The good thing about cooking—or having food to cook—was that it kept the ghost of hungrier days at bay. The bad thing about cooking was the crabs. Live, they were more worrisome than dead because she had to dodge their snapping claws until the boiling water closed over them. But the bounty of them, coming from the backyard so to speak, set her to wondering if there was any money to be made crabbing. Willie-Boy wandered into the kitchen. “Phoebe, my back hurts.” His face was flushed, his eyelids swollen. Phoebe removed his shirt. His back was fire red, sunburned. “If it’s not one thing, it’s ten!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “I oughta tear into Maydean and Dorie good, for lettin’ you stay out in that sun too long.” “It’s not their fault.” His eyes watered. “I wanted to crab. I don’t like having to make out like I’m sick.” “You have to do things in moderation, Willie-Boy.
