His Brother Joe 1914?1964
Robert Mason
The food cheered him. Spread across the kitchen table's faded oilcloth and overflowing onto the cabinet counter were fried and baked chicken, ham, and barbecue, and an assortment of vegetables and pickles. The barbecue was homemade: lean pork cooked over coals, highly seasoned, and sliced. He hadn't eaten barbecue that good since leaving North Carolina and settling, 50 miles from its northeastern tip, in Norfolk.
The hostess beamed. "What are old neighbors for if not to take care of somebody come back after 30 years—Law', so long—at a time like this?" she replied. She bounced from her chair, surprisingly agile for a plump woman past 70, and stepped into the kitchen, then returned with a large pot of coffee. "Let me heat your cup," she said. "And while you keep on eating I'm going to get something and show you."
Their small table had been brought from a bedroom and placed in the hallway at the kitchen door. Other people, perhaps 20, ate in the dining room and parlor, at the big walnut table and at odd ones collected, along with chairs, over the neighborhood. Among them were his mother and two remaining brothers, one younger, one older; he had come from farther than they and arrived later.
