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!