Her eyes opened wide and caught sight of the red rooster’s glossy,
bright feathers and his scarlet comb. She cooed with delight.
The red rooster listened and walked timidly up to the cradle. He
stretched his neck and looked over the side to see what was there. Tiny
dimpled fists and small black feet jerked uncertainly, quickly. Two
black eyes danced and sparkled.
The red rooster leaned a little closer. The child seemed harmless
enough.
He was hungry. He had not had a single grain that morning. Not a crumb.
Rose and Missie and Killdee had all forgotten to feed him.
The hens were scratching for worms, but it was very hot. They had to
hold their wings out away from their bodies while they scratched. A
tiresome thing.
Maybe these two, bright shiny eyes would be good to eat. He would have
to be quick to get them. They didn’t keep still like blackberries. No,
but maybe they tasted better.
His yellow beak was sharp and his long neck was strong, and he gave a
swift peck.
Rose outside was washing and singing, but she heard the strangled gasp
of terror, the silent held breath, then the shrill, heart-breaking
scream.
She flew up the cabin steps, stumbling over the frightened red rooster.
He squawked and cackled with terror and tried to fly past her out
through the door.
It was easy to see what had happened. A bloody hole gaped, then it
poured out red tears.
Rose’s eyes dazzled. She picked up the child and held her close while
she stumbled blindly, wildly over the soft furrows to where Killdee
worked to kill grass in the field. Killdee would know what to do. He’d
know.
“Killdee--Killdee----” she moaned as she went, “mah po’ lil baby----
Looka wha’ de rooster done to em, Killdee----”
Killdee heard her and went running to meet her. Missie ran too. Killdee
looked once at Sis’s poor little blood-stained face and turned away with
a breath that whistled sharp through his teeth. His mouth went hard. His
lips taut.
Why couldn’t he speak? What was the matter with him?
Rose put out a hand to touch him, then drew it back.
He was laughing--no--not laughing, either, but his face was working
curiously----
Missie followed his eyes as they looked wistfully across the fields
where heat waves danced merrily in the hot sunshine. What was Killdee
thinking? Why was he so quiet?
“Yinner mus’ be blame me--yinner won’ say nuttin’,” Rose sobbed. Killdee
said slowly, hoarsely:
“No--I dunno nuttin’ fo’ say----”
Rose turned away crying. Killdee was blaming her. She had let the
rooster get in. It was Monday. She had to wash. He knew that.
“Look lak you’d come kill de rooster--Killdee---- Don’ look lak you’d
stan’ up dere an’ don’ say nuttin,--an’ don’ do nuttin’----”
Killdee held out his arms.
“Gi’ Sis to me, Rose. Lemme tote em home fo’ you. Missie, you go walk
behime Mike. He kin keep to de row an’ plow tell I git back. You des
hol’ de plow up fo em.”
With the child in his arms, he walked toward the cabin. Rose followed
him, sobbing and saying as she went:
“I can’ wash no mo’ to-day. No. Not at mah baby eye done pick out----
You haffer kill da rooster, Killdee. I can’ stan’ fo’ hab em roun’ de
do’ no mo’--no--not at e pick mah baby eye out. I know all de time
somet’ing been gwine happen. Nobody wouldn’ lis’n at me when I
talk--nobody wouldn’ pray, but me.”
Killdee did not answer, but he remembered how the new moon hid behind
the china-berry tree last night. Bad luck had come. Yes.
When he killed the rooster, he’d cut the damned tree down too.
_Teaching Jim_
Killdee walked home beside the load of wood. In a kind voice he urged
Mike on. The sun was going down.
Far across the cotton field it shone red. As Killdee lifted serious eyes
to look at it, his lean, gaunt, black face saddened.
The sun that set in Baby Rose’s grave was red, just like this sunset.
Red like the fire that burned her tender baby flesh and killed her. He
never saw a red sunset without thinking of little Baby Rose.
Now as he thought, his tired eyes filled with tears, and through the
tears, the red coppery glow glistened, and flashed and gleamed mockingly
before him.
Killdee heaved a deep sigh--a sigh so deep as to be almost a sob. He
thought of Baby Jim there at home. Chubby little Baby Jim. Bright-eyed,
brown, dimpled, with fuzzy little black wool just beginning to grow on
his head.
Little Jim knew his daddy--knew him as well as Rose and Missie did. Jim
loved him, too. He always came toddling with funny, uncertain steps to
meet him.
Jim had already learned not to fall out of the door any more. He had
learned that by falling over and over. He knew how it hurt. When he
stood in the doorway, ready to go down the steps now, Rose and Missie
laughed at the way Jim’s tiny fingers clutched the door-facing.
Jim laughed with them too. Perhaps he didn’t know why they laughed, but
he always tried to join in whatever other people did. Good little Jim!
The thought of Jim cheered Killdee. Jim was his. His son. For Jim he was
willing for hard work to crack his very sinews. For Jim’s sake he tried
to be careful. Never again would he stir the earth on Green Thursday.
Never.
Jim was a part of himself. Jim’s little hands, his funny little words,
his stumbling, uncertain little feet, were the most precious things on
earth.
Jim thought his old daddy was the greatest thing. The greatest man. Jim
thought he was great as God! Jim didn’t know any better.
He liked to play in the fire just as Baby Rose had liked to do. He must
be taught not to do it. He must learn that fire burns.
Baby Rose lay yonder in the graveyard in the little pine box Andrew made
to fit her, with the heavy red earth piled up on her, all by her little
lonesome self, because the thing she loved best to play with had killed
her.
He ought to have taken her and shown her how it felt to be burned. She
would not forget pain. No. But he didn’t think about it. He thought she
would learn by herself.
Why did God make people like the things that would hurt them? Kill them?
Why didn’t He let them know danger?
Winter was here. Fire had to burn big and bright in the chimney to keep
the cabin warm. All day it must burn and at night be banked deep with
ashes so it wouldn’t die out.
Cold weather was here. Even on fair days, Jim would have to stay inside
the cabin to keep warm. Rose would be in the field. Missie, too. Rows of
brown stalks still held fluffy, white cotton.
Rose and Missie would have to help pick the cotton. Killdee couldn’t
gather it by himself. Sometimes nobody would be left at home with Jim.
If Jim were a little older he would be safe, for he’d know that fire
burns. But Jim, happy little Jim, did not know it yet. Already he tried
to take straws and sticks and hold them in the fire to see them blaze.
When Rose or Missie scolded him and made him drop his pretty plaything,
Jim didn’t understand why. He’d watch it when they made him drop it on
the hearth, and his little lips would quiver because he couldn’t keep it
in his hand.
Killdee sighed as he trudged on homeward. The time had come. He must
teach little Jim that fire burns! Telling him so did no good. He’d have
to show him. To-night he’d have to show him. He and Rose and Missie had
talked it over. They had decided. It must be done. Jim must learn that
fire burns.
When Killdee got nearer the dusky little cabin by the side of the road,
two little black children stood on the doorstep waving at him. Black
smoke rushed briskly out of the broad clay chimney. Bright sparks rose
with it, shone and died.
A strange thing, fire! Burning inside there, hot, strong, fierce, while
Rose cooked the supper. That fire was a good, kind friend that cooked
food for them and kept them warm. Yet, it could scorch and kill a baby’s
body, too.--Just as it ate up strong wood and turned it to ashes.
When those bright sparks rose and went out, where did they go? Killdee
watched them. They sparked, raced, and were gone. Where?
Where did Baby Rose go?
Missie and Jim were coming running to meet him. Killdee stopped Mike and
waited. Jim must have a ride. Missie was picking Jim up in her arms to
bring him. He walked too slow to keep up with her.
Killdee took Jim from her and set him on the pile of wood in the wagon
and put the rope lines into the chubby hands. Missie shouted and laughed
when Jim shook the lines and tried to make patient, old Mike go faster.
When Mike stopped with his head at the wide gate of the barnyard,
Killdee took Jim down and gave him back into Missie’s arms. He
struggled and kicked and screamed to stay with his daddy, but Killdee
smiled, and said gently:
“Tek him on een de house, Missie. Night air ain’ good fo’ lil chillen.
Jim don’ know no better. Tek him on.”
As Killdee loosened the collar from Mike’s neck, he said to himself:
“Dey’s a lot he don’ know, po’ lil Jim! But I reckon none o’ we don’
know much, atter all.”
When Killdee went into the house, Rose was cooking supper on the open
fire.
The chimney’s wide, black, sooty mouth, which stretched across one side
of the room, was filled with logs of wood. A great fire licked at them
with smacking, hungry tongues. Yellow flames crackled and roared up the
chimney, devouring the logs, while red and blue flames played over the
coals.
Pot hooks fastened firmly in the stone and clay held black iron pots in
the blaze. The sandy hearth held three-legged pots. Pots with handles.
Iron kettles. Iron spiders. All had tight-fitting covers. They sat black
and comfortable. Missie had just scoured them clean and they were
waiting there, ready to be used.
Ashes piled in one corner on the fireplace lay very still, until a puff
of steam from underneath raised them like dust, and a fragrant smell
went out into the room. Sweet potatoes were roasting there.
In another corner, corn shucks showed through a mound of ashes. Spurts
of steam sizzing out made the mound heave like a small volcano. Ash cake
was cooking there.
A frying-pan sat on live coals pulled out on the hearth. Slices of fat
bacon sputtered and spit and curled around the edges as Rose dropped
them on it. Good smells filled the room and streamed out of the open
door to where the two little black children sat in the half-light.
They sniffed and laughed and got up and came running inside. Both
hurried to the cupboard for a pan. Then to the shelf for a spoon. Little
Jim did whatever Missie did. The frying bacon was the supper bell. They
knew supper was ready when they smelled it. Killdee, coming in, saw them
and smiled wistfully.
When their pans were helped, Missie and Jim sat on the floor to eat.
When all the pans were empty, Missie washed them and put them away. Jim
crawled up into Killdee’s lap.
“Sonny,” said Killdee, “is you lub you ol’ daddy?”
Jim answered with a bear-like hug.
“Sonny--” Killdee’s voice sounded queer and broken, “wha’ mek you play
een de fire?”
Killdee took the baby’s fat fingers and looked at them.
Rose sat by the firelight with her patching.
“Killdee----” She leaned forward. Fear warped her face. “Killdee, wha’
you gwine do?”
“Honey----” Killdee met her eyes, then turned his own to the fire. Jim
sat up and looked at each of them. Reaching up, he patted Killdee’s
rough cheek.
“Ol’ Pa,” he said, laughing mischievously, “Ol’ Pa.”
Killdee looked at Rose. Her face was queer and drawn.
“I can’ ha’dly stan’ fo’ do em, Rose, but looka da fire.
S’pose--s’pose----”
The strong oak logs were already crumbling to ashes, turning from fiery
red to gray.
“Jim will play een de fire. Nobody can’ stop em. ’E’s a lil, ign’ant,
trus’ful baby. ’E is. I better show em how fire kin bu’n. I better. Don’
look at me sorrowful, Rose. It hu’t me clean to my heart.”
Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Killdee kept trying to comfort her.
“People mus’ try fo show dey chillen how t’ings kin pain ’em. An’ kill
’em. Mebbe ef we had a show lil Rose ’bout fire--I dunno. Some t’ings
_is to be_, I reckon. Maum Hannah say Baby Rose’s time was out.
“Tellin’ people don’ do no good. You haffer show em. Suffer em.”
The bright flames rippled innocently. They gave out a warm, kind light.
“You might be right, Killdee,” Rose tried to agree, but her breath
caught with a sob.
Killdee turned up Jim’s small brown palm and looked at it. How could he
burn it? How? Yet he must.
His strong fingers tightened sternly. He leaned forward and yook up a
hot, live coal off the hearth, and laid it on Jim’s tender fingers.
The baby’s scream, the woman’s cry, the man’s groan, sounded all
together. Missie came running to see what was wrong. Big tears rolled
down her thin cheeks. She looked at Killdee with big, solemn eyes, then
turned away without a word and went slowly back to bed in the shed room.
She understood. Little Jim had to be taught his lesson. Killdee had to
do it. It was the only way.
Jim sobbed himself to sleep in Killdee’s lap. Sorrow had come to him
without warning from the very one he loved best. His hand was burned and
his baby heart was cut to the quick.
Killdee gave him to Rose and walked out into the night. He looked up at
the stars. They shone up there like sparks that never did go out. He
wondered if Baby Rose was up there--up there with them, and God.
_Catfish_
Killdee came home from the Cross-roads store one Saturday afternoon and
his black face was bright with enthusiasm.
“Rose,” he said, taking a chair and putting it up close to the hearth
where an iron pot simmered industriously with catfish stew, “I got a
good plan. A good one. Lemme tell you ’bout em.”
Rose looked up from her sewing.
“Wha’ e is?” she asked with interest.
“I dunno wha’ you gwine t’ink ’bout em. We can’ hab much catfish fo’ eat
ef I do em.”
Killdee breathed in the appetizing smell thoughtfully.
“Wha’ you duh talk ’bout, Killdee?” Rose asked, puzzled indeed.
He laughed and said teasingly:
“Guess wha’ e is.”
“Oh, go on an’ tell me,” she urged him.
“Well, dis is it. A man sellin’ futilizer wuz at de sto’ dis ebenin’. I
heah him talkin’ ’bout de crops an’ t’ing. ’E say fish-scrap is de bes’
futilizer een de bunch. It’ll mek cawn an’ cotton grow off faster dan
anyt’ing. De futilizer man say de factory meks de pure, naked fish into
fish-scrap.”
Rose forgot all about the fish-stew in the pot there on the coals while
Killdee described to her what he had heard. How big boats go on the
ocean with wide, long nets, which they spread around schools of fish.
How the fish are caught and carried to a place where they are ground up
and sacked and sold to farmers for high prices.
“Lawd, Rose, ef I could mek my own futilizer! Ef I didn’t hab to buy
none! We’d hab mo’ money dan we’d know wha’ fo’ do wid.”
Rose listened thoughtfully. It sounded wonderful indeed.
“But you ain’ got nuttin’ fo’ grind up de fish wid, Killdee.”
“No. Da’s so. But de fish don’ haffer be grind up. I could easy put dem
een de groun’ an’ dey’d rot befo’ you know it. I gwine try em.”
Before many days passed, Killdee had fish traps made of split hickory
strips set all along the bank of the tawny river. He used corn meal
cooked into thick lumps for bait.
Every morning by daylight he was there at his traps getting out the fat
catfish.
“How-come you goes to de ribber so reglar, son?” Maum Hannah asked him
one morning, as he passed her cabin.
“I’m a-tryin’ fo’ git catfish,” he answered.
Maum Hannah thought he had a guilty look. She wondered what Killdee was
doing back there on the river every day. Maybe he had a still.
“Better mine,” she warned, “you gwine ketch de fever. Too much o’ ribber
swamp ain’ good. You better not be mekkin’ whiskey back dere. Mine! I
heah you been gittin’ a lot o’ cawn mek eento meal, too. Mine!”
Killdee kept on patiently, persistently, until every stalk of corn in
his field had a catfish right at its root. When those fish rotted, what
a crop of corn he would have! His crop would be ahead of all the other
crops, and he’d have no fertilizer bill to pay.
His fingers were often sore with poison from the catfish fins, and it
did take a lot of meal for the bait, but Killdee felt he’d more than
make it all back.
In the Fall he’d have more corn than he needed. He’d sell some. The barn
would be full. The mule fat. The hogs would make bacon enough to last
all year. Killdee was happy over the good work he was doing.
When every stalk was fed with a fish at its roots, he decided to go over
and tell Maum Hannah all about it. He’d give her a load of the corn when
it was made. She was so good to his folks. Now would be his chance to do
something for her.
That night when supper was over, he took the path across the field and
went to her cabin. His heart and step were light.
“How you dis ebenin’, Auntie?” he greeted her, as he walked right in
through the open door.
“Come een, son. You had supper yet? I’m des’ now sta’tin’ fo’ eat.”
Maum Hannah was always glad to see him. She pointed to a chair.
“Yes’m, I done eat. You go on. Don’ stop. I des’ come fo’ talk wid you a
lil, an’ fo’ see how you do.” His face was beaming. Maum Hannah’s eyes
twinkled mischievously as she rallied: “I’d do better to-night ef I had
catfish stew fo’ eat wid my bread. How-come you don’ bring me catfish no
mo’?”
Killdee grinned.
“Da’s de bery t’ing I come fo’ talk wid you ’bout,” he said.
“I don’ see no fish een you han’, dough,” she answered.
“No’m, but I come fo’ tell you wha’ I duh do wid all dem catfish I
catch. I feeds my cawn fiel’ on dem fish, ’stead o’ you an’ Rose an’ de
chillen.” Killdee laughed heartily at his joke.
“Yes’m. Da same cawn fiel’ out yonder is got a catfish to eby stalk. You
wait tell it rain. Da’s gwine be de fines’ piece o’ cawn een dis
country. Da’s de reason I been gwine to de ribber so reg’lar. I been
baitin’ fish wid all da meal.”
Maum Hannah grunted.
“Whe’ you heah o’ sich a t’ing, son?”
Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap
and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.
“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.
“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger--somehow, a nigger
don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I
hope e is.”
Killdee was confident.
“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid
cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I
fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.
“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you
git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”
“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.
When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between
short puffs she said:
“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid
you wuz doin’ dat.”
“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine
hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’
Christmus.”
Maum Hannah said gayly:
“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine
I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep
em een. It spiles too quick.”
“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,”
Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”
He got up to go. It was getting late.
“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away
whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and
went to bed.
Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange
growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s
field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and
listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing
anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of
the river swamp?
There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?
She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it
was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in
sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.
She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but
there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn,
swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were
digging up the fish.--Fighting over them.--And the smell of those
catfish! Poor Killdee!
There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the
path to her cabin.
She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think.
She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without
fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn
out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not
stop until every fish was eaten.
Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.
Men take trouble harder.--Harder.
The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming
down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last
night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.
She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and
haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.
“Auntie----” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk
o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.--Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’
is ruin’!--Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem
catfish.”
His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.
“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a
tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good
crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on
plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now--now--dem Gawd-damn dawgs----”
Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his
chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who
used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily
cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.
She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy
shoulder.
“Son--son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand
sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How
else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her
fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.
“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby.
But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty--fo’
eat.--Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de
stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”
It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there,
bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when
she added:
“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een
Him. Haffer!”
Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his
lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He
laughed boisterously.
“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”
He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.
_Son_
All night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he
twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,--and clawed and
scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his
rough, yellow hide.
Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to
sleep again.
Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep
quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient
fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.
As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and
bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.
Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast.
But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy
fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.
Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the
sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.
“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s
mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een.
Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek
you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”
Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest
made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was
withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.
But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and
whined and scratched to be let out.
Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went
down the steps into the night.
First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy
path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.