chill. Day’ll soon be clean. Andrew mus’ come mek a lil box to fit de
baby. You haffer lay em way, you know.”
Her hand waited. It must have felt his misery, for it shook just a
little. Killdee knew she pitied him as she murmured:
“Try to fret out loud, son. You could bear de pain mo better ef you
would cry. Eenside frettin’ kin bus’ you’ heart open.”
* * * * *
They waited until the sun had set in the little grave, then Killdee and
Andrew placed the small pine box that held Baby Rose, carefully down in
the earth. Together they filled in the damp, red clay, and smoothed it
over the top, into a mound. When it was done, Killdee fell to his knees
on the ground and wept bitterly. But Andrew said solemnly to him:
“Don’ cry, Killdee. De Lawd hab gi’ em. De Lawd hab tek em away. Bressed
be de name ob de Lawd.”
Andrew walked home with him to Rose, who strove with Maum Hannah’s help
and encouragement to bring another child into the world.
Maum Hannah looked up at Killdee when he walked in, and said:
“Some duh comin’ an’ some duh gwinen. Him up-yonder duh tek an’ sen. Be
tanksful, son. Be tanksful.”
But Killdee’s eyes were fixed on a small cloth doll that had fallen out
of its cigar-box wagon and that lay face down on the floor.
_Missie_
The day was almost gone. Rose was cooking supper when a shadow darkened
the doorway. She looked around quickly. Who was there? Killdee always
came in with heavy steps that could be heard.
A strange little figure stood on the top step. A girl who was small and
dirty and ragged. A broken, rusty dishpan filled with fat light-wood
splinters was balanced on her head. Thin, trembling, black hands
steadied it as the child looked up into Rose’s face with a diffident
smile and said softly:
“Dese is some fat chip I fetch fo’ you.”
Rose looked at the rich pine chips piled high on the pan. Then she
searched the child’s narrow face. Her keen eyes noted the pointed chin,
the curve of the purplish, dark-red lips, the delicate, bluish bloom on
the black cheeks. A stranger. Who?
“Who is you, gal?” she asked abruptly. “Whe’ you come f’om?”
Rose knew everybody in this part of the world and she had never seen or
heard of this child before.
“I name Missie,” the child answered. “My mammy an’ all o’ we come f’om
ober de ribber fo’ pick cotton. None ain’ mek to we home.”
“Whe’ you git dem chip?” Rose asked after a moment’s thought.
“I cut dem off a stump back o’ we house,” was the prompt reply.
“Whe’ you house dey?” Rose asked again.
The child turned and pointed across the field to a dark line of woods
that showed a jagged edge under the sunset sky.
“We house is yonder,” she said simply.
“Great Gawd,” Rose said, “I know em. Da ol’, broke-down house. Da’s a
bad-luck house, gal. Too much a people dead een em. I wouldn’ trust fo’
stay dey. I too faid o’ hants.”
Missie’s big eyes glistened in the firelight as she heard, but she did
not answer.
“Put de chip down by de fireplace,” Rose bade her. “I glad to git em.
Wha’ you want fo’ em?”
Missie dropped her eyes and said shyly.
“Please, ma’am, gi’ me a lil piece o’ bread.”
Rose scanned the thin face, the slight body. Was the child hungry? She
went to the safe and looked in a pan there. She broke off a piece of
corn pone left from dinner and handed it to Missie, who took it eagerly
and started out of the door.
“Wait,” Rose said. “You ain’ got no manners? You ain’ gwine say ’Tank
you’?”
Missie bowed and pulled a foot back to make a curtsey and said
solemnly:
“Tank you, ma’am.”
“Da’s right,” Rose laughed. “You kin cutsey good fo-true. But look how
you drap crumbs on de clean flo’.”
Missie gave a quick look around the room and spied a field-straw broom
in the corner. She laid her bread carefully on the table and, getting
the broom, swept all the crumbs into the fire with a few deft strokes.
“Why, you is a smart lil gal,” Rose approved. “You kin sweep nice. When
you gits hongry again, fetch me some mo splinters an’ I’ll gi’ you
bread.”
Missie took up her bread and made another curtsey.
“Good ebenin’, ma’am,” she said respectfully.
Rose laughed again and responded:
“Good ebenin’.” But as an afterthought she called to the child:
“Come back heah a minute. Wha’ you las’ name, gal?”
Missie reflected seriously and answered:
“I dunno, ma’am. Ma ain’ nebber tell me.”
“I don’ reckon you got none,” Rose pronounced severely.
Missie seemed not to understand, for she gave a puzzled look at Rose,
then went away down the path.
In the fading light Rose saw that a thin, yellow cur dog walked beside
her and that Missie fed him bits of her bread.
When Killdee came in from the field and saw the fat splinters and heard
how Missie swept up crumbs off the floor and curtseyed when she said
good-by, the thought flashed into his mind that Missie would be the very
person to come and stay with Rose and help her take care of Jim.
“Let’s git em,” he said.
“You reckon ’e mammy would gi’ em ’way?” Rose considered.
“Sho ’e will. Anyway, I kin go ax em.”
* * * * *
The next day at noon when Killdee and Mike came home for dinner, Missie
and the yellow cur dog were walking behind them. Both waited outside by
the stable door until Mike was fed, then they walked slowly behind
Killdee into the house.
“I got em,” Killdee announced brightly. “I got you a lil gal.”
Rose’s eyes were on the dog. Killdee saw she disapproved.
A string of fresh egg-shells hung on a nail by the chimney dangled in
the draught. Rose had put them there this morning. Strung like that and
hung beside the fire, egg-shells would make her hens lay.
Missie looked from them to Rose, then at the dog.
“Son don’ suck egg. No’m,” she defended.
“Don’ tell me no lie, gal,” Rose warned.
“No’m, Son ain’ suck a egg een e life. We raise em,” Missie affirmed.
“Wha ’e name?” Rose asked sternly.
“We call em ’Son,’ ma’am.”
“You gi’ de dawg to me, Missie. I eber did want a coon dawg. I bet e is
a good one,” Killdee intervened. “An’ I’ll kill em ef e suck one o’ Rose
eggs.”
Missie looked up quickly, but the expression on Killdee’s face reassured
her. Rose saw something like a message pass between Killdee and Missie
and she retorted:
“Ef ’e suck eggs you won’ hab a chance to kill em. I’ll tend to em my
own se’f,” she threatened. Her tone was sharp.
Killdee drew a chair forward and sat down.
“Come heah, gal,” he said. “Lemme look at you good. I ain’ had time tell
now.”
Rose stood with arms akimbo and watched Missie come forward. The small
bare head with its sunburned wool was bowed humbly. The slim, black
fingers plucked nervously at the soiled, ragged dress. One ashy toe of a
slender foot dug at a line of a crack in the floor.
“Look een my eye, gal. Don’t be faid. Tell me you name,” Killdee coaxed
with an amused smile on his face.
“Come heah, close to me, gal,” he repeated.
“Don’ plague em, Killdee,” Rose chided him.
“I ain’ plaguin’ em,” Killdee declared. “I des axin’ em ’e name. I
haffer know ’e name, enty?”
Missie lifted her eyes timidly. They met Killdee’s and her curved lashes
flickered and dropped. Killdee saw that the dark-red lips quivered and a
dimple came and went in the pointed chin. The child was shy as a wild
bird. The little breast was heaving with a sudden sob and a bright tear
fell with a tiny pat on Rose’s clean floor. Missie quickly put up an arm
to wipe away the others that were following it.
Killdee was distressed. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. No.
“Don’ cry, lil gal. Don’ cry. I wasn’ makin’ fun o’ you. No. Come heah
close to me. I like lil gals like you.”
He put out a big hand and pity made his deep voice very gentle.
“Come heah, lil gal. Come close to me. I had a lil gal one time.”
Missie raised her eyes again and, though there were tears on her long
lashes, her lips parted and Killdee saw teeth white as rice grains
showing between them.
“Da’s right,” he encouraged. “Da’s right. Try fo’ laugh, gal. Don’t cry.
I can’ stan’ fo’ see a gal-chillen cry. Come stan’ close to me and tell
me yo’ name.”
Missie came closer, but when Killdee put an arm around her and drew her
up to him, her heart beat fast with fear. He was so big. So strong. So
different from anybody she had ever seen in her life before.
Yet mingled with the fear was a thrill of something like joy. She sensed
that in the strength of this man she would find safety. Protection. And
she sensed in the sharp tone of Rose’s voice something that made her
afraid and unhappy.
Yes, Killdee was her friend. It was good to lean right against him so.
To feel his arm around her. And she leaned with simple trust and wiped
her eyes and cheeks dry with her sleeve.
Rose was shocked. The girl was filthy. More than likely, full of lice.
Killdee was a thoughtless man. He didn’t know how to look after himself.
“You le’ da gal git close you, Killdee?” she cried out. “Wait tell I
scour ’em an’ put clean clo’es on em. Gawd! I wouldn’ le’ em touch me
no-how.”
Killdee laughed and drew his arm away, saying:
“You reckon e’s lousy?”
“Sho ’e is,” Rose affirmed. She pointed to the shelf.
“Look on de shelf, gal. Git dem two buckets an’ go to de spring fo’
water. I gwine hotten a potful and scrub you hide good.”
As Missie started for the buckets, Killdee shook his head.
“No, Rose. One bucket is plenty fo’ a lil gal to fetch up da steep
hill. You ain’ fo’ strain a gal-chillen. Missie ain’ had no dinner. E
don’ know de way to de spring. You fo-git. Missie ain’ nuttin’ but a
baby.”
“Baby!” Rose scoffed. “Baby nuttin’! E might lil an’ dry, but shucks!
e’s plenty ol’ fo’ go to de spring an’ fetch two buckets o’ water.”
“Gi’ em some dinner fus’, Rose. When I finish my own, I’ll git you de
water.”
Rose said no more. She fixed a pan of food for Killdee, then one for
Missie and one for herself, and they all sat down to eat. There was a
strange silence. Somehow the little girl’s presence made a difference
already.
When Killdee finished eating, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and got
up.
“I’ll git you all de water you want now. Ef Jim ain’ wake when I come
back, I gwine wake him. I haffer play wid em a lil befo’ I go back to de
fiel’.”
“No, you ain’ gwine wake em nuttin’,” Rose declared, looking over at the
bed, and a tender smile softened her heavy mouth.
“Yes I is,” Killdee returned playfully. “You got a gal to nuss em fo’
you now. I wan’ see how Jim like dis gal anyhow.”
Missie ate her dinner hungrily. It tasted good, for she had never had
many full meals in her life.
After Killdee had gone to the field again, Rose and Missie washed the
pots and pans together. Rose showed the child where each thing stayed
when it was clean.
“You is fo’ do dis ebey day, Missie,” Rose said simply, and Missie
nodded assent.
When all the pots and pans were put away, Rose sat down to rest and
smoke her pipe.
“Sweep de flo’, gal. Sweep easy, too. Don’ wake Jim.”
But Jim did wake and when Missie started toward him with an eager, happy
smile, Rose stopped her.
“No,” she said, “don’ touch em. You’s full o’ lice. I don’ want Jim to
git none on em. No, my Gawd! Wait tell I git you clean. Den you kin mind
em all you want.”
* * * * *
When Killdee came home at dark, a queer, comical little figure stood by
the hearth helping Rose cook supper. Missie, after Rose had cleaned her.
Every bit of wool had been clipped from her small head. The only garment
she wore was one of Killdee’s own shirts. The sleeves were cut off the
right length for the thin arms, and the neck-band, lapped over and
pinned together, hung awkwardly. The child glanced shamefacedly at him
when he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Rose! Dis gal look like a skinned rabbit.”
Killdee looked at Missie again and held his sides. Rose stood looking
and laughing too.
“I had to do em so, Killdee,” Rose explained. “E was pure lousy. ’E
dress was sewed on em. I cut off ebyting e had on an’ bu’nt em up. Den I
clip ’e haid. Dat ol’ shu’t o’ you’ own been too ol’ fo’ patch any mo’.
But de gal is clean. An’ Jim is pure crazy ’bout em. ’E play so much ’e
gone sleep by fus’ dark.”
Killdee walked over to the hearth where Missie stood and put a hand on
her shoulder. How pitiful that poor little bare head was! He didn’t know
just what to say.
“Nemmine, Missie,” he murmured, “You haih’ll soon grow back. I’m gwine
to de sto’ nex’ Sat’day an’ I’ll buy you a dress. A purty dress. An’
some o’ dese days I’m gwine buy you some shoes fo’ wear on Sunday, too.”
Missie could not look up. Two bright tears dropped on the clean white
sand of the hearth.
Killdee leaned and took her hand and led her with him to a chair.
“Jim is gone to sleep, lil gal. I got to hol’ some kinder chillen een my
lap. Lemme hol’ you a minute.”
“No-suh,” Rose objected, “Missie ain’ no baby fo’ you to spile. Go git
me a pan out de safe, gal. You too big fo’ set een Killdee lap.”
Missie went to the safe and Killdee sat down in the doorway. He took
out his pipe and lit it and smoked in silence.
The day was gone. A slender, young moon guarded the evening star.
Crickets chirped a few trial notes together. A cow bell jangled down in
the pasture. A whippoorwill called uneath words. The hot breeze that
fanned his face blew the smoke from his mouth back into the cabin.
A sudden weariness seemed to sap his strength. A feeling of loneliness
darkened his heart. The fields out there, the woods beyond them, all lay
quiet. Peaceful. Why could he not be so? Why must he always strive,
struggle with something inside his heart? Rose didn’t understand. No.
His pipe was finished. Looking inside, he asked:
“Whe’ is Missie gwine sleep, Rose?”
“I gwine mek em a pallet on de flo’,” Rose answered cheerfully. “I got
plenty o’ quilt.”
When Missie was curled up on one folded quilt on the floor and covered
over with another, she knew she must not let Rose and Killdee hear her
crying. But when she thought of her Mother, of Sis, of all of them at
home, her heart felt likely to burst with longing for them.
Could she bear to stay here? When everybody got sound asleep, she’d get
up and slip out of the door and go back to her mother. She wouldn’t be
afraid of the dark with Son. He’d go with her and keep anything from
hurting her.
But her clothes were burned up. Her hair was clipped off. She had
nothing on but Killdee’s old shirt. She couldn’t let them see her like
that. Not like that.
Sobs wrenched her. She was afraid. Misery made her ache all over.
Killdee leaned over her, patting her gently, saying: “Good night.”
She slipped a hand into his big, warm one and held to it. If he would
just stay here by her a little!
“You mus’ dream a good dream to-night, lil gal. Dis is de fus’ night you
sleep in dis house. All you dream’ll come true,” he whispered.
Missie looked at him and tried to smile. She would never be afraid of
him any more. No. And if he wanted her, she’d stay here and try to be
happy with Rose.
“Do, Killdee,” Rose scolded. “Le’ de gal go to sleep.”
* * * * *
Next morning Missie woke early. She tried to recall her dream. What was
it? She couldn’t quite remember. But it was something pleasant. It
seemed to be something about Killdee.
_Meeting_
When Missie came to live with Rose and Killdee, she had never been to
church or to prayer-meeting in her life, and the first time she went to
the quarters for meeting with Rose her heart thrilled at what she saw.
The night was dark, and as they got nearer Maum Martha’s cabin where
meeting was held every Wednesday night, the light from the open door
shone out on black people who stood in the yard, laughing and talking.
As they went up the weak old steps, Rose warned her:
“Mine you’ eye an’ don’ fall. Don’ le’ dese steps broke you leg de fus’
time you come to meetin’.”
Narrow wooden benches filled the room. Missie took her seat on one of
those back near the door. Rose had explained to her on the way that only
members could sit up in front near the fire. Sinners had to sit far
back. And Missie was a sinner, for she had never sought to find peace,
nor had she been baptized.
As Rose sat on the front bench, it creaked with her weight.
“Jedus! Do don’ fall!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Dese bench is
gittin’ too ol’ fo’ be trusted.”
Maum Martha, an old, fat woman who sat on one on the opposite side of
the fire, sighed:
“Lawd, yes. Dey is ol’. My own daddy, Champagne, mek dem befo’ my time.
Da’s how-come dey stay under my house. Da’s how-come meetin’ is heah wid
me. Dey ain’ gwine las’ much longer ef de mens ain’ ca’ful how dey tote
em. Mens is change sense I was young. Dey don’ keer ef dey broke de
meetin’ bench. Dey ain’ got prays een de back side o’ dey head. Dey mind
run too fas’ on gals an’ dancin’ an’ sin. Dey povoke me!”
Maum Martha’s eyes narrowed as she peered through the half-light at
Missie.
“Who dat gal a-settin’ by de do?” she asked.
“Dat de gal Killdee git fo’ me to raise,” Rose owned it proudly.
“I declea!” Maum Martha approved. “You hab luck fo’ git sich a big gal.
E big ’nough fo’ mind you baby, enty?”
“Sho,” Rose agreed. “E ain’ so big, but e strong. E kin hoe, too. An’
cut wood. An’ fetch water f’om de spring. E kin put one bucket on e head
an’ tek one een each hand and walk right up dat steep hill. E stronger’n
me.”
People were coming in. Men, women, children, followed Daddy Cato, an old
man, who took his place at the little pine table in the center of the
room. With a splinter from the hearth, he lit the small glass kerosene
lamp.
What a strange-looking person he was! His arms seemed too long. The
sleeves of his greenish black coat left his bony wrists naked. His vest
was too short. It left part of his shirt showing above his big, loose
pantaloons.
He rested the finger-tips of his great hands on the table in front of
him and looked over the crowd of quiet people that filled the room.
One eyelid drooped and covered an eye. One side of his kind old mouth
was twisted.
“Chillen,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “hell ain’ no hole.”
The silence was tense. The congregation listened attentively.
“A hole would ’a’ been full long time ago,” he continued.
“Do Jedus!” somebody exclaimed, but most of the people stayed silent.
Daddy Cato rubbed the scattered white hairs on his chin thoughtfully.
“Chillen,” he said solemnly, “I dunno e-zactly wha’ hell is.” He
hesitated and cleared his throat before he went on. “But I tink e mus’
be a lake.”
“Yes, my Gawd! E mus’ be,” somebody answered fervently.
Missie felt uncomfortable. Rose had told her a lot about hell and God
since she came. God lived in heaven. He loved Christians and hated
sinners. He burned sinners in a place he called hell.
All the fire in the world came from hell. God swam it through seven
rivers to cool it before he brought it here. Seven wide rivers.
The fire in the chimney behind Daddy Cato was so hot that sweat ran out
on his forehead and drops fell from his face. Hell fire is seven times
hotter than that fire. God must be terrible. It scared her to think
about him.
Killdee was a sinner, Rose said. Killdee laughed when Rose said it.
Killdee wasn’t afraid of God or hell or anything. How could he be so
bold!
Wind through the open door fluttered the fringe of cut newspapers that
covered the mantelshelf. They began a funny, wild dancing behind Daddy
Cato’s back.
“De do haffer shet,” he said, and Andrew got up and closed it and put up
the bar to hold it in place.
Soon somebody knocked and Andrew had to open it again. Maum Hannah came
in, and old Daddy Cudjoe. They hurried past the sinners and went to the
benches where the members sat, away from the draughty back walls. As
Maum Hannah warmed her hands by the fire, she looked behind her.
“E too col’ to-night fo’ mek de sinners set so far f’om de fire. Gawd
mek de win’ blow. Him know good how col’ e is. Le’ dem chillen come up
an’ warm. Po’ lil creeter. Gawd ain’ gwine be bex ’bout dat.”
But the members looked serious and shook their heads and the sinners
stayed where they were.
Newspapers that were pasted all over the walls swelled out when the wind
blew a hard gust. The paste that held them must be stout! Brown spots
showed where rain had beaten in through cracks and stained them. Age had
yellowed them. But to Missie they looked very fine.
The rafters overhead were almost hidden with newspapers tied to barrel
hoops and cut into fringes. These swung gently like blossoms.
Pictures were tacked around the walls. Over the mantelshelf a beautiful
wild bay horse pranced with all four of its feet lifted high.
A white lady with a pink dress on was near him. She laughed and looked
at a bottle of something brown in her hand.
On the opposite wall was a double row of large pictures. Awful pictures.
Negroes naked to the waist. All of them broken out with an ugly
sickness. Missie did not know that they were pictures of small-pox
victims sent out by the State, but she felt sick inside to see such
swollen cheeks and bodies.
What did Maum Martha want with them there? Maybe they were sinners----
Daddy Cato was singing. The people were getting to their feet, and
joining in the song. How solemn it sounded! Chills ran over her as she
listened.
“Roll, Jordan, roll,” were the only words she could make out, but these
were sung over and over.
Daddy Cato held up his hand and sang some words alone. His deep voice
filled the cabin and roused an aching in Missie’s heart.
“Roll, Jordan, roll,” he sang, and the firelight flickered over the low,
dark walls. Nobody else made a sound. His voice was enough. So sad. So
pitiful. Missie could hardly keep from crying.
Poor Daddy Cato, old gray-headed man, was crying out to something for
help. Was he singing to God?
Then Maum Hannah joined with him and the two old voices swelled upward.
The others swayed from side to side and hummed low. Where was God?
Missie had never felt so lonely before. She had never felt sorrow
before. But in the cry of those two old voices she felt her own
helplessness, her insecurity against some unknown, strange power. She
wished Killdee could have come. He was yonder at home taking care of
little Jim. But then, Killdee was sinner. God was going to burn Killdee
if he didn’t repent. Rose said so. There seemed to be no escape from
this God. None.
“Sing, chillen, sing,” Daddy Cato bade, and the whole congregation
united in a heaving flood of sound that pressed against the very walls
and deadened the moaning of the wind outside.
“Roll, Jordan, roll.”
Missie’s lips moved with the words. Her heart moved with something like
prayer. God must be hearing now. Everybody was singing. Calling to Him.
Daddy Cato began praying. Missie shut her eyes. In her darkness her
mother’s face came before her. How she wished her mother were here to
hold her hand! To keep her from being afraid! For she was afraid. Yes.
Of God. Of this singing. Of those sick people on the walls. Of the
darkness. Of everything. Yes, everything.
Cold, or maybe it was fear, made gooseflesh break out on her body.
“Chillen,” Daddy Cato said.
The congregation answered: “Yessuh.”
“Dey’s a stranger een de lan’,” he told them.
“Enty?” they answered in surprise.
“Somebody duh meet da stranger eby day.”
What was Daddy Cato talking about? A stranger. Who? The members facing
Missie from the other side of the fire had their eyes fixed on Daddy
Cato’s face. Maum Hannah nodded sorrowfully at him. She understood him.
“Chillen, da stranger pass me by, mighty close one time,” Daddy Cato
said.
“Enty?” they mumbled back.
“So close tell I felt e breat’,----”
Somebody cried out: “Do, Jedus!”
“Yinner see my face---- how e lef’ em----”
A tremble cramped Daddy Cato’s black lips. He held up the smoky lamp and
pointed to his motionless cheek. His face was wrong. One whole side of
it. It was still. It didn’t move at all. Even when the other side cried
it was quiet.
“E pa-lyze,” somebody whispered. “Da wha’ ’e duh talk ’bout----”
There were grunts of sympathy.
“Chillen----” Daddy Cato’s voice broke, then he went on earnestly: “When
da stranger kiss you--an’ e gwine kiss eby one--eby one!”
The good side of his face began crying. It twisted like a child’s. The
members on the front benches began praying and groaning and moaning:
“Do, Jedus! Hab mussy, Lawd!”
Some of them rocked from side to side and begged Daddy Cato to go on.
“Tell em, brudder! Tell em! Heah em, sinners! Heah em fo-true!”
Missie shivered. She was a sinner. Rose said so. A sinner. And it made
her afraid to look at Daddy Cato’s face, all crooked--wrong----
“Chillen,” he began again with his voice low and tight in his throat,
“yinner know wha’ da stranger leab when e kiss you?”
“No, suh,” they answered him softly. The firelight shone bright in their
wide-opened eyes.
“When da stranger kiss you--’e ain’ gwine leab nuttin’--nuttin’!”
Daddy Cato’s lips stumbled with what he wanted to say. “_Nuttin ain’
leab but a box o’ col’ meat. Col’ meat!_”