an odd voice, "Hey, Hank."
"What?"
"You ever heard of a hog with a glass eye?"
Hank got up and walked over and looked. "Well," he said, "I’ll be damned."
DECEMBER 13, 1930
Ruth and Idgie had left the cafe and gone over to the big house to see Momma Threadgoode, who was sick. Sipsey had come down to stay with the baby, as she often did. Tonight, she had brought along Artis, the eleven-year-old blue-gummed twin, so he could walk her home. He was a devil, but she couldn't resist him.
It was eight o'clock and Artis was asleep on the bed. Sipsey was listening to the radio and eating what was left of the skillet bread and molasses.
“. . . And now, the makers of the new Rinso Blue, with sodium, bring you . . ."
Outside, there was nothing but the sound of leaves cracking as the black pickup truck with the Georgia license plate drove up to the back of the cafe with its lights off.
Two minutes later, a drunken Frank Bennett kicked the back door open and came through the kitchen into the back room. He pointed his gun at Sipsey and headed toward the crib. She got up and tried to reach the baby, but he grabbed her by the back of the dress and threw her across the room.
She jumped back up again and lunged at him. "You leave dat baby alone! Dat's Miz Ruth's baby!"
"Get away from me, nigger." He slammed her with the broad ride of his gun, hitting her with so much force that she was knocked cold and blood began to trickle from her ear.
Artis woke up and yelled, "Grandma!" and ran over to her while Frank Bennett picked the baby up and headed out the back door.
There was a new moon that night. Just enough light for Frank to make his way back to the truck. He opened the door and put the baby—who had not made a sound—into the front seat, and was climbing in when all of a sudden he heard a sound behind him . . . as if something heavy had hit a tree stump that had been covered with a quilt. The sound he had heard was that of a five-pound skillet hitting his own thick Irish hair, a fraction of a second before his skull split open. He was dead before he hit the ground, and Sipsey was headed back inside with the baby.
"Ain't nobody gonna get dis baby, no suh, not while I's alive."
Frank Bennett had not figured that she would get back up off the floor. He also hadn't figured that the skinny little black woman had been handling five-pound skillets, two at a time, since she was eleven. He had figured dead wrong.
As Sipsey passed by Artis, frozen in his tracks, he could see that she was wild-eyed. She said, "Go get Big George. I done kilt me a white man, I done kilt him daid."
Artis slowly tiptoed over to where Frank was lying beside the truck, and as he leaned over to get a good look, he saw that glass eye shining in the moonlight.
He ran so fast over the railroad tracks he forgot to breathe and nearly passed out before he made it home. Big George was asleep, but he could see Onzell was still up, back in the kitchen.
He flew in the door, holding his side in pain and panting, "I gotta see Daddy!"
Onzell said, "You better not wake yo daddy up, boy, hell whup you within an inch of your life . . ." but Artis was already in the bedroom, shaking the big man.
"Daddy! Daddy! Get up! You' gots to come wit me!"
Big George woke with a start. "Whut? Whut's da matter witch you, boy?"
"I cain't tell you. Grandma wants you over to the café!"
"Grandma?"
"Yes! Right now! She say ax you to come right now!"
Big George was putting on his pants. "This better not be no joke, boy, or I'll have yo butt."
Onzell, who had been standing in the door, listening, went over to get her sweater to go with them, but Big George said for her to stay home.
"She ain't sick, is she?" Onzell said.
Big George said, "Naw, baby, naw, she ain't sick. You just stay here."
Jasper came into the living room, half asleep. "What . . . ?"
Onzell said, "Nothin', honey, go on back to bed . . . and don't wake up Willie Boy."
When they got away from the house, Artis said, "Daddy, Grandma done kilt a white man."
The moon was gone behind the clouds and Big George couldn't see his son's face. He said, "You're the one gonna be daid, boy, when I find out what you is up to."
Sipsey was standing in the yard when they got there. Big George leaned down and felt Frank's cold arm, sticking out from the sheet Sipsey had covered him with, and he stood back up and put his hands on hips. He looked back down at the body and shook his head. "Mmmm, mmmm. You done did it this time, Momma."
But even as he was shaking his head, Big George was making a decision. There was no defense for a black who killed a white man in Alabama, so it never occurred to him to do anything but what he had to do.
He picked up Frank's body and threw it over his shoulder and said, "Come on, boy," and took it all the way in the back of the yard and put it in the wooden shed. He laid it down on the dirt floor, and said to Artis, "You stay here till I get back, boy, and don't you move. I's got to get rid of dat truck." About an hour later, when Idgie and Ruth got home, the baby was back in his bed and sound asleep. Idgie drove Sipsey home and told her how worried she was about Momma Threadgoode being so sick; Sipsey never told her how close they had come to losing the baby.
Artis stayed in the shed all night, nervous and excited, rocking back and forth on his haunches. Along around four o'clock, he couldn't resist; he opened his knife and, in the pitch dark, struck the body under the sheet—once, twice, three, four times—and on and on.