Elijah walked over to where his mother sat hunched at the small, scarred table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee that had long since grown cold. She looked up as he approached, her eyes red-rimmed and weary, her face a map of deep lines and sorrow.
Her gaze fell on the money clutched in his hand, and for a moment, a flicker of something like hope sparked in her tired eyes. But it was quickly extinguished, replaced by a bitter cynicism that seemed to be her constant companion.
"One hundred dollars?" she asked, her voice a raspy whisper. "That's all that rich bastard gave you for a day's work? For fixin' his fancy pipes and kissin' his fat behind?"
She took a long, shuddering breath, her hands tightening around the mug as if it were a lifeline. "They think they can buy us, Elijah. They think they can toss a few coins our way and call it a fair trade. But they don't know the half of what we go through, the struggles we face just to keep our heads above water."
She stood up slowly, her joints creaking and popping with the effort, and walked over to the small, grimy window that looked out over the overgrown yard and the ramshackle houses of their neighbors. She stared out at the squalid scene, her reflection etched in the grimy glass, and shook her head.
"They don't know what it's like to watch your babies go hungry, to see the light fade from their eyes as they grow weaker and thinner. They don't know the humiliation of begnin' for scraps, of owing money to every man, woman and child in a hundred mile radius. They don't know the shame of being a Carter, of being looked down on and spat on at every turn."
"Mama," he pleads, "I want to keep working for him, it makes money, 100 dollars is a lot."
Elijah's mother turned to face him, her expression hardening as she took in the desperate pleading in her son's eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest, the sleeves of her thin sweater slipping down to reveal the sharp jut of her elbows and the blue veins that mapped the skin beneath.
"Keep working for him?" she scoffed, a harsh, bitter laugh tearing from her throat."And why would you want to do a fool thing like that, Elijah? So you can keep throwin' good money after bad, so you can keep beggin' for scraps from the very people who look down on us at every turn?"
She stepped closer to him, her eyes flashing with a manic intensity that made Elijah take an involuntary step back. He had seen this look before, had lived with the erratic swings of his mother's moods for as long as he could remember. But he had never been the direct target of her rage, had never felt the full force of her resentment and despair.
"You think that rich bastard cares about you, son?" she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "He's just usin' you, like he's usin' every other poor sap who crosses his path. He'll toss you a few coins, just enough to keep you comin' back for more, and then he'll cast you aside like yesterday's garbage when he's done with you."
She reached out, her fingers curling into Elijah's shirt, and for a moment he thought she might shake him, might rail against the very idea of him working for Mr. Yates. But instead, she simply held him there, her grip tight and unyielding, as she stared into his eyes with a fevered, almost crazed expression.
"You're better than this, Elijah," she whispered, her voice low and intense. "You're a Carter, and we may be poor, but we have our pride. We don't beg for scraps, and we don't sell our souls to the devil just to keep body and soul together."
She released him abruptly, shoving him away from her with a force that sent him stumbling back a step. She turned away, her shoulders shaking with a sudden, violent sob.