P for A Frightful Fear

He was a white man--
quite fat. Pensioned
by one of the railway
firms. Handsomely, it
was said. Must've had
a frightful fear of poverty
because of what he did
in the coloured part
of town: Sold stale
cakes, cookies, and candy
wrested cheaply from the
A &; P to little black kids
or anyone else who would
come up to the late-model
Cadillac he drove.
Shiny black. Payment and
delivery took place through
the driver's-side window.
He was my old man's boss
and was originally from
NC. His Mrs kept books
in an office with mom. His
Mrs smoked. I was un-
accustomed to seeing
respectful women puff away.
Use of tobacco had made
her voice basso profundo,
almost a man's. She'd
crack jokes and cackle
over them with mom week-
days, 9 to 5. I wondered.
Was this baritone going
straight to hell just like
other smokers or did her
bankbook and respecta-
bility alter what, to me,
was a sacred albeit unwritten
Georgian law?