Henry Hatcher was the stingiest scoundrel in the Mississippi Delta. By comparison, Ebenezer Scrooge was a philanthropist. He bought a lot of farmland after the Great Depression and rented it to poor tenants trying to eke out a living growing cotton.
One look at Hatcher confirmed that he’d never done anything except count and caress filthy lucre. His small, effeminate hands, always gloved, rested contentedly on a bulging belly supported by stick-like legs. With a waxed, pencil moustache above protruding lips and an ever-present cigar, his pig eyes peered through pince-nez spectacles, attached to a gold chain.
One fall day, Luke Larson and his wife Hattie sauntered into his office. “Mr. Hatcher, we want to rent that hundred acres you got down past Sligo Curve.”
“Sho’,” Hatcher said. “It’s made some fine crops, but the feller workin’ it took sick, couldn’t pay the rent, so I evicted him.”
“We’d also be interested in living in that house on the land,” said Luke, “but it don’t have no screens, and the mosquitoes git awful bad come spring.”
“Sign this rental agreement — I’ll screen the house.” Luke scrawled his signature.
When Hattie entered the house, she exclaimed, “Lordy mercy, Luke, you done got us in a helluva mess. It’ll take a heap o’ work to git this dump fit to live in, and a sho’ nuff heap o’ work to make this farming venture profitable.”
“They’s mo’ in this man then they is in that land,” Luke boasted. “You just tend to the house and let me worry about making this farm pay.”
“Mind who you’re orderin’ around,” Hattie warned. “I’ll worry about what I please. You just make dang sho’ that little fat man gits them screens on befo’ spring, or the skeeters’ll tote us off.”
And when they almost did, the Larsons drove their old pickup to town to complain to the landlord. Finding Him lounging on his office’s front porch, Luke got out to speak to him, while Hattie waited. Soon, she tired of watching Hatcher do all the talking, while Luke merely nodded.
Joining the two men, she declared, “Mr. Hatcher, they ain’t nothin’ to discuss. You promised to put screens on that house befo’ the skeeters got bad and you ain’t kept yo’ word.”
Underestimating the power of an angry, insulted woman, Hatcher snarled, “Madam, git back in that truck and let us men folk settle this matter.”
Immediately Hattie grabbed hold of his tie, jerked his face close to hers, and screeched, “Why you piggish, pot-gutted, money-grubbing son of a sow — I’ll teach you how to address ladies properly.”
With that, she drew back a big hard fist and cold-cocked him squarely between the eyes — so hard that his spectacles shattered and blood squirted from both nostrils. Horrified, he galloped off like a bat out of hell, with Hattie right behind him, and Luke chasing after her.
The screens were installed the next day. Hatcher needed no more persuasion than what he rightfully earned: Hattie’s haymaker.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
