Now his front leg was gone. Cut off. Some possum had gnawed it by now.
It wasn’t good to trust anything. No. Not anything. There was no escape. Some day, Son, he too, would lie still with a mouth full of dirt. Yes, dirt.
A Sunday
SUNDAY morning was the one day in the week when everybody on the plantation could sleep as late as they liked.
The front room of Killdee’s cabin was dim and gray in the early dawn. Gray, like the oak ashes banked over last night’s fire in the wide, open fireplace. Gray, like the wisp of smoke that struggled feebly through them to rise out of the wide open chimney.
The corners of the room were still dark. The night seemed to linger, too deep-dyed to be overcome by the weak light of the fog-veiled morning. The wavy mirror in the new bureau made the one bright spot in the room.
Fresh newspapers, cut into fringes and hung on wires, stretched across the ceiling, fluttered uneasily in the damp breeze that slipped in through the two small, square, open windows.
The window blinds were made of rough boards. One was propped back and held against the side of the cabin by poles. It didn’t fit the window, for it was warped and crooked from the weather. On blustery nights it creaked on its rusty hinges. Teased them. Pestered them. Threatened to break them. It couldn’t. Those hinges were strong. Hand-wrought. The big nails that held them to the solid window facing were deep in the wood. Hard to break or pull out.
That window blind’s creaking often woke Killdee and made him restless, but it was easier to leave it on than to take it off. The head of the bed was opposite the windows. The gray light fell on its bright, turkey-red and white cover, and on the two black heads resting there on the white pillow.
One head lay still. Heavy, open-mouthed, snoring. The other moved tetchily whenever the window blind creaked.
Habit was too strong for Killdee. He could never sleep late on Sunday mornings. He woke at daylight, the same as on week days. He always tried hard to lie still, to go back to sleep, to stay in bed until Rose woke and got up to fix breakfast. But every Sunday it was the same old thing. He’d move his body and turn over and try to wait. He’d think over everything he ever knew in his life. Then finally, utterly worn out with trying, he’d get up, stir the coals in the fireplace, start the fire going, and dress. It was the same thing every Sunday.
This morning he tried hard to wait for Rose to wake. He settled his head on the pillow again and again and tried to lie still.
Then his long black arms just would stretch out from under the quilt. He gave a wide-mouthed yawn, a shiver, and a sudden snuggle back down under the covers. The early morning air was damp. Chilly.
He wished it was Monday morning. Then he’d be up getting to work. He liked his work better than anything else. Planning it. Watching things grow and bear and ripen under his hand. That was what he liked. Work.
Already the land was plowed and ready for planting. Everything was waiting for the weather to turn warmer, when he’d plant the cotton.
Sundays were a nuisance. He was always glad when they were over.
The other Negroes looked forward to them. Rose did. She liked to dress up and go to church. To sit high up in front and sing in the choir.
He looked at the back of her head, there close to his face. What a funny smell it had lately! Rose was using some sort of stuff to take the kink out of her hair. A funny thing to start doing at her age. Why did she want straight hair? She was married. He was satisfied with her hair as it was.
He really liked the natural hair better. Straightened hair had a stiff, queer look. He liked the older women with their heads tied in pretty, bright head-kerchiefs. Rose didn’t. She wanted to be stylish. Stylish. He smiled at the word, then frowned as he thought. Reverend Felder was stylish.
Women are funny things. All of them. Like children. Men have to humor them. He hadn’t always humored Rose, but since he had begun doing so, these last few years, things had gone better with them.
He rose up and sat on the side of the bed, making it creak. He rubbed his lean, black face all over with his hard hands. He scratched his woolly head and yawned again. Then got to his feet and walked slowly to the front door, and took down the wooden bar that held it shut.
He looked out at the big trees in the woods near by. Cedars, oaks, sycamores, were all strangely magnified by the mist. They seemed to be brought near to him. Even the crape-myrtle and china-berry trees in the yard seemed bigger and closer.
“It’ll clear off befo’ twelve to-day,” Killdee muttered to himself. He turned to the hearth and stooped and stirred in the ashes, uncovering the coals that still lived there.
A quick pattering of light feet sounded. A sniffling. A glad whine. Son. The little three-legged cur ran in through the open door. With a great wagging of his tail and wriggling of his lean body, and a licking at Killdee’s bare feet and hands and face and neck, the dog expressed the greetings of the morning.
Killdee patted the yellow body gently a few times, then said a gruff “Git on off wid you, now. Lemme mek up dis fire.”
The dog ran under the bed and lay down. He scratched and licked and snapped at fleas, while Killdee added kindling and pieces of wood to the coals.
Bright blazes flamed up. Killdee watched them leap through the wood. The draught moving steadily up the chimney drew the chill damp air in through the door. Killdee got up and closed it. He put the wooden bar in its place, and with a slight shudder, crawled back into bed beside Rose.
How warm she was! He got closer, but she moved away when he touched her.
Under the bed the little dog was snoring, snoring, and Rose breathed heavily too. Killdee, alone, was awake. Awake and restless. Hungry, too. Rose would be cross if he woke her.
Sometimes she did get cross, but most of the time she did pretty well.
Wouldn’t she be in a rush when she woke this morning! She was going to bring Reverend Felder home to dinner with her to-day. Rose had a hen ready to bake. A cake was already made.
The thought of Reverend Felder was unpleasant. Why did women like preachers? Funny. Preachers were like women. Weak nothings. But women always liked them.—Always. Except women who were like Mary. Mary’s kind didn’t bother with preachers often.
The smell of the hair-straightener became unpleasant. Killdee turned away. He’d get up. He wanted his breakfast. Rose had slept long enough anyway. He sighed heavily. What would he do while she went to church?
She was a good wife. Cross sometimes, but a good wife. She was a good cook, and she kept the house clean. She didn’t nag often. Hardly ever now, for he knew how to stop her when she began it.
One good thing about her, she never had cared about any other man’s attention. Now some women—— But he never would put up with a thing like that. Never! Rose, on the whole, was a good wife. A good wife. Maybe a better wife than he was a husband. He stirred under the covers.
Men are different from women. God made men different. The stronger a man is, the more different from women he is. Women are made to love one man. One. Men—he wondered if any man ever loved one woman all his life. All the way through. He loved Rose——
Here Killdee turned over. Somehow he felt uncomfortable—for his thoughts ran to little Missie. He couldn’t deny it to himself. No. His heart beat with a quiver when he thought about her. But that was because he couldn’t help worrying about her.
There was something about Missie—Killdee didn’t know just what it was. He lay quiet, rapt. Picturing the supple, slender figure, the way her eyes shone when she laughed, the dark purplish red lips, the dimple that came and went in the pointed chin.
Lately Rose was often cross with Missie. Cross. It was wrong. But women are so. They don’t like anybody else to look good, or to be pleasant. No. Women are all jealous. All.
Sometimes he wished he was fool enough to get religion. To get interested in church. It would give him something to do on Sundays. Somewhere to go.
And yet, it was nice to sit here at home, or to walk out into the fields. To plan the week’s work ahead. He liked to be different from the other men on the plantation. To show them he was different.
He thought for himself. He wasn’t a man who could be scared by the preachers. No. He smiled to himself when he thought how he teased Rose by telling her the members paid the preachers just to keep them scared. He said it in fun, but he meant it, down in his heart.
Yes, he did try to think for himself. He wasn’t a sheep. No. He was a goat. A strong he-goat.
A rooster hopped up on the doorstep and crowed shrilly. It was time to get up. Somebody was coming! Killdee laid his hand on Rose’s shoulder. Her firm flesh was good to touch.
“Ain’t you ready fo’ wake up yet?” he asked her gently.
Before twelve o’clock, the clouds lifted and the sun shone warm on the wet earth. Spring was in the air.
When Killdee finished breakfast, he drew a chair out on the little front porch. With his feet up on the narrow banister railing, he leaned back and smoked his cob pipe with short puffs. Jay-birds chanted harsh love words to each other in the trees. Crows caw-cawed. Thrushes thrilled over new-made covenants. Cardinals whistled gay assurances. Mocking-birds, perched in budding trees near the cabin, poured out joyful songs. It was spring.
Inside, Rose bustled around. Missie fed the children. Fat pots, full of food, sat on the hearth close to the hot fire. Rose leaned to stir one, then another. The preacher was coming home with her. Reverend Felder was coming. Rose was cooking before she went to church. She couldn’t trust Missie to season the things. No, not for Reverend Felder. Missie could put a cloth on the little table and set the dishes on it. She could put a clean, white apron on over her Sunday dress and wait on Rose and Killdee and Reverend Felder while they sat and ate, but Rose herself must do the seasoning. Rose had everything planned in her mind.
Reverend Felder was handsome. So slim and tall. So educated. So stylish.
Rose came to the door and glanced up at the sun. It was getting high in the sky. Soon it would be time to go. She must hurry. She had to dress yet.
“Better come an’ go wid me to chu’ch to-day, Killdee,” she said. “You’ll heah a mighty fine sermon.”
Killdee puffed at his pipe a few times before he answered:
“No. I reckon not. I don’ feel lak settin’ still to-day. Not for so long. You an’ Missie go. I’ll stay an’ tek keer o’ de chillen to-day.”
But Missie had to stay to watch the precious pots. She couldn’t go to church to-day.
“I’m gwine put a few green walnuts een a sack an’ drag ’em ’roun’ een de pond. Enough to git a few fish. Fish’ud tase mighty good to-night fo’ supper,” Killdee said with sudden inspiration.
Rose was shocked.
“Why, Killdee! On Sunday? You’d stun fish on Sunday! You’s a case, Killdee. What ’ud Reverend Felder t’ink ef he’d find you doin’ sich a t’ing? Do wait tell nex’ Sunday. Don’ mek me shame o’ you to-day.”
Killdee gave a short laugh.
“Lawd! I bet dat nigger preacher ’ud eat dem fish same as me. Shucks!”
“I bet he wouldn’t do no sich a t’ing,” Rose defended indignantly. “You ought to be ’shame’ to talk ’bout a preacher so, an’ ’bout gittin’ fish on Sunday. You don’ know yet, Sunday is Gawd’s Day?”
Killdee smoked on in silence and Rose hurried her preparation. When she was ready to go, Killdee had the mule hitched to the wagon ready for her to drive.
How fine she sounded with her rustling, stiff-starched petticoats and new shoes that squeaked with each step! A corset, too! And Hoyt’s German Cologne from the cross-roads store!
“Lemme git a quilt to put ober you lap,” Killdee suggested, “Dese lines gwine git you’ dress dirty.”
“No. You go git a clean sheet out de trunk, Missie.”
Missie did, and away Rose went down the road and out of sight. Killdee watched until he could see her no longer.
How beautiful the day had turned out to be, and the morning had been dark and threatening.
Who was that coming down the road? A woman.—Mary West.—Killdee knew that walk. That slender, lithe body. It was a good thing Rose had gone. Rose hated Mary. Killdee smiled. You couldn’t blame Rose.
What was Mary coming here for? Something about her farm-work, maybe. He rose to meet her. How neat and nice her homespun dress was! Plain, cheap, but on Mary it looked as nice as silk.
Mary’s face was cheerful, pleasant.
“How you do dis fine day?” she inquired, and Killdee answered cordially, as he held out his hand:
“Fine, fine! An’ you look lak a flowers yard dis mawnin’.”
“I ain’ feel lak one,” Mary answered soberly. “I’m totin’ lightnin’ fo’ strike somebody right now.”
“Who? Me? Le’ ’em come. I kin stan’ a stroke out you’ han’.”
Killdee laughed at his own wit, but Mary stayed serious.
“Better don’ laugh yet, Killdee. Wait tell you heah wha’ I come fo’ say. I don’ know ef I right fo’ come tell you or no.”
She did seem to hesitate about something. Her steady, bright eyes seemed to be searching his face. Killdee laughed at her discomfort.
“You look lak you een chu’ch, Ma’y. But come een an’ set down.”
Mary followed him up the steps, but she would not sit in the chair he offered. She preferred to stand. How droll!
“Better not tell me de bad news. Ef it is so turrible, I might not could stan’ to heah ’em,” he rallied, but his words fell flat. Mary’s face kept its woeful look. She shook her head.
“But you gwine heah it sometime. Boun’ to! All de mens in de quarter is laughin’, makin’ spote o’ you, right now. An’ you settin’ heah an’ don’ know nuttin’ ’bout ’em.”
Killdee’s face changed. This was a different thing. Who had dared make sport of him? Laugh at him? What did Mary mean?
“Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout, gal!”
Killdee felt the very hair on his body bristling. His blood swelled and hottened.
“It ain’ easy fo’ tell you, Killdee! I don’ know ef you gwine b’lieb me or no——” Mary looked full in his eyes.
“Go on an’ tell me! Don’ act fool! Tell me wha’ you mean!”
He must hold still and make her tell all she knew. Mary couldn’t lie to him without flinching. No. She was in earnest. She was uneasy, too, and Mary was no coward of a woman.
“I might be wrong to dip een it. It ain’ none o’ my business. I des’ hates fo’ people speak light ’bout you, Killdee. I ain’ fo’git how good you been to me sence Bully gone off an’ lef’ me——”
“Aw——” Killdee was impatient. “Ef you got anyt’ing fo’ tell, go on an’ tell! I don’ wan’ none o’ you’ sweet-mout’ talk.”
Mary looked at his eyes.
“You call ’em sweet-mout’ talk, enty?” she laughed scornfully.
“Killdee,” she sneered, “you is a plain fool. A fool! You duh set home an’ smoke an’ all de people een de quarter right now is laughin’ ’bout Rose. Rose is fool ’bout da preacher Felder!”
“Wha’ you mean, nigger?” Killdee asked furiously.
He’d like to kill her. Devil!
“Killdee,” Mary answered coolly, “when Rose gone to da convention down de country, e stay een de same house wid Felder. An’ you heah home. So sati’fy. Mens ain’ got no sense. You is bad as any. You wife cuttin’ de buck an’ you blind ez a bat.”
“Who dat talk sich a talk?” Killdee demanded. He grasped Mary’s arm.
“You mus’ be mean who dat ain’ talk em!” Mary answered with a wry laugh.
Killdee was confused by this unexpected news. Rose? Reverend Felder? It was impossible. Ridiculous. He tried to laugh carelessly—easily—— But when he looked at Mary’s face, the laugh dried and stuck in his throat.
“Who sta’t dis talk, Mary? Is it you? I know you ain’ nebber lak Rose. But dis is a low-down talk. Ef you had feelin’ fo’ me, you wouldn’ do em, needer. You couldn’.”
Mary’s lips curled.
“I didn’ t’ink you was sich a ass, Killdee! I is one, myse’f, to come heah an’ tell you. I wish now I ain’ come.”
Mary turned to go. With arms akimbo she stopped in the path.
“Wha’ I keer ef de people laugh een you’ face?” she jeered. “How much you keer ’bout me? Wha’ I keer ef de deacons tu’n Rose out de chu’ch? I ain’ no member. No. I’d scorn to be one. You hanker fo’ ’oman lak Rose, enty? A ’oman who kin set up een de choir. An’ sing. An’ pop chewin-gum een e mout’. An’ wear fine clo’es. An’ shout ’bout Gawd an’ Jedus. Dem is de kinder ’oman you crave, enty? Good day! I gwine!”
Mary flung down the path.
Killdee was perplexed. What was Mary trying to do? Could what she said be true? Rose—Rev. Felder——
“Come back heah, Mary!” Killdee called with sudden decision. “Come heah an’ tell me all you know ’bout dis t’ing.”
Mary stopped. She looked at him.
“Wha’s de nuse?” she asked. “You don’ b’lieb me. You t’ink I’m workin’ some trick on Rose fo’ git you. I—I—— I wouldn’t hab you, Killdee! Not ef you was de las’ man ’pun top dis yearth. I kin stan’ a fool but not a damn one.” She laughed.
Killdee seized her wrist and thundered, “Shut you’ mout’! Don’ you call me no name. I’ll kill you right heah ef you do.”
Mary smiled, but Killdee talked on. He had to talk. Words rushed to his lips. First abuse. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was wrong. But he had to strike out at somebody. And all the time he knew Mary told the truth. Rose had no sense. Felder could easily turn her head. After the flood of bitter words passed, he blurted out: “Felder might be got her haid tu’n fo-true. Might be. I gwine fine out. But ef you lie to me—I—I’ll——”
He could not say “kill” to Mary again. Instead, he said:
“I’ll fine out de trut’. An’ ef you’s a-lyin’——”
As Mary met his gaze, she felt pity for him. He saw it. He released her arm and she walked away down the path that wound around down the hill, then up to the quarter, where she lived.
Killdee went back to his chair and sat down. He filled his pipe. Soon he filled it again. His quick, short puffs burned the tobacco fast.
What was the best thing for him to do? What? Mary might be lying. He couldn’t sit here and think. This was one time he couldn’t hold still. No! He’d get out and walk.
He went out into the yard, then around the house, and followed the path down the hill and on toward the river.
He wandered along the path at first, then he suddenly turned in another direction. He remembered old Daddy Cudjoe. He’d go see him.
Daddy Cudjoe lived away back on the river. He was a cunger doctor. A hoodoo man. He really did work wonders with people. He was feared as no other man in the country was feared. Killdee remembered when he was a little boy how he used to tremble at the sight of that old, bent figure.
Since then, he had learned much from the old man. Not of cungering, but of plain sense. As he grew older and needed advice, there was nobody who could understand his problems, his perplexities, as well as that little, old, shriveled man who lived all alone, away back there in a log-cabin on a hillside above the river. And, to-day, Killdee felt that old Cudjoe could advise him better than anybody else.
It was past noon when he reached the little clearing where the one-roomed cabin stood. Smoke puffed out of the clay chimney, saying that the old man was at home and not in the river-swamp digging roots.
Killdee walked right in without knocking.
“Hey, Daddy?” he said.
“Hey, son!” the keen-eared old man greeted him, looking up from the roots he was assorting. “Come on een. I glad fo’ see you. How you do?”
He held out his bony hand. It was more like a claw than a human hand. Killdee clasped it gently.
“I well, Uncle. How you do?”
“Fine. Fine. Busy. Busy,” he answered in his queer, cracked voice. Then he chuckled. The wrinkles deepened in his small, wizened face, and his bright eyes twinkled kindly.
“Wha’ de matter ail you to-day, son? You’ foot movin’ mighty heaby, enty?”
“Dey ain’ nuttin’, Daddy,” Killdee answered, drawing up a small home-made chair to one side and sitting down. “I des ain’ had nuttin’ much fo’ do to-day, bein’s it wuz Sunday. I t’ought I’d come see how you wuz a-gittin’ along.”
“Shut you’ mout’, boy. Go on an’ tell me wha’ dat got you fretted. You t’ink I too blind fo’ see how you’ face is all squinched up een a knot? Who dat got you bex’, now? A ’oman. I kin tell.”
Daddy’s toothless, red gums shone as he cackled with laughter.
“Daddy Cudjoe, you sho is got a second sight!” Killdee laughed, too. “I don’ b’lieb nobody could fool you. No. How you kin know so much?”
“I dunno,” the old man answered simply. “De buckra read book. I read face. You kin read cloud, enty? An’ sky? You kin tell when it gwine rain? Sho! I practise a diff’unt readin’. Da’s all. Face an’ book an’ sky. All is de same at you know how fo’ read ’em. Sho.”
Killdee listened thoughtfully.
“I reckon dey is ef you know de sign good. Yes. I reckon dey is.”
“Who dis you wan’ me fo’ cunger, now?” Daddy Cudjoe asked, chuckling again.
“Nobody, Daddy. Nobody. But I’s worriet. Worriet. I got to do somet’ing or nudder. An’ I don’ wanter mek mistake.”
Killdee pushed his worn, stained hat back from his forehead, then he took it off and laid it on the little bare, pine table beside him.
“Mistake is a bad t’ing,” Daddy Cudjoe admitted seriously. “Bad,” he added.
Killdee looked at the fire and blurted out:
“Women is de Debbil, Daddy Cudjoe.”
Daddy Cudjoe nodded his old, white head. Then he turned to Killdee with a merry light in his eyes.
“Who dis duh talk? Dis ain’ Killdee! Dis can’ be Killdee! My Gawd, son! You don’ mean fo’ say you l’a’n sich a t’ing. Can’ be!” and he laughed softly.
A wistful smile played over Killdee’s face as he sensed the old man’s amusement.
“I’ve know it a long time, Daddy,” he said, toying with his hat.
“Well, da’s good. Good,” said the old man, wiping the tears out of his eyes. “At you know a t’ing is de Debbil, den you know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Sho.”
“But I don’ always know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Da’s de trouble right now. I don’ know.”
“Who’s de ’oman, son?” Daddy Cudjoe asked. “Diff’unt kinder ’oman need diff’unt kinder treatment.”
“It Rose,” Killdee said simply.
“Rose?” The old man looked astonished.
“Rose? You don’ mean you’ Rose?” he asked, incredulous.
Killdee nodded his head. It shamed him to say it, even to Daddy Cudjoe.
“Wha’ dat Rose done, now?”
“It’s dat damn preacher,” Killdee asserted fiercely.
“Preacher? Wha’ preacher? You mean Andrew, enty?”
Daddy Cudjoe remembered things he had heard years ago.
“No. I mean Felder! ’E’s de one. Gawd-damn his black soul!”
Daddy Cudjoe could not restrain a relieved laugh, as he said:
“Oh, Felder. Don’ be a fool, son. No. You mus’n’ t’ink hard ef Rose pleasure ’e’se’f a lil wid de new preacher. Ki! You’s wrong. De preacher mought be a nicer man’n you, Killdee. Preachers is mighty sweet-smellin’ creeters mos’ ob de time. You ought not to be bex wid Rose.”
Daddy Cudjoe laughed at his joke. He felt easier. But Killdee’s face was gloomy. He couldn’t treat it lightly.
“Don’ plague me, Daddy Cudjoe. I can’ stan’ it. I ready right now fo’ kill da low-down son of a bitch. But I ain’ sho it bes’ for’ do em. De t’ing gits me is dis: Mary West say all de people on de plantation know ’bout dis t’ing befo’ me. Dey all is a-laughin’ at me fo’ a fool. Dat’s de t’ing riles me. I des’ like to sho ’em—sho ’em I ain’ on de lebbel wid common niggers lak dem. Sho ’em I don’ give a rip ’bout all dey say——”
Daddy Cudjoe listened, but said nothing.
“I could kill Rose. Killin’ a ’oman’s easy fo’ do——” Killdee stopped.
“Talk on, son. Talk on. You’ own mine’ll tell you wha’ fo’ do, toreckly.—Talk on. Talk. You’ mine’ll listen. It de one fo’ tell you wha’ fo’ do. You ain’ chillen fo’ me fo’ say wha’ you mus’ do. No. You own mine kin tell you better’n me.”
Killdee looked at him. Daddy Cudjoe was right. He himself must decide.
Daddy Cudjoe looked at the fire. His old face was sad. His voice cracked.
“I nuse to be a nyoung man, too, Killdee. I wuz strong one time ez you. I had trouble, too. Plenty. When I fus’ hab trouble, I’d talk it to people. Dey’s plenty o’ people fo’ listen when you talk ’bout you’ trouble.
“But, I soon fine out dat wa’n’ good. No. Den I begin gwine een de woods fo’ talk to myse’f. I talk t’ing out wid myse’f. You kin talk close-talk out een de woods. Dey ain’ nobody fo’ heah you. It’s de bes’ place, son. De bes’ place. Go talk dis t’ing out wid you’se’f. I can’ do you no good. You go off een dem woods an’ talk ’em. Da’s de bes’ way. Nobody can’ do you no good. You de onlies’ one kin do you’se’f good. Go talk ’em out wid you’se’f, son.”
Presently he added:
“You ain’ ’f’aid nobody, enty?”
’F’aid? ’F’aid, nuttin’!” Killdee answered fiercely.
“Den you ain’ hab no trouble. No. Trouble ain’ nuttin’ but bein’ ’f’aid. Bein’ ’f’aid! No! Ebbybody’s ’f’aid o’ somet’ing. You lucky ef you ain’ ’f’aid o’ nuttin’. Talk it ober wid you own se’f, son. Fine out wha’ mek you ’f’aid. You ’f’aid o’ somet’ing, or you wouldn’ o’ come fo’ see ol’ Daddy dis mawnin’.”
Killdee looked at the fire. Presently he said:
“Mebbe you’s right, Daddy. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid o’ dem niggers laughin’. I ain’ gwine be ’f’aid no mo’. Not me! Not Killdee! Ef I is, Daddy, an’ you heahs ’bout it, you come gi’ me a dose o’ pizen. Yessuh. You gi’ me a good dose, an’ lemme die!”
Killdee rose to go. Daddy Cudjoe nodded approval.
“Da’s right, son! Da’s de way fo’ talk! Sho! Lemme tell you dis one t’ing befo’ you go. Dese preacher, dese member, all dese Christian, dey is ’f’aid, too! You ’member dat! You mus’n’ be ’f’aid dem! Not no mo’.”
Killdee took the skinny, old, outstretched hand and held it affectionately, then he dropped it and followed the path to the woods.
It was almost dark when Killdee reached home. Missie and the other children were out in the yard. Missie said Rose was sick with a headache. She was lying down on the bed.
Killdee went inside. He couldn’t tell whether Rose was asleep or not, for she did not move or speak to him. “How you’ feelin’, now, Rose?” he asked somewhat gruffly.
Rose sniffled.
“I t’ink I feelin’ a lil better right now. I mek Missie git a collard leaf an’ tie on my haid. Dat he’p ’em some.”
Killdee turned from the bed.
“I t’ink so much chu’ch ain’ good fo’ you.”
Rose moved and sniffled again, but said nothing.
“Whe’ Revern’ Felder? ’E ain’ come home wid you? At you fix so much fine eatin’ fo’ eb e ain’ come?” Killdee demanded.
“’E ain’ come to Mount Pleasant to-day. ’E sen’ a answer ’e mighty sick,” Rose answered humbly.
“How-come you hab de haid-ache? You mus’ be eat too much.”
Killdee sat down in the doorway and took out his pipe and lit it again. His tongue was sore from so much smoking to-day, but he puffed fiercely on. It was hard to keep from saying what was in his mind. Hard. How he would like to wring the necks of a lot of people. Rose among them. Headache! He knew well enough she was only scared. That was what ailed her. She ought to be scared. Worse than scared.
He had stopped and talked to Mary again on his way home. Things were even worse than he suspected. Rose had made a fool of herself. Of him. The deacons were going to meet at the church next Sunday and consider what they would do with Rose and Felder. They’d mouth and rant and then turn them out. He knew.
Whether Rose had done wrong or not, she had gotten herself talked about. That was almost as bad as being guilty. She had gotten Felder talked about too. Andrew was spreading the news as fast as he could. Scoundrel!
The only thing to do was to meet the whole crowd of them face to face and say what he had to say to them all together. How could he do it? Where? Killdee smoked and thought.
Rose stayed sick all the week. Even Killdee began to be worried about her, although at first he thought she was pretending. Night after night he could hear her crying, and she scarcely ate enough to keep her alive.
When the next Sunday morning came, Killdee got up early and bathed and put on the best clothes he had.
“Whe’ you duh gwine, Killdee?” Missie asked him with a mischievous grin. “To church?”
“I gwine off a piece,” he replied with dignity.
Over and over he anxiously cast his eyes up at the sun to tell the time. When the hour before noon arrived, Killdee went into the barnyard and put a bridle and saddle on the mule, mounted him, and rode away. When he was gone, Rose sat up in bed and called Missie.
“Whe’ Killdee duh gwine?” she asked.
But Missie knew no more than Rose.
When Killdee rode up he could see through the windows that a large congregation was gathered at Mount Pleasant Church. There was no preacher, and the deacons were gathered all together in the pulpit.
Daddy Cato announced the hymn and lined it out two lines at a time. The congregation sang it slowly, solemnly. Daddy Cato called on Andrew to pray, but before Andrew’s prayer was ended, Killdee could see that the congregation was becoming restless. Instead of bowing their heads with closed eyes while Andrew told God the purpose of their gathering together, they craned their necks to look at him, as he stood waiting in the door for Andrew’s prayer to be finished.
Killdee could tell by the way Andrew yelled out his words that he must feel terribly annoyed. He prayed well. He must have studied up this prayer last night. It was like one old Reverend Duncan used to pray. But it was being wasted because the congregation did not listen.
Andrew’s eyes were open. He could see that the people did not hear his fine prayer. When he said “Amen” every eye was turned to the door. Killdee was there. He stood in the door waiting. As soon as “Amen” was said, Killdee walked right up the aisle to the little steps at the side of the pulpit. He did not stop there. He went right up where the deacons sat in the pulpit.
What in the world was Killdee thinking about? Was he crazy? The congregation sat with open mouths. No such behavior had ever been seen in Mount Pleasant Church before. Killdee, of all people in the world! Here to-day, when Rose’s misconduct was to be discussed. And up in the pulpit with the deacons themselves. He must be going crazy. Rose had run him crazy. Killdee could see it all in their faces. It made him smile. His heart had been beating uncomfortably, but now that the time had come it troubled him no more.
There was silence. The deacons could not speak for astonishment. What did Killdee mean?
Killdee stood there before them with a cool smile on his face. His words were cool. Quiet. He did not lift his voice one bit.
“I reckon you-all is surprise’ to see me heah to-day,” he said pleasantly, looking at each deacon, then at the congregation. Sheep. Scary sheep all running together. Flustered now. Addled. Andrew cleared his throat. The other deacons moved uncomfortably in their chairs. None of them seemed ready to answer, although Killdee gave them opportunity.
“I ain’ gwine tek up much o’ you’ time. I got to hurry on back home, bein’s my wife don’ feel so well to-day.”
He stepped forward a little and put his hand on the Bible. Some of the congregation took in sharp breaths. What did he mean? Putting his hand on the Word of God like that! Killdee was a good enough man, but everybody knew he was a sinner. He didn’t pretend to be anything else. Then why did he come here? It was too much. Too brazen. The deacons ought to make him get down. A wonder God didn’t strike him dead for blasphemy!
The deacons themselves seemed confounded. They sat staring. Dumb. Open-mouthed.
Killdee’s voice was a little tense when he began, but his words soon flowed distinctly. They were emphatic. Explicit, too. But quiet.
“I know why yinner come to chu’ch to-day,” he said. “I know all yinner been talkin’. You been talkin’ ’bout Rose. My wife. I ain’ fool ez I look,” he added.
A smile broke over his face as he looked at the congregation. His eyes twinkled at the deacons. They seemed, somehow, bewildered. Killdee continued:
“I come heah fo’ say des’ one t’ing. One! Yinner listen good. I ain’ gwine say em but one time. You listen. It’s dis——”
Killdee laid his hand right on the Bible. It was as if he swore to something. He leaned forward. His words snipped off short. His lips flared and bared his strong teeth.
“De fus’ nigger eber call my wife name een dis chu’ch is got to deal wid me! Me! Killdee Pinesett! Da’s all.”
Killdee took his hand off the Bible. He smiled pleasantly at them. Surprise numbed the tense faces. Taut muscles held still.
“I’ll say good day to yinner now. I see you-all done heah me good.”
He went down the pulpit steps. Down the aisle. On out of the church. He unhitched his mule and rode away down the red dusty road.
Afterward Killdee heard many stories of what was said and done when he left. But Rose’s name was not mentioned. That was certain.
Resolutions that asked Reverend Felder never to darken the door of Mount Pleasant Church again were passed. Daddy Cato was appointed to carry the message to him. But it wasn’t possible to turn Rose out without calling her name. She remained a member in good standing.
Before Daddy Cato got down the country to see Reverend Felder, news came that the preacher was dead. Dead with lockjaw. It was whispered that the lockjaw was caused by a wound. A strange wound. Somewhere in his leg. But nobody ever said how he got it.
Plum Blossoms
THE soft dusk of the enervating spring evening had come, but Killdee plowed on. Since dawn, with only an hour at noon for food and water, his easy-stepping, bare, black feet had trudged up and down the cotton rows, his steady hands had held the plow stock in place.
All day his eyes had watched for sprigs of grass. Every slight blade told of deadly roots that were sneaking down to strangle the tender cotton.
Deftly he turned and guided the plow’s sharp steel edge, cutting grass away without injuring the plants he protected.
Monotonous. Yes. But as Killdee walked and walked, dreams came to him. Here, alone in his field, between the warm earth and the sky, dreams filled the hours. They kept fatigue and discouragement away. Kept hope bright in his heart. Hardships were forgotten. Disappointments paled.
He pictured to himself a time when things would be better. Easier. When his labor, his striving, would bear fruit.
He’d give his folks a better house to live in. Give them pleasures. He himself would be different. Better. Happier. Freer.
The picture was never quite finished. Even the clearest, plainest dreams melted, faded—without ever telling the secret of what would make them come true. They went away and left him nothing but this unending struggle, day after day, to provide a bread and a roof for himself and his family.
The spring always made them glow. They quickened and stirred something in his blood. He was glad to live. Glad to strive.
Maybe he was only like the grass here underfoot. Like those trees yonder. Everything was restless with life. Everything gave some sign. Maybe the joy in his heart was just his sign, his way of showing the rising sap that the spring called up.
To him the whole world was only the bit of surface lying quiet around him. The long low line of soft blue hills trembling into haze yonder over the river, the narrow band of purple pines, showing dark against the bright afterglow, and rimming the brown fields, these seemed the boundary of things, the farthest edge.
The fields, cut at intervals by narrow, rough, red roads and dotted with small, gray, weather-stained cabins, lay quiet and still. Nothing showed that life here was precious, and pain bitter or how men here strove and women trembled when love and joy were threatened.
Turning around at the end of the row, Killdee stopped and looked at the dark, ragged edge of the pines where the sun had set. The light had grown too dim for him to see the grass. He must stop. The moist, brown earth gave the air a rich, warm smell. It was good. To breathe it deep rested him. The smell of it roused him.
He unhitched the mule and, leading him by one of the rope plow-lines, walked down a furrow towards home.
The firelight in his cabin yonder shone from its wide, open door. It gleamed like a great, red star just risen from the edge of the field.
Rose would have his supper there waiting. He would eat and smoke a pipeful, and then he ought to go straight to bed, so he’d be fresh and ready for work in the morning.
To-day was Friday, the last working-day in the week for everybody on the plantation but Killdee. But he worked on Saturdays too. Work was the way to make his dreams come true.
For years after he and Rose were married, he had worked an old, slow mule. Poor old Mike. Dead now. In Mike’s place he had gotten Joe. Young. Fast-stepping. Steady. Plowing had become a pleasure. A satisfaction.
Mike had always been tired. He couldn’t hurry. His teeth were worn out. Even with the ground meal Killdee fed him, Mike stayed weak and poor. Joe’s teeth were strong and sound. At night Killdee heard them crunching ears of corn, and it sounded like music.
Killdee had bought Joe himself. He had gone into debt to get him. He bought a new set of harness too, and the harness had cost a lot of money.
When Mike died, he had tried plowing two oxen that he raised and broke. But they couldn’t keep ahead of the grass. He bought Joe. He worked every fair day but Sunday. He would pay for Joe in a year or two. Sure!
Every Sunday now Rose could go to church in the wagon. The new harness was strong. Joe never could run away with a harness like that. Never.
Missie was big enough to stay at home and take care of the children. Missie was almost a grown woman. Little and black and dry, but wise. She was young, and old too.
That was a lucky day for Rose and himself when they took little Missie to raise. Poor little girl! As he walked across the mellow, fresh-plowed earth, the smell of it filled his nostrils. Missie came before his eyes. The slender, unformed figure in its straight, homespun dress. The small, black head, with its wool wrapped tight with ball thread. The dark, red mouth, almost purple. The bluish bloom on the black cheeks. The pointed chin where that dimple showed when she laughed. The soft, black eyes, the curved lashes, the slim, black feet that touched the ground with such lightness. Missie—good little Missie——
Killdee was passing close by a thicket of wild plums near the edge of the field. They were just bursting into full bloom. He stopped and threw back his head and shoulders and took a deep breath of fragrance. Spring was come! Plum blossoms!
Moonlight whitened the dusk, frogs chanted merrily, crickets were chirping. Killdee closed his eyes and murmured:
“Sing, brudders! Sing! You been sleepin’, enty! But now you’s a-wakin’ up.”
He walked on, whistling a low tune.
With Rose, the day had been a hard one. Many things had gone wrong. A stray dog had come and broken up a nest full of eggs that would soon have hatched. The clothes she and Missie washed on Monday did not dry because it rained on them, and now some of them showed signs of mildew. Her very best petticoat, the one she wanted to wear to church Sunday, was ugly with it. Sparrows had scratched up seed in the garden. Everything seemed to be wrong!
There was a frown on her face as she rolled the sleeves back from her plump arms. Holding her skirts aside, she drew red coals out on the hearth. She placed an iron griddle carefully on them, and going to the shelf where she kept the groceries, she dipped up a measure of meal out of the sack, put it into a pan, and added water from a bucket on the shelf.
With a sigh she thought how glad she was the children were fed and asleep in bed. She wished Killdee would come on. It was late. She glanced out of the open door. It was nearly night, yet she saw nothing of him. She was tired. The spring days were getting long.
Killdee loved work. He was strong and able to go all day. All night too, if he wanted to. But she was jaded when night came. Glad to rest. Killdee ought to think of her and come on.
Missie came out of the shed-room, where she had been putting the children to sleep. She still hummed the tune she had sung to them, “Bye-and-bye, when the morning comes.”
“Do don’ keep on a-singin’,” Rose said complainingly.
Missie sang too much. She was always singing. Rose jerked the spoon as she stirred the meal and water together. It was aggravating to have somebody always singing and happy. There was nothing to be so happy about.
If Missie cared about things as she ought to do, she wouldn’t be singing. Not with Mike dead and Killdee in debt for the new mule—and that new harness. Missie was old enough now to feel responsibility.
Yet why should Missie care? She got her good three meals a day. And clothes. A bed to sleep in. Her mother before her hadn’t cared about things. That was why somebody had to take Missie to raise her. Rose sighed, and stirred the meal with such energy that bits of it fluttered over the side of the pan and fell lightly on the fresh-scoured floor.
“Git a broom an’ sweep up da meal befo’ you’ foot step on ’em,” she said abruptly to Missie.
How quick and sharp her words sounded! Missie glanced at Rose’s face, then got the field-straw broom from its place in the corner and began to sweep. She had scoured the floor that day, and the bare room had a fresh, clean, cozy look in the warm, flickering light.
She had taken a few fresh eggs to the cross-roads store and exchanged them for clean newspapers. These cut into fringes fluttered from the wide mantelshelf, where a coco-cola bottle filled with water held a spray of plum blossoms, white, fragile, already shattering.
“Dem plum blossom duh mess up de flo’ wusser’n de meal,” Rose said crossly. “Sweep ’em up!”
Missie carefully swept the bits of meal and the delicate petals into the fire, and then put the broom back where it belonged.
She stopped to look at the mantelpiece. How pretty it looked! Killdee liked things to look pretty. He didn’t mind if they littered the floor a little.
Rose turned to her impatiently.
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, don’ be stannin’ dere a-gazin’. Heah lately you all de time doin’ like you’s a-walkin’ een you sleep. Wha’ de matter ail you, gal?”
Missie’s eyes lifted to Rose’s face. She was startled by its hard, accusing look.
“You—you wan’ me fo’ do—anything—Aun’ Rose?” she asked timidly.
“I can’ be a-tellin’ you wha’ fo’ do eby minute.” Rose answered, as she took the long fire-stick and impatiently shoved pieces of blazing wood farther back in the fireplace. “Looks like old ez you is, you could see wha’ fo’ do.”
There was a cheery clinking of trace-chains and a whistled tune outside. Killdee was coming. Missie went to the door. She leaned against the lintel and listened. How she loved the thud-thud of the new mule’s feet. He came home brisk, almost trotting, after plowing all day. And Killdee was whistling.
So different from the days when he plowed old Mike. It was better that old Mike died. He was too slow, poor old fellow. It took him all day to plow just a little piece of the crop. And every night Killdee came home so tired. So downhearted.
But now with Joe it was different. Joe and Killdee were matched up together. Both were strong. Stout. Able to work without tiring. Killdee had the crop all clean and growing fast. Every night he came home happy. To-night he was even whistling. What if he was in debt? He was a man. He could work and pay. He had Joe to help him. He had the fine new harness.
Missie’s heart beat fast with pleasure. It was right for Killdee to have the best mule in the world. The best harness. She wished he could have—well, everything!
She smiled to think how pleased Killdee would be to see she had oiled the new harness that day.
When she finished the scouring, she had taken it down from the peg on the wall where it hung and greased it all and wiped every buckle clean. There it hung. Shiny. New as the day it was bought.
Joe would look fine dressed up in it when Killdee took Rose to Mount Pleasant Church next Sunday.
Missie looked up at the starlit sky. It was clear. Sunday would be clear too. Joe would hold his head high and prance. Killdee would have to hold the lines tight to rule him. Everybody would look at Killdee and Joe.
The gentle breeze blowing in Missie’s face seemed to hold some of the light of the clear sky. Some of the freshness of the plowed earth. The delicious smell of plum blossoms had never seemed so piercing sweet as to-night.
Rose’s voice, sharp, reproving, interrupted Missie’s thoughts.
“Looks like you’d go help Killdee feed up, ’stead o’ standin’ dere a-moonin’. Killdee mus’ be mighty tired to-night.”
“Why—Aun’ Rose,” Missie faltered.
“Oh, you mek surprise, enty? You t’ink you kin go an’ dress you’se’f up, an’ stan’ ’roun’ an’ look at de moon, while me an’ Killdee duh wuk.”
“I ain’ dress’ up, Aun’ Rose. I been so dirty—my dress been wet at I scour.”
“Mighty strange how I haffer keep on my same one. You kin go put on clean one,” Rose snapped.
Missie’s fingers felt the rough cloth of the dress she wore. What Rose said was true. She had put on a clean one when she finished scouring. The one she had on was wet and soiled. She had greased the harness and that made it worse. She had put on a clean one. And Rose had on the same one she had worn all the week. Rose was provoked about it.
“Aun’ Rose—I—I ain’——” Missie tried to explain, but there was nothing to say. There was no excuse. She felt sick inside that Rose could not understand.
“You could ’a’ gone an’ put een feed good ez Killdee. You could do ’em eby night good ez him. You could tek de mule to de branch fo’ drink. But no. You rudder go dress up. An’ stan’ een de do’. An’ watch me an’ him. Me an’ Killdee could wuk finger to de bone! Wha’ you keer?”
Rose poured the batter of meal and water on the hissing hot griddle. She took pains to scrape every bit from the sides of the pan. She smoothed it over the top with the big, iron spoon. Missie saw that the spoon was unsteady. Holding the empty pan and the spoon out to Missie, she said, without looking up:
“Heah! Tek dese an’ wash ’em!”
Missie took them and went slowly to the shelf where three galvanized water buckets stood in a row full to the top with water. Keeping these full was part of her work. With one on her head and one in each hand, she had learned to come up the hill from the spring with them full, almost as easily as she went down with them empty.
Her heart felt troubled. She hardly thought what she was doing as she took the gourd dipper from the nail where it hung beside the buckets and poured water into the pan. Rose watched her. Then suddenly railed:
“You can’ wash nuttin’ clean wid col’ water! Much times ez I don tol’ you! Gi’ ’em heah to me!”
Rose reached for the pan.
“No,” said Missie, holding it back. “No, Aun’ Rose, I kin wash ’em. I was des a-rinsin’ ’em. We mos’ always wait tell mawnin’ fo’ wash de supper t’ings good. I kin wash ’em now.”
She went to the hearth where the big, black iron kettle sat breathing steam from its spout. She poured hot water into the pan and began stirring it around. Rose dropped a knife on the door. China plates in her hands rattled against each other.
“Aun’ Rose——” Missie hesitated, “you set down an’ lemme fix Killdee’s supper. I ain’ offer fo’ do ’em-by-it seem lak you would rudder—do ’em you’se’f—— You know I be’s glad when I kin he’p you—or eeder him——”
Missie’s words trailed slower and slower, for she saw the expression on Rose’s face. Hard. Angry. Missie felt like crying, yet she waited for Rose’s answer.
“Ki!” Rose sneered. The water in the kettle simmered loud.
“How you mean ’Ki,’ Aun’ Rose?” Missie was distressed.
“I mean ’em des lak I say ’em,” Rose retorted.
“I mean ’em des lak e soun’. You know ef you had-a respec’ fo’ me, you’d be cookin’ de supper now. Ef you keered ’bout Killdee, you’d ’a’ been out yonder een de bahnyahd a-puttin’ up de mule—an’ feedin’ ’em.—No! You gone dress up! Dress up so nobody can’ call on you to do nuttin’.”
“I is keer ’bout Killdee. ’Bout you too, Aun’ Rose. Yinner’s all de mammy and daddy I got. Dey ain’ nuttin’ I wouldn’ do fo’ Killdee—nuttin’——” Missie could hardly talk.
“Talk you’ sweet-mout’ talk to Killdee. ’E’ll b’lieb anyt’ing. But you can’ fool me. No! I know you don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em. You des keer ’bout dem t’ing Killdee buy fo’ you. I know!”
Rose was putting a dish on the little bare pine table in the middle of the room. It fell with a crash and shattered into white bits all over the floor.
“Lemme git ’em up, Aun’ Rose——” Missie said quickly. She dropped to her knees and began picking up the broken pieces.
“No! Don’ tech ’em! I’m tired tell I’m pure trim’lin’. Da’s how-come I drap da dish. Keep you’ han’ offen ’em! You pick flowers an’ cut paper lambrekin all day. You heah Killdee comin’. You wan’ mek out you duh wuk. No. Git up off de flo’! Git up!”
Missie got to her feet slowly. What was the matter with Rose? She must be sick.
Rose picked up the broken pieces and tossed them into the fire. Then she got a knife to turn over the hoe-cake baking there on the griddle. It was burnt black. The smoke from it stung her eyes. Tears sprung, kindled with anger.
“Look at dis! Look!” she said furiously. “Bu’n up! De bread fo’ Killdee’s supper! Bu’n up! Bu’n up!”
The knife in her fat hand trembled. Her short fingers tightened on its handle.
“I reckon nobody didn’ tol’ you fo’ watch de bread, enty?”
Missie felt queer inside. Rose had often scolded her, but never like this before.
“Aun’ Rose,” she said humbly, “I too sorry—I would ’a’ watch de bread—I des’ fo’git—I des——”
“Shet you’ mout’, gal! You mek me too cross! Go git een de shed-room whe’ my eye can’ see you. Respec’! Respec’! You ain’ got a respec’ fo’ nobody. Go!”
Rose was in a rage.
“But, Aun’ Rose——” Rose did not hear the appeal in Missie’s voice.
“Go, I tell you!” she screamed. “Before my han’ slap you! You le’ Killdee’s bread bu’n up! You don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em! No! I gwine tell ’em so, too!”
“But I is keer ’bout ’em, Aun’ Rose. You couldn’t tell ’em I don’——” Missie protested sorrowfully. “Aun’ Rose——”
Missie was miserable.
“Aun’ Rose——”
Rose scraped the charred crust off the bread and did not answer.
“Aun’ Rose—ef you tell Killdee—I ain’ keer ’bout ’em—you tell somet’ing ain’ so——”
Rose lifted narrowed eyes to look at her.
“You mean to call me a lie, gal? Tell me dat!”
“No’m—but ef you tell Killdee——”
Rose got up and faced her there in the shed-room door.
“Well, I gwine tell ’em, heah? I gwine tell ’em soon’s ’e come. I gwine tell ’em you talk impident talk to me! Soon’s ’e come! Ef I wasn’t a good ’oman I’d kill you right now!”
“Aun’ Rose,”—Missie stopped crying. She met Rose’s eyes without flinching. She spoke firmly. Distinctly.
“Ef you tell Killdee dat, you is a lie.”
Her little figure seemed to heighten. Killdee was coming up the steps. Rose heard him and raised her voice.
“Killdee, dis gal call me a lie! You heah ’em?”
She began crying hysterically.
“I try fo mek em do right! You heah em? E call me lie! Lie! E t’ink you gwine side wid em! E t’ink you gwine uphold em agains’ me!”
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, wha’ is dis?” Killdee asked. He was shocked. Astonished.
“Who you call lie, Missie?”
“You heah wha’ e say, enty, Killdee?” Rose quavered. “I glad you come een time fo’ heah em. You wouldn’ a’ b’lieb’ me. Not lessen you heah em——”
“Wha’ you mean by sich a talk, Missie?” Killdee was looking straight at her. “You mek me feel ’shame’. You would say sich a t’ing.”
Missie’s knees trembled under her.
“I decla’ to Gawd!” Killdee lamented.
Missie stood silent with her head down.
“No! E ain’ shame! E ain’t got no shame!” Rose sobbed violently.
“You haffer beg Rose pardon, Missie. You is, enty?” Killdee asked her. He couldn’t bear to be hard on her.
Missie lifted great, wet eyes and looked at him. She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Killdee did not understand.
“No, Killdee. No. Aun’ Rose ain’ talkin’ straight. No. E know good too, e ain’ tellin’ you wha’ I say to em.”
She looked at Rose and waited. Rose would have to tell him.
“Listen at em, Killdee,” Rose wailed. “E duh talk sassy talk to me now.”
Missie held still. Surprised. Rose was willing to let Killdee believe what was not so. Rose was not ashamed to stand there and let a lie stand for the truth. A lie!
Killdee’s eyes flashed with anger. He took a step forward.
“Look-a at me, Missie. You dassn’t to talk sassy to Rose!” He came still nearer. “You would call Rose a lie, too? Me an’ Rose is been too easy on you. Da’s de trouble. Da’s how-come you pass lie so glib on you’ tongue! I ain’ lay my han’ on you yet een my life, gal. But, befo’ Gawd, ef you don’t tek back wha’ you call Rose, I’m gwine lick you to-night! Lie? Lie? I’ll show you how fo’ call people lie. I’m gwine lick you.”
He did not wait for Missie to answer him. He jerked the new harness down from its peg on the wall. He fumbled and tugged and pulled at the oiled pieces of leather.
What was Killdee doing? Missie’s heart quivered with terror. She shivered, for Killdee was holding up one thick leather trace. He looked at it, then dropped it. Dark thin streaks of grease marked the floor. Killdee kept fumbling until he selected one of the holding-back straps. He unbuckled this from the harness and, with it clutched in one tense hand, came toward her.
She was sure now what he meant to do. He was going to beat her. Beat her! Her mouth felt dry. Icy chills went down her spine. Killdee was going to beat her with that strap in his hand.
She tried to say something. To tell him. But her lips were stiff. They would not move.
Killdee stood glaring at her and the black leather strap shook in his grasp.
“Come heah, gal!” he said sternly, “I gwine l’a’n you some manners to-night.”
Missie seemed somehow unable to move. She took one step forward. Tottering. Uncertain. What was she to do? Killdee mistrusted her.
“What de matter ail you? Ain’ you heah me say ’Come heah’?”
He seized her by the shoulder. The grip of his fingers hurt. They were set on ruling her. Crushing her. Each one of them. Hard. Cruel. Galling.
They needn’t tighten like that. She wouldn’t try to get away. No. She’d stand still. Let him beat her if he wanted to do it. Yes, beat her. And she had thought he was her friend. That he loved her. And he didn’t even believe what she said.
Killdee’s breath labored. Blood beat in his ears. He’d teach this girl a lesson. One she’d never forget. He’d show her he was master in this house. Rose was watching. She’d see that he’d give Missie her due.
Bright drops glittered on Missie’s lashes. Her soft lips began trembling in a pitiful, helpless way. The dimple in her chin came and went. It seemed to beg for tenderness, gentleness.
Killdee had made up his mind. He would not be changed. He would do what he started to do.
He clutched the slight shoulder tighter. Its thin, narrow blade moved a little under his taut fingers. His hand holding the strap with resolute steadiness began faltering. It shook. It let go. For a soft, wet cheek was pressed close against it.
The strap fell to the floor. Its shiny buckle made a dull, flat thump. The length of leather twisted over and lay still.
Missie staggered a little. She closed her eyes and put up a hand to her forehead.
Killdee turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at her again. As he hurried out of the door, Rose gleeked a scornful “Chicken heart” at him, but he hardly heard what she said for his blood drummed thick in his ears.
He stumbled out into the night and walked blindly across the moon-lit fields. The warm breath of them filled with the scent of plum-blossoms was disturbing. Smothering. Like the heated air in his cabin. He longed for a breath that was cool and clear. It would help him to think.
What was he to do—What? He had to face things. He couldn’t run away—not from Missie. Not now. She needed him more than ever. And he needed her. Yes, needed her—
He was caught in a trap. Caught fast. How could he ever get loose? Deep down in his heart, did he want to get loose? He was not sure.
Voices of the singers at Meeting in the Quarter floated over the fields and blent with his throbbing pulses.