Read The Impressionist for Free Online Page B

There were jars of jelly beans, licorice sticks, both red and black, candy corn, Life Savers, homemade cookies, and a huge jar of dill pickles. After quite a while deliberating with himself, Jim Ed finally came to a decision.
    “I’ll takes me some jelly beans,” he said, “and some candy corn…and…and…one of them pickles.”
    Harry Simmons, a gentle and caring man wearing a white apron, scooped up a heap of jelly beans and candy corn pieces and poured them into a small brown bag. Then he fished around the pickle jar in an attempt to snag the largest one possible and put it into separate brown bag.
    “Now what you say to Mr. Simmons?” Mama Porter asked Jim Ed as Mr. Simmons bent down and handed him the bags.
    “Ahh, thank you, Mr. Simmons.”
    Jim Ed was thoroughly enjoying his pickle while at the same time firmly gripping his bag of candy when he and his mama stepped through the front door of the store to exit. That also happened to be the exact moment when a young girl came running pell-mell into the store, plowing squarely into Jim Ed. The collision knocked him to the floor, sending the pickle and jelly beans mixed with candy corn flying. Determined not to lose a single piece, little Jim Ed scrambled around on the store’s hard-wood floor in a desperate effort to retrieve them. While doing so, the girl’s mom said to her, in a well-mannered voice, yet loud
enough that everybody in the store could hear, “Now Elizabeth, you say ‘excuse me’ to the little colored boy.”
    “Mommmm,” the girl protested in her frilly dress, “do I have to? He’s a nigger.”
    “Yes you do,” the mother insisted, with a slightly embarrassed look on her face, “and what have I told you about using that word? He can’t help it that he’s colored.”
    “But Mommmm, you and Daddy say it all the time!”
    The woman and her daughter’s words seared through Jim Ed’s heart like red-hot daggers. Mama Porter wanted to get in the mother’s face and tell her a word or two, but doing so would only mean more trouble for her and her family. So she gritted her teeth and bore it.
    Picking up the now dirty pieces of candy and placing them back into his bag, Jim Ed was ever so careful to exclude each and every black jelly bean. Holding the rejects tightly, he walked back up to the counter and held out his hand toward Mr. Simmons.
    “Please take these black ones back. I don’t want them.”
    Mr. Simmons smiled back empathetically while taking the black ones out of the boy’s hand. Then he scooped up some new jelly beans, sorted out the black ones and picked him out another pickle. Mama Porter nodded to Mr. Simmons indicating her appreciation for his kindness toward her son.
    The next stop Mama Porter had was to run into Wool-worth’s to pick up some fabric for sewing.
    “Mama, that pickle made me thirsty,” Jim Ed said, tugging at his mother’s dress. “Can I gets me a drink of water?”
    “Sure honey,” Mama Porter said, unrolling a piece of fabric and examining it. “There’s a water fountain right by the bathrooms, next to the toys. Juss go all the way downs that aisle right
there,” she pointed, “and you’ll sees it. I’ll be here waiting whens you finish. I has to pick out some more cloth.”
    At that, Jim Ed meandered his way through the toy section, stopping of course, to check out a new yo-yo and a cap-gun/ holster set with a matching cowboy hat, but the thirst got the best of him and he eventually made it to the opposite end of the store. When he bent over to take a gulp of water from the brand-new, shiny clean, water fountain—one with a cooler to keep the water nice and cold, some older kids surrounded him yelling, “Hey nigger boy, you caint drink there. Caint you read? Says ‘Whites Only.’” Jerking Jim Ed back by the collar they ordered, “You gotta drink from your own fountain over there!” Then they pointed to a door that opened up to the back of the store’s alley. Outside was a filthy,