"No, Stump, I don't want to look at him."

Stump did not really want to look at Mr. Pinto's face, either, but he was determined to get a picture of him, one way or another; and so he devised a plan on the spot that would save them both from having to look.

He handed her the camera, "Here, you point the camera right where his head is, and I'll count to three. You close your eyes and I'll count to three, pull the sheet back, you take the picture, and I'll cover him back up and you won't have to see him at all. Come on, please? Grady's gonna be back in a minute . . ."

"No, I'm scared to."

"Please . . . you're the only person in town I told he was gonna be here."

Peggy said reluctantly, "Well, all right, but don't you dare pull that sheet back until my eyes are closed. Do you promise me, Stump Threadgoode?"

Stump gave the Boy Scout signal for Truth and Honor. "I promise. Now, hurry."

Peggy aimed the shaking camera at the sheet-covered head.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Now, close your eyes and when I count three, you take the picture and don't look until I tell you."

Peggy shut her eyes and so did Stump. He carefully lifted and pulled the sheet back and said, "Okay, one, two, three, now!”

Peggy snapped the picture on command, as planned, and Grady came up behind them and yelled in a loud voice, "HEY! WHAT ARE YOU KIDS DOING!"

They both opened their eyes with a jolt and stared right into the face of Mr. Seymore Pinto, still warm from The Big Yellow Momma.

Peggy screamed, dropped the camera in the coffin, and ran off in one direction—and Stump squealed like a girl and ran off in the other.

Mr. Pinto just lay there, burned to a crisp, with his mouth and eyes wide open, and if he'd had any hair left, it would have been standing straight up on his head.

Later that afternoon, Peggy was still in bed, under the covers with Mr. Pinto's face looming before her, and Stump sat in the back room, in the closet, wearing his Lone Ranger glow-in-the-dark belt, still shaking, knowing he would never forget that man's face for as long as he lived.

Grady came into the cafe about six that night, and he brought Stump's camera back.

He laughed. "You're not gonna believe this," and told them what had happened, "but they broke that poor dead bastard's nose!"

Ruth was appalled. Smokey stared down in his coffee to keep from breaking up; and Idgie, who was taking a grape drink to the back door for her friend Ocie Smith, spilled it all over herself, she was laughing so hard.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1924

When Frank Bennett was growing up, he had adored his mother, to the point that it had disgusted his father, a bull of a man who thought nothing of knocking Frank out of a chair or kicking him down the stairs. His mother had been the only softness and sweetness he had known as a child and he loved her with all of his heart.

When he came home from school early one day, with some feigned illness, and found his mother and his father's brother on the floor in the kitchen, all that love turned to hate in the five seconds before he screamed and ran out of the room: the five seconds that would haunt him for as long as he lived.

At thirty-four, Frank Bennett was a vain man. His black shoes were always shined to a high spit polish, his hair was always brushed, his clothes were perfect, and he was one of the few men who received a manicure at the barbershop every week.

You could say he was a dandy. You could say he was handsome, in a black Irish sort of way, with that head of thick hair and the steel-blue eyes; and although one was made of glass and the other was just as cold as shiny, it was hard to tell which was which.

But above all things, he was a man who got what he wanted, and he wanted Ruth Jamison. He'd had just about every available girl around, including, and preferring, the black girls he would take by force while his friends held them down. Once he had them, he was not one to want them again. One pale-blond woman, who lived on the outskirts of town now, had a little girl that looked like him, but after he had blackened her eyes and threatened her child, she no longer made any claims on him. It was clear he did not have much interest in used women. Particularly if he had been the one who'd used them.

But in town, he was known as a hale and hearty fellow, and he decided that he needed to have sons to carry on the Bennett name; a name that didn't mean anything to anybody, except that he was a man who owned a lot of land south of town.

Ruth was young, pretty, certainly untouched, and needed a place for herself and her mother. What could be better? Ruth was flattered; she couldn't help but be. Wasn't he the most eligible man around? Hadn't he courted her like a gentleman and charmed her mother?

Ruth had come to believe that this handsome young man loved her, and that she should and therefore did love him.

But who could have known that all the shiny shoes and flashy three-piece suits could never cover up the bitterness that had been growing in his heart all these years . . .

Certainly no one in town guessed; it took a complete stranger. On the night of Frank's bachelor party, he and a group of men had stopped by a bar for a few drinks, on the way to a cabin where three whores from Atlanta had been hired for the night. An old bum, passing through, had wandered into the bar, off the street, and was watching the party of young men from across the room. Frank did what he did to all strangers: He walked over to the man, who was obviously in need of a drink, and slapped him on the back. "I'll tell you what, old-timer, if you can tell me which one of these eyes of mine is glass, I'll buy you a drink."

His friends laughed because it was impossible to tell, but the old man looked at him and without a beat said, "The left."

His friends roared, and although Frank was taken aback, he laughed it off as luck and threw a half dollar on the bar.

The bartender watched the party of men leave, and then said to the old man, "What'll it be, mister?"

"Whiskey."

He poured the old man his shot. A little later, the bartender said, "Hey, old friend, how were you able to tell his left eye was glass right off the bat like that?"

The old man drank his whiskey and said, "Easy. The left one was the only one with even a glimmer of human compassion in it."

APRIL 28, 1926

Idgie, who was now nineteen, had driven over to Valdosta almost every month for over two and a half years to watch Ruth going to and from church. She just wanted to make sure she was all right, and Ruth never knew she'd been there.

Then one Sunday, quite unexpectedly, she drove up to Ruth's house and went to the front door and knocked. Idgie herself had not known she was going to do it.

Ruth's mother, a frail woman, came to the door, smiling. "Yes?"

"Is Ruth home?"

"She's upstairs."

"Would you tell her that a bee charmer from Alabama is here to see her?"

"Who?"

"Just tell her that a friend of hers from Alabama is here."

"Oh, won't you come in?"

"No, that's all right. I'll just wait out here." Ruth's mother went in and called up the stairs, "Ruth, there is some kind of a bee person here to see you.”

"What?"

"You've got company on the porch." When Ruth came down, she was taken completely by surprise. She walked out on the porch and Idgie, who was trying to act casual even though her palms were sweaty and she could feel her ears burning, said, "Look, I don't want to bother you. I know you're probably very happy and all. . . I mean, I'm sure you are, but I just wanted you to know that I don't hate you and I never did. I still want you to come back and I'm not a kid anymore, so I'm not gonna change. I still love you and I always will and I still don't care what anybody thinks—"