preacher couldn’t make me have sin, anyhow.”
“How come so?”
“De preacher’s a Christian man, enty? An’ I is a Christian, enty? One
clean sheet can’ soil another, Uncle.”
“Shut you’ fool-mouth, Big Sue. You, neither dat preacher, neither
Leah, ain’ no cleaner’n nobody else. You kin have sin de same as me.
Sho’ you kin!”
Uncle brought his stick down with a whack on Julia’s back.
V
BLUE BROOK
Little by little the cart creaked along, leaving the grove of live-oaks
at the landing behind, then crossing the pasture where the rich land
lay unplowed, unsown, but covered with lush grass and sprinkled with
flowers. Some of them bloomed so close to the ruts that their heads
were caught in the cart wheels and shattered.
The fields came next, ripe corn-fields, hay-fields ready to be
harvested, brown cotton-fields, dripping with white locks of cotton.
Whirls of yellow butterflies played along the road. Flocks of bull-bats
darted about overhead in the sky, twittering joyfully as they caught
gnats and mosquitoes for their supper. White cranes flew toward sunset,
field larks sang out, killdees rose and sailed off crying. The whole
earth was full of sound.
Beyond the field near the river a group of low houses, “the Quarters,”
crouched in a grove of tall trees. Smoke from the chimneys settled in
long bands of still blue haze. Breeze could smell its oak flavor. Human
voices called out to one another, children shouting, laughing, playing,
all of them strangers to him. It set his limbs to quivering, his heart
to fluttering. He had nobody here. Nobody!
On a path that skirted the cotton field a skinny little black girl
swinging on the end of a rope was being jerked along by a large red cow
that stubbornly refused to follow the narrow path threading across the
field. The beast had run out between the rows of cotton stalks, and
with a deft tongue was licking, right and left, swallowing lock after
lock of white staple. Uncle got to his feet.
“Git a stick, Emma! Lick em! April’ll kill you, an’ de cow too, if you
knock out da cotton! Lawd, de field’s white! We sho’ made a crop dis
year!”
The girl’s quick eyes glanced back, her small mouth gave a grin. Taking
one end of the rope for a whip she fell to beating on the sides and
back of the cow with such zeal that it left off its eating, and with a
long mournful low, turned into the path that crossed the field and led
toward the Quarters. The child tugged at the rope and strove to master
the beast, whose dragging steps raised a cloud of dust that shone as it
floated low through the evening’s bright afterglow.
The dusk crept out across the fields wiping out the day’s light. Fires
in the cabins made every doorway shine. Long blue streams of smoke rose
up from the chimneys and trailed in the sky. Tiny birds flitted and
cheeped in the thickets. Sheep bleated. Shouts and snatches of song
mingled with wagons rattling.
“Emma’s a funny li’l’ creeter!” Big Sue remarked. “E look like a witch
to me.”
But Uncle hadn’t heard her, for he was busy jerking the rope lines,
trying to hurry Julia’s slow steps. When a closed iron gate finally
embarred them, Julia stopped short and Uncle gave a sigh. “T’ank Gawd,
we’s home at last.”
At each side of the gate was a house: one a small church, with a steep
roof and pointed windows; the other a cabin with a fire blazing high in
its wide chimney.
Big Sue yelled out at the top of her voice, “Do, Uncle! Please, suh! Go
all de way wid us.”
But the old man pretended not to hear her, and said to Breeze, “Son, I
knowed you’ grampa good, when e wa’n’t as high as you. You’ grampa was
my own sister’s chillen.”
Then he got out of the cart, went into the cabin and came out bringing
a big iron key. He unlocked the gate and opened it wide enough for them
to pass through.
Big Sue shouted in a coaxing tone, “Do, Uncle, let Julia take us all de
way. I so scared o’ de boggy place yonder in de middle o’ de avenue. If
I was to git in em Gawd knows how deep I’d sink down.”
At the thought of such a dreadful thing Uncle joined in Big Sue’s gales
of laughter, chattering in between his cackles. “Great Gawd, daughter!
Sho! You right! I better go long wid you! Da bog can’ fool me. I know
em too good. I’ll go long an’ show you de way.”
“You ought to try an’ git em drained befo’ de buckra comes home dis
winter. Dat bog likened to swallowed up a big awtymobile las’ year.”
Breeze was sure Uncle Isaac heard her, but instead of answering, the
old man gave a powerful grunt and said the weather would be casting up
for rain soon. The misery in his crippled knee had been jumping up and
down all day long.
Big Sue told Breeze “de buckra” were white people who owned the
plantation. They didn’t stay here much, but they would come from
up-North as soon as frost killed out the fever here and wild ducks got
thick in the rice-fields.
The wabbly cart creaked slowly on. The weird loneliness and strangeness
of the twilit avenue made Breeze feel very lonely and sorrowful. The
mule’s feet were heavy and made unwilling logy steps as they slowly
carried Breeze farther and farther from all the paths and places he’d
ever known.
Uncle Isaac jumped out of the wagon, and putting the rope lines in Big
Sue’s hands, began poking and feeling with his stick in the still black
water that covered the two ruts in the driveway. Julia must keep to the
right of the road. The middle looked safe, but it was tricky. It didn’t
show how deep and miry the mud in it was. It couldn’t fool Lula, but
Julia was strange to it. With his stick and queer words he told Julia
exactly where to walk until the bad boggy place that Big Sue feared was
behind them. He’d walk the rest of the way. Julia would move faster if
he went ahead.
The long avenue was bordered with enormous live-oak trees, whose great
low branches, almost hidden by drooping gray moss, completely shut the
road in, making it a long damp dimly-lighted shadow. Uncle pegged along
steadily in front, his stick stepping as importantly as either crooked
leg. Once in a while he turned around and spilled out broken stammering
words, his cheerful grins showing his empty gums.
The avenue of those gloomy moss-hung oaks began to seem endless, for
the road was soft and wet and the mule would not hurry, but at last a
white fence made of slender pickets stood in front. Julia stopped short
and Uncle Isaac sighed. “You an’ de li’l’ boy may as well git out now.
You kin go de rest o’ de way by you’se’f.”
He suggested that they’d better go through the front yard. Nobody was
at home so it wouldn’t matter. The path around the side was weedy.
Snakes were walking fast now and he’d hate for Breeze to be bitten as
soon as he set foot on Blue Brook.
Taking off his ragged cap, he bowed a low good night. He was glad a boy
blessed with second-sight had come to live on the plantation. April was
wise to get him here.
Big Sue thanked him, and, taking Breeze by the hand, led him through
the gate and along the driveway that curved between box-borders around
a large bed of shrubbery that Big Sue said was shaped like a heart.
If the white folks were home they couldn’t come this way, but since
they weren’t she was glad for Breeze to see the Big House. It was the
finest and largest one ever built on the Neck, and that was saying a
lot, for in the old days, before most of the houses were burned or left
to rot down, the Neck was a vast rich country.
In the fading light the great white house had an old gray look like
everything else here, from Julia and the wool on Uncle Isaac’s head,
to the moss swinging down from the huge age-twisted limbs of the giant
oaks. Breeze counted the six white columns rising from the brick-paved
porch, a step above the ground, to the corniced roof. Every door, every
green window shutter was closed. No sign of smoke rose from the tall
red brick chimneys. The background of shrubs and flowers was deadly
still and so full of deep darkness, Breeze held his breath.
Big Sue sniffed. “Lawd, ain’t de flowers sweet? Jedus, have mercy! Dey
pure cuts at my heart-strings! Watch whe’ you step, son. Seems to me
like I smell a snake too.”
“No’m, dat’s a watermelon.”
“Enty? Dey smell a good deal alike, rattlesnakes an’ watermelons. It’s
easy to take one fo’ de other, specially when de watermelons is kind o’
green.”
They crossed the back yard, which was clean-swept and white with sand,
then passed by the kitchen where Big Sue cooked the white folks’
victuals. It was a long low whitewashed building with plenty of room
inside, but Big Sue said when the duck shooting and deer hunting
started that kitchen could hardly hold all the game. Not only ducks
and deer, but partridges and wild turkeys and squirrels and oysters
and turtles. As soon as a killing frost made the place safe from fever
they’d be coming. Lots of ducks were already here. Lord, how she had to
turn! Those white folks were heavy eaters.
Breeze could make himself mighty useful helping her, bringing in
stove wood, running fast with the hot waffles, so they’d get to the
dining-room before they got cold. Cold waffles are not fit to eat, and
the kitchen was so far off it took quick moving feet to get anything
into the house crisp and hot. But it’s dangerous to have a kitchen on
to a house. Some of the best houses on the Neck caught fire and burned
down as soon as kitchens were built up close to them.
* * * * *
A short straight clear path ran from the kitchen to the door of Big
Sue’s home, a squatty cabin of whitewashed boards with the floor of its
tiny front porch only one step up.
Big Sue pulled up her top skirt and her fat hand fumbled for the pocket
of her petticoat, her hussy, she called it, where she carried her
house key tied to a small flat piece of wood. She unlocked the padlock
fastening the rusty chain that held the door tight shut, and went into
the dark front room.
A few coals blinked with red eyes from out of a mound of ashes in the
big fireplace. Big Sue well-nigh jarred them out when she threw a heavy
knot of fat lightwood on them.
“Git down on de hearth an’ blow up de fire, Breeze. I got to git off
dese shoes. My toes is pure got de cramp wid dem.”
While Breeze placed the fat knot carefully on the live coals, and blew
on them with well-aimed puffs of his breath until a bright yellow flame
sent smoke and sparks flying up the chimney, Big Sue groaned with
trying to bend low enough to reach the strings in her shoes. She gave
it up saying:
“Do unlace dese strings, son. My wind is too short fo’ me to strain
a-tryin’ to bend down low.”
As his nimble fingers quickly undid the hard knots and the wide flat
shoes were slipped off her fat feet, the firelight flamed past him and
lit up the room. The walls were covered with newspapers, the floor was
scoured almost white, and the wooden bed in the corner puffed up high
with its feather mattress and many-colored quilt.
Taking her shoes off made Big Sue a different person. From being heavy
and slow she became light on her feet and quick. She took a black iron
spider off the hearth and put it over the clear hot blaze, then dropped
slices of white bacon on it to cook. While the bacon hissed and curled
up with frying, Big Sue pulled sweet potatoes out from under the pile
of hot ashes in one corner. Those that a squeeze from her fingers
showed soft and well done she put in a pan to be eaten, the others were
put back in the ashes to cook longer. She stirred a pot full of white
cornmeal mush; collard greens, cooked with chunks of bacon, half filled
another. The smell of food went all through the cabin every time a
pot-lid was lifted.
Big Sue gave Breeze a tin pan and a spoon, while she took another; but
just as she leaned down to dip up the food she glanced toward the bed.
Breeze had put his hat on it. She stopped still and glared at him.
“Great Gawd, boy! You put bad luck on my Joy’s bed. I got a good mind
to lick you. Take dis pin. Go stick em in da hat. Don’ never put a hat
on no bed. You ain’ had much raisin’, or you’d know better.”
Breeze took the pin and stuck it, as she said, in the hat’s crown. It
must stay there until morning, then he must hang the hat on a nail in
the newspapered wall.
“Lawd,” she sighed as she leaned over the pot again, “dat hat sho’
scared me. S’pose I didn’ had a pin! Come fill you’ pan now. Eat
a-plenty. I want you to grow fast so you’ll git big enough to help me
work. Put some pot liquor off de greens on you’ mush. Mush an’ pot
liquor is good fo’ you. It’ll stick to you’ ribs. Sweet potatoes an’
fat meat’ll fatten you too. You’s too small. You’ ma says you’s gwine
on twelve, but you can’ be dat old! I hope to Gawd you ain’ a runt!”
Breeze was ready to cry, and she changed her tone and told him that
April had a goat for him to break and ride and drive, if he’d be a
good boy and mind all she said. April would get a goat harness and a
goat wagon, too. Breeze must get the goat tame before the little white
boy who lived in the Big House came home. White people are so subject
to fever, they can’t risk even one night on the river before killing
frost. When the nights get warm, in the spring, they have to go away.
White people have some mighty weak sickly ways.
Breeze had eaten too much. He was packed so full he felt tight and
uneasy. He wanted to go home to his mother, but Big Sue kept talking
fast to keep his mind from dwelling on his troubles. Over and over
she said he was a lucky boy to be here with her at Blue Brook. While
he washed his pan and spoon, she got a tin basin off the water-shelf
by the door and poured it half full of hot water out of the big black
kettle simmering on the hearth. She gave it to Breeze with a big new
bar of turpentine soap. “Wash you’ feet good and get ready for bed,
son.”
But he had no night-clothes, no day clothes either, except the few he
brought tied up in a white cloth. He couldn’t sleep between her clean
white sheets in those dirty breeches and that filthy shirt! No! His
tears poured out when she got a great big garment out of the trunk in
the corner, and putting it over his head drew the great sleeves up over
his arms. As she buttoned it up at the neck, her laughing broke into
such funny snorts Breeze had to stop crying to look at her. Her wind
must be broken fo’ true!
He had to sleep in the big bed in the corner, Joy’s bed, to-night, to
take off the bad luck his hat had put on it. To-morrow night he’d take
the bed she fixed for him in the shed-room where Lijah used to sleep
when he was a little boy.
When Breeze crawled into Joy’s fine bed, the soft feathers rose up
gently, kindly, around his tired body, and Big Sue leaned over and gave
him several light pats.
“Sleep good, son. Dream a nice dream.” She fixed the big pillow under
his head, and drew up the quilts close over his shoulders. “All you
dream to-night’ll come true, so don’t git on you’ back an’ dream a bad
dream. Sleep on you’ side. So.”
VI
UNCLE BILL
Breeze roused from a doze when a man’s deep booming voice called from
the outside, “How you feelin’ to-night, Miss Big Sue?”
And Big Sue called back heartily:
“Come in, Uncle Bill. I too glad fo’ see you! I’m lonesome as kin be.”
Cracking his eyes Breeze peeped at the tall raw-boned man who shambled
in, bringing a tin bucket which he put on the shelf, saying he’d
brought some sweet milk for the little boy and a few sticks of wood.
Reaching up stiffly he pushed his hat farther back, then he scratched
his head awkwardly, while his deep voice rolled out, “You sho’ looks
fine, Miss Big Sue! I declare to Gawd, you could pass fo’ a flowers
garden!”
“Do shut you’ mouth,” Big Sue returned playfully. “You talk too much
sweet-mouth talk, Uncle Bill. Some day you gwine miss an bite you’
tongue in two. Better mind! You couldn’t preach no mo’.”
He declared he was not to blame. How could his mouth fail to talk sweet
when he saw her? It was a wonder the bees didn’t eat her. He dropped
the handful of sticks on the hearth, saying they were a few pieces of
driftwood he’d brought to put on her fire for luck to-night while the
old moon was in her bed.
“You must be feelin’ mighty peart to go all de way to de beach to pick
up driftwood, Uncle Bill.”
“Sho’, I feel good. Like a lamb a-jumpin’. I could start now and
travel till to-morrow’s sun shine, an’ I wouldn’t feel noways weary.”
“Lawd, you have luck,” Big Sue sighed. “But do lend me de loan o’ you’
pipe befo’ you fix de fire. I’m pure weak I want to smoke so bad.
I’m scared to smoke my own. I believe it’s conjured. It ain’ smoked
right since I lent em to Leah last Sunday a week gone, right yonder at
Heaven’s Gate Church.” Her breath had been cut off shorter than ever
to-day. She ate a ’possum leg last night for her supper and it was
kinder spoiled from being kept too long. She hadn’t felt exactly well
since. Spoiled food ever did make her sick. She didn’t know why.
“It’s because you’s such a delicate lady!” Uncle Bill declared. “You
ought to learn to drink milk. Nice sweet milk. And eat honey. De angels
lives on ’em. So de Book says.”
“I dunno,” Big Sue answered doubtfully. “I never could stand nothin’
’bout a cow. Not de milk or de meat or de ways. Gi’ me a hog all de
time.”
Uncle Bill got his pipe out of his side coat pocket, twisted its rough
wooden stem tight into its bowl and handed it to her, his lean face
brightening with a smile.
“E ain’ gwine smoke good by its new. I went to de fig trees no longer’n
yestiddy an’ cut dis stem, by my old stem was wore out altogether. E’s
gwine bite you’ tongue. I’m too sorry. I wanted you to talk some sweet
talk to me to-night!”
“Lawd, Uncle Bill, you ought to know my tongue better’n dat. I got a
strong tongue in my mouth. E’s trained. I done got em used to tastin’
all kinds o’ red pepper an’ seasonin’. E kin make friends wid any pipe
stem ever was. But you go look at my li’l’ boy.”
Breeze shut his eyes tight as Uncle Bill leaned down to look at his
face.
“E’s a good-size boy, but you’d be better off wid a husband, Miss Big
Sue. You see dese sticks? I went all de way to de beach to git em.
Dey’s driftwood, an’ I’m gwine burn ’em on you’ fire to-night, an’ make
a wish whilst dey’s green.”
“Wha’ dat you gwine to wish to-night?”
“I’m gwine wish fo’ you to marry me.”
“Great Gawd, Uncle Bill!” Laughter almost choked her. “I can’ marry
you! I got a livin’ husband right now! You must be forgot Silas ain’
dead!”
“Silas is been gone seven years, Miss Big Sue. Gawd don’ expect no lady
to live single longer’n seven years. No, ma’am. You kin marry me if you
want to.”
“I dunno,” Big Sue tittered. “Sometimes my mind do tell me to marry
again. But didn’t you promise Aun’ Katy you wouldn’ marry nobody? What
’ud she say?”
Uncle Bill heaved a deep sigh. “I can’ help dat. I miss Katy so bad,
I mighty nigh goes crazy yonder to my house by himself. If you would
marry me Katy wouldn’t mind. Not a bit. Katy had sense like a man.
Lawd, how I miss dat ’oman! I done made up my mind to marry again an’
I’m gwine wish a weddin’ dress on you whilst I burn dese same sticks on
you’ fire to-night.”
He spoke solemnly, and kneeling on the hearth he laid the driftwood
sticks carefully crossed on the coals. Then he blew deep breaths until
a slow green flame curled up. “Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Uncle Bill! Quit you’
crazy doin’s! You might miss an’ conjure me fo’ true.” Big Sue giggled
until her fat sides shook.
“Hush you’ laughin’ till I makes my wish, Miss Big Sue! You got me all
eye-sighted!”
“Mind how you wish in de face o’ dat fire!”
A woman’s voice flung the drawled words into the room so unexpectedly
that Big Sue jumped to her feet, calling, “Who dat?” and Uncle Bill
gave such a start that his wish was knocked clean out of his head.
“Don’ git scared. I ain’ nobody but Zeda. How yunnuh do dis evenin’?”
“Lawd, Zeda, you ought not to slip up on people dat way!” Big Sue
scolded, but Zeda broke into a laugh. She stood in the door where the
white cloth on her head made a clear spot against the darkness, but her
face and hands were one with the night.
“Don’ le’ me stop you’ wishin’, Uncle Bill. Go on. I might give you
luck.” Zeda’s teeth flashed as she sauntered in with noiseless barefoot
steps. She couldn’t sit down; she was on her way to Bina’s birth-night
supper at the Quarters. She just came by to see the boy-child Big Sue
had brought from Sandy Island.
“E’s sleep right yonder in Joy’s bed.”
“Lawd, you got a sizable boy, enty? E looks mighty long. Long as Leah’s
Brudge to me. I wouldn’ gi’ way a boy big as dat. E’s done raised.”
Again Breeze shut his eyes and pretended to sleep while Zeda leaned so
low over him searching his face that he could feel her breath on his
cheek.
“Don’ gaze at de child so hard, Zeda. You’ll wake em up.”
Big Sue was plainly out of temper, her tone was sour, pettish.
“I ain’ gwine wake em. I just want to see who e looks like. Leah says
his mammy had em for April, but e don’ favor April to me.”
“Do, for Gawd’s sake, shut you’ mouth, Zeda! To hear Leah tell it, half
de chillen on Blue Brook belongs to April, well as dem on Sandy Island.
Leah don’ count nobody when e gits to talkin’ ’bout April.”
Zeda laughed. “I dunno, Big Sue. I told April to-day, if he don’ mind,
he’s gwine catch up wid Uncle Isaac. De people say Uncle Isaac has
fifty-two chillen livin’ right now.”
Breeze peeped up in time to see the grin that lit her face as she
turned on her heel, saying she must go, and let Uncle Bill finish his
wishing. But he’d wish a long time before he got a wife as good as Aunt
Katy.
Uncle Bill sat up straight in his chair. “Now you talkin’ what Gawd
loves, Zeda; de truth. Katy was one in a t’ousand. I miss em so bad, I
can’ stan’ it no longer by myself. If Miss Big Sue would marry me, I’d
treat em white. I sho’ would.”
Zeda took her pipe out of her apron pocket and leaned for a coal to
light it. After one or two stout pulls she let the smoke trail slowly
out between her smiling lips. “I hear-say Big Sue an’ Leah all two is a
seekin’ de second blessin’ since de new Bury League preacher was here
last Sunday was a week gone. Is dat so, Big Sue?”
“I know I ain’ seekin’ em. I don’ know nothin’ ’bout Leah, an’ I don’
want to know nothin’ ’bout em.” She snapped the words out fiercely;
but Zeda set her arms akimbo and puffed at the pipe between her teeth,
her eyes flashing bright in the firelight that flared past her to the
framed pictures of faces looking down from the walls.
Big Sue sat grum, silent, until Uncle Bill heaved a great sigh and said
he was mighty sorry for Leah. She’d been sick three days. Salivated.
Her mouth was raw. Her teeth were loose, ready to drop out. Leah was in
a bad way.
Big Sue’s fat body straightened up. She was full of interest. How did
Leah get salivated?
Uncle Bill shook his head. He didn’t know what had done it. Leah hadn’t
been well since this moon came in. He couldn’t say if seeking a second
blessing had made her sick or if some medicine she’d bought from the
store had done it. He caught her wallowing on the ground and praying
and crying off in the woods by herself one day last week. Now she was
salivated. Zeda looked at Uncle Bill’s sorrowful face and her own
became serious.
“Dat’s what Leah gits fo’ prankin’ wid white folks’ medicine. I told em
so too.”
“I bet Leah’s conjured,” Big Sue put in cheerfully.
“Who in Gawd’s world would bother to conjure Leah?” Zeda asked. “Any
’oman dat wants April bad enough kin git em. April’s weak as water over
anyt’ing wid a dress on.”
“You ought to know,” Big Sue snapped out tartly.
A smile curled Zeda’s lips. “I does know. If anybody knows April, I
ought to. April’s de same as a bee at blossoms. You wait. You’ll see.
Leah’s a fool to fret ’bout April. I done been to see em an’ told em
so. No man livin’ is worth one drop o’ water dat dreans out a ’oman’s
eye. It’s de Gawd’s truth. If April buys em rations an’ clothes, Leah
ought to be sati’fy, ’stead o’ frettin’ an’ cryin’.”
Zeda’s bright hoop earrings glittered, her teeth flashed, then she
turned and spat in the fire. “Leah ought to be used to April’s ways
by now. E ought to learn how to meet trouble better. Trouble comes to
everybody. If e ain’ salivation or sin or men, e’s somet’ing.” Zeda
stretched her arms, then her body to its full height. She must go.
She’d promised Bina to help cook the birth-night supper.
Big Sue didn’t turn her head to say good night, but Uncle Bill got up
and went to the door and bowed low as she stepped out into the still
black night, which came right up to the open door.
In the silence that followed, the muffled roar of the sea rose and
fell. Big Sue said Zeda had ruined many a man. She was a bold sinful
woman.
“Zeda’s a fine field-hand, dough, an’ de clothes Zeda washes is white
as snow,” Uncle Bill defended warmly.
“It’s a wonder some ’oman ain’ cut Zeda wide open befo’ now,” Big Sue
came back sharply.