Em sucked her breath.
“Our way is hard. Harder than theirs.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s easy to get mad, let it run you. Like they do.” He adjusted his hat. “Their feelings run them all over, like those chickens there.” He pointed at two of their reddish-brown hens strutting through the tall grass next to the barn, hoping Em would see herself in them.
Em was infuriated that he polished the car, that he worked for white men, that half the time they didn’t pay him for his work, or bartered, or promised to barter and then didn’t give him anything at all. Even the poorest Indian who came to him with a broken-down car or run-over bicycle they’d found in the town dump gave him something in return, dressed rabbits or cooled cornbread wrapped in flour sack towels or their government cheese ration
