The waitress began to scribble. “You want home fries or regular?”

“Regular. No. Make it home fries.”

She poked her tongue in her cheek, shot him an almost sinister glance and, flicking her hair back with a horselike motion of her head, began to erase.

“I reckon I’ll get that too. You all do cook your meat clean through, don’t you?”

“What you mean ‘clean through’? We cook it, ain’t that enough?”

“Well, I mean, there ain’t no red juice squirting up. Don’t like my meat like that. Makes me sick to my stomach. Rather have it burnt.”

“The meat’s kind of thick,” she said in a deadpan voice. “It’s hard to cook it all the way through without burning it.”

Zeke frowned. “Okay then, I’ll take a plate of your barbecue. You all kill the hogs yourself?”

“No. You want slaw, tater salad, or french fries with that?”

“Oh, let me see. Slaw, I spect. No. No. I’ll take your tater salad. You use eggs?”

“Eggs?”

“In your tater salad?”

The woman poked her tongue in her cheek again and turned around toward the kitchen and hollered. “Ernestine, we use eggs in our po-ta-to salad?”

“Yes, I do, hon.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Well, I don’t want that, then. Don’t like no eggs with my tater salad. No, gives me gas. No. French fries, huh? I don’t like them so much, but . . . No, I’ll take the slaw. How fine do you grind it?”

“Jesus.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss?” Zeke squinted at the woman over his glasses.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s grated.”

“Well, I’ll take the french fries, then.”

The woman gave another impatient sigh. “What you all want to drink?”

“Tea.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes,” said Jimmy.

“And you, ma’am? What can I get you?”

Ruth had been studying the menu in silence. In fact, she had said not a word since they had left the hospital except: “I’m hungry.” And when Jimmy had pointed out this Roseboro cafe, she had said, “Fine.” Now she frowned. “Now I see seafood platter here. Tell me: Is the fish fresh? Cause that’s about all I see up here I want to eat.”

“It’s about as fresh as we can get it.”

“How fresh is that?”

“Ma’am, I don’t know.”

“Well, you ought to know.”

“You want me to find out?”

Ruth made her regal dismissing wave. “No, no, no. I’ll get something else.” She rustled through the folded sheets, turning the menu over and over, mumbling to herself. “Ain’t nothing up here I want.” She continued for about a minute. “What kind of ‘salad’ is this? Mustard greens? Turnip green? Something like that?”

“It’s lettuce and tomato with cucumber and your choice of Thousand Island, French, or Italian dressing.”

“No, no.” Ruth poked her bottom lip out and continued to rustle.