a little guy, too,” Boyd said.
“I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She hesitated. “Does he . . . work?”
“Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.”
“There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly has to be strong to do that—all
that lifting and carrying at a factory.”
“Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a foreman.”
Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do, Boyd?”
“My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of us kids.”
“Oh. She doesn’t work, then?”
“Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of eggs. “You don’t work.”
“You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,”
Johnny said. “Boyd’s sister’s going to work, though. She’s going to be a teacher.”
“That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs. Wilson restrained an impulse to
pat Boyd on the head. “I imagine you’re all very proud of her?”