From her end of the table, Granny shrieked suddenly. “Murdering thavages.”
Johnny dropped his fork in alarm and looked with wide eyes across the table at Effie.
“Savages,” Skeet sneered. “It starts with an s.”
Effie kicked him, glad to see him wobble on the peg of his stool. “Don’t correct her.”
Granny, a thin arm poking out from the folds of the patchwork quilt she’d named Never Forget, stabbed the air with a spoon. “Wanting to kill white Chrithians. Wanting our land. That what thavages want.”
Granny’s spoon jabbed in Pa’s direction, a trail of gravy sliding down her quilt. “He let the thavages kill my children right here in my kitchen. Thavages ain’t dead. Lincoln left all them nooths empty.”
At the other end of the table, Pa’s jaw blanched with the pressure of his gritted teeth.
Skeet jerked his leg out of Effie’s reach. “Nooses.”
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