A basket on one arm, her ample bulk corseted and encased in black bombazine, Mamma Salvatore paused on her way to market. The men in Bay Parish minded their own business. It was a fetish with them. The women weren’t any different from women anywhere. Mamma’s big eyes studied Cade’s nose and injured eye. “That Joe Laval. For shame what he did to your face.” The fat woman was indignant. “In our place yet. He is no good, that Joe. You should take a gaff hook to him.” “I may do that,” Cade said. Mamma laid a plump hand on his arm. “For why they after you, Cade?” “I don’t know.” Mamma patted the arm on which her plump hand was resting. “Tonight you come back. Tonight I cook for you. And eef that son-of-a-beech of a Joe he tries for make any more trouble, eef Sal don’t throw heem out, I weel.” Cade lighted a cigarette. “He’s sheriff.” Mamma laughed into one of the flesh folds encircling her wrists like bracelets. “Ha.” Her dark eyes concerned, she started to say more, then changing her mind, repeated, “Tonight you come back,”
