chirping. Killdee closed his eyes and murmured:
“Sing, brudders! Sing! You been sleepin’, enty! But now you’s a-wakin’
up.”
He walked on, whistling a low tune.
* * * * *
With Rose, the day had been a hard one. Many things had gone wrong. A
stray dog had come and broken up a nest full of eggs that would soon
have hatched. The clothes she and Missie washed on Monday did not dry
because it rained on them, and now some of them showed signs of mildew.
Her very best petticoat, the one she wanted to wear to church Sunday,
was ugly with it. Sparrows had scratched up seed in the garden.
Everything seemed to be wrong!
There was a frown on her face as she rolled the sleeves back from her
plump arms. Holding her skirts aside, she drew red coals out on the
hearth. She placed an iron griddle carefully on them, and going to the
shelf where she kept the groceries, she dipped up a measure of meal out
of the sack, put it into a pan, and added water from a bucket on the
shelf.
With a sigh she thought how glad she was the children were fed and
asleep in bed. She wished Killdee would come on. It was late. She
glanced out of the open door. It was nearly night, yet she saw nothing
of him. She was tired. The spring days were getting long.
Killdee loved work. He was strong and able to go all day. All night too,
if he wanted to. But she was jaded when night came. Glad to rest.
Killdee ought to think of her and come on.
Missie came out of the shed-room, where she had been putting the
children to sleep. She still hummed the tune she had sung to them,
“Bye-and-bye, when the morning comes.”
“Do don’ keep on a-singin’,” Rose said complainingly.
Missie sang too much. She was always singing. Rose jerked the spoon as
she stirred the meal and water together. It was aggravating to have
somebody always singing and happy. There was nothing to be so happy
about.
If Missie cared about things as she ought to do, she wouldn’t be
singing. Not with Mike dead and Killdee in debt for the new mule--and
that new harness. Missie was old enough now to feel responsibility.
Yet why should Missie care? She got her good three meals a day. And
clothes. A bed to sleep in. Her mother before her hadn’t cared about
things. That was why somebody had to take Missie to raise her. Rose
sighed, and stirred the meal with such energy that bits of it fluttered
over the side of the pan and fell lightly on the fresh-scoured floor.
“Git a broom an’ sweep up da meal befo’ you’ foot step on ’em,” she said
abruptly to Missie.
How quick and sharp her words sounded! Missie glanced at Rose’s face,
then got the field-straw broom from its place in the corner and began to
sweep. She had scoured the floor that day, and the bare room had a
fresh, clean, cozy look in the warm, flickering light.
She had taken a few fresh eggs to the cross-roads store and exchanged
them for clean newspapers. These cut into fringes fluttered from the
wide mantelshelf, where a coco-cola bottle filled with water held a
spray of plum blossoms, white, fragile, already shattering.
“Dem plum blossom duh mess up de flo’ wusser’n de meal,” Rose said
crossly. “Sweep ’em up!”
Missie carefully swept the bits of meal and the delicate petals into the
fire, and then put the broom back where it belonged.
She stopped to look at the mantelpiece. How pretty it looked! Killdee
liked things to look pretty. He didn’t mind if they littered the floor a
little.
Rose turned to her impatiently.
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, don’ be stannin’ dere a-gazin’. Heah lately you all de
time doin’ like you’s a-walkin’ een you sleep. Wha’ de matter ail you,
gal?”
Missie’s eyes lifted to Rose’s face. She was startled by its hard,
accusing look.
“You--you wan’ me fo’ do--anything--Aun’ Rose?” she asked timidly.
“I can’ be a-tellin’ you wha’ fo’ do eby minute.” Rose answered, as she
took the long fire-stick and impatiently shoved pieces of blazing wood
farther back in the fireplace. “Looks like old ez you is, you could see
wha’ fo’ do.”
There was a cheery clinking of trace-chains and a whistled tune outside.
Killdee was coming. Missie went to the door. She leaned against the
lintel and listened. How she loved the thud-thud of the new mule’s feet.
He came home brisk, almost trotting, after plowing all day. And Killdee
was whistling.
So different from the days when he plowed old Mike. It was better that
old Mike died. He was too slow, poor old fellow. It took him all day to
plow just a little piece of the crop. And every night Killdee came home
so tired. So downhearted.
But now with Joe it was different. Joe and Killdee were matched up
together. Both were strong. Stout. Able to work without tiring. Killdee
had the crop all clean and growing fast. Every night he came home happy.
To-night he was even whistling. What if he was in debt? He was a man. He
could work and pay. He had Joe to help him. He had the fine new harness.
Missie’s heart beat fast with pleasure. It was right for Killdee to
have the best mule in the world. The best harness. She wished he could
have--well, everything!
She smiled to think how pleased Killdee would be to see she had oiled
the new harness that day.
When she finished the scouring, she had taken it down from the peg on
the wall where it hung and greased it all and wiped every buckle clean.
There it hung. Shiny. New as the day it was bought.
Joe would look fine dressed up in it when Killdee took Rose to Mount
Pleasant Church next Sunday.
Missie looked up at the starlit sky. It was clear. Sunday would be clear
too. Joe would hold his head high and prance. Killdee would have to hold
the lines tight to rule him. Everybody would look at Killdee and Joe.
The gentle breeze blowing in Missie’s face seemed to hold some of the
light of the clear sky. Some of the freshness of the plowed earth. The
delicious smell of plum blossoms had never seemed so piercing sweet as
to-night.
Rose’s voice, sharp, reproving, interrupted Missie’s thoughts.
“Looks like you’d go help Killdee feed up, ’stead o’ standin’ dere
a-moonin’. Killdee mus’ be mighty tired to-night.”
“Why--Aun’ Rose,” Missie faltered.
“Oh, you mek surprise, enty? You t’ink you kin go an’ dress you’se’f up,
an’ stan’ ’roun’ an’ look at de moon, while me an’ Killdee duh wuk.”
“I ain’ dress’ up, Aun’ Rose. I been so dirty--my dress been wet at I
scour.”
“Mighty strange how I haffer keep on my same one. You kin go put on
clean one,” Rose snapped.
Missie’s fingers felt the rough cloth of the dress she wore. What Rose
said was true. She had put on a clean one when she finished scouring.
The one she had on was wet and soiled. She had greased the harness and
that made it worse. She had put on a clean one. And Rose had on the same
one she had worn all the week. Rose was provoked about it.
“Aun’ Rose--I--I ain’----” Missie tried to explain, but there was
nothing to say. There was no excuse. She felt sick inside that Rose
could not understand.
“You could ’a’ gone an’ put een feed good ez Killdee. You could do ’em
eby night good ez him. You could tek de mule to de branch fo’ drink. But
no. You rudder go dress up. An’ stan’ een de do’. An’ watch me an’ him.
Me an’ Killdee could wuk finger to de bone! Wha’ you keer?”
Rose poured the batter of meal and water on the hissing hot griddle. She
took pains to scrape every bit from the sides of the pan. She smoothed
it over the top with the big, iron spoon. Missie saw that the spoon was
unsteady. Holding the empty pan and the spoon out to Missie, she said,
without looking up:
“Heah! Tek dese an’ wash ’em!”
Missie took them and went slowly to the shelf where three galvanized
water buckets stood in a row full to the top with water. Keeping these
full was part of her work. With one on her head and one in each hand,
she had learned to come up the hill from the spring with them full,
almost as easily as she went down with them empty.
Her heart felt troubled. She hardly thought what she was doing as she
took the gourd dipper from the nail where it hung beside the buckets and
poured water into the pan. Rose watched her. Then suddenly railed:
“You can’ wash nuttin’ clean wid col’ water! Much times ez I don tol’
you! Gi’ ’em heah to me!”
Rose reached for the pan.
“No,” said Missie, holding it back. “No, Aun’ Rose, I kin wash ’em. I
was des a-rinsin’ ’em. We mos’ always wait tell mawnin’ fo’ wash de
supper t’ings good. I kin wash ’em now.”
She went to the hearth where the big, black iron kettle sat breathing
steam from its spout. She poured hot water into the pan and began
stirring it around. Rose dropped a knife on the door. China plates in
her hands rattled against each other.
“Aun’ Rose----” Missie hesitated, “you set down an’ lemme fix Killdee’s
supper. I ain’ offer fo’ do ’em-by-it seem lak you would rudder--do ’em
you’se’f---- You know I be’s glad when I kin he’p you--or eeder him----”
Missie’s words trailed slower and slower, for she saw the expression on
Rose’s face. Hard. Angry. Missie felt like crying, yet she waited for
Rose’s answer.
“Ki!” Rose sneered. The water in the kettle simmered loud.
“How you mean ’Ki,’ Aun’ Rose?” Missie was distressed.
“I mean ’em des lak I say ’em,” Rose retorted.
“I mean ’em des lak e soun’. You know ef you had-a respec’ fo’ me, you’d
be cookin’ de supper now. Ef you keered ’bout Killdee, you’d ’a’ been
out yonder een de bahnyahd a-puttin’ up de mule--an’ feedin’ ’em.--No!
You gone dress up! Dress up so nobody can’ call on you to do nuttin’.”
“I is keer ’bout Killdee. ’Bout you too, Aun’ Rose. Yinner’s all de
mammy and daddy I got. Dey ain’ nuttin’ I wouldn’ do fo’
Killdee--nuttin’----” Missie could hardly talk.
“Talk you’ sweet-mout’ talk to Killdee. ’E’ll b’lieb anyt’ing. But you
can’ fool me. No! I know you don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em. You des keer
’bout dem t’ing Killdee buy fo’ you. I know!”
Rose was putting a dish on the little bare pine table in the middle of
the room. It fell with a crash and shattered into white bits all over
the floor.
“Lemme git ’em up, Aun’ Rose----” Missie said quickly. She dropped to
her knees and began picking up the broken pieces.
“No! Don’ tech ’em! I’m tired tell I’m pure trim’lin’. Da’s how-come I
drap da dish. Keep you’ han’ offen ’em! You pick flowers an’ cut paper
lambrekin all day. You heah Killdee comin’. You wan’ mek out you duh
wuk. No. Git up off de flo’! Git up!”
Missie got to her feet slowly. What was the matter with Rose? She must
be sick.
Rose picked up the broken pieces and tossed them into the fire. Then she
got a knife to turn over the hoe-cake baking there on the griddle. It
was burnt black. The smoke from it stung her eyes. Tears sprung, kindled
with anger.
“Look at dis! Look!” she said furiously. “Bu’n up! De bread fo’
Killdee’s supper! Bu’n up! Bu’n up!”
The knife in her fat hand trembled. Her short fingers tightened on its
handle.
“I reckon nobody didn’ tol’ you fo’ watch de bread, enty?”
Missie felt queer inside. Rose had often scolded her, but never like
this before.
“Aun’ Rose,” she said humbly, “I too sorry--I would ’a’ watch de
bread--I des’ fo’git--I des----”
“Shet you’ mout’, gal! You mek me too cross! Go git een de shed-room
whe’ my eye can’ see you. Respec’! Respec’! You ain’ got a respec’ fo’
nobody. Go!”
Rose was in a rage.
“But, Aun’ Rose----” Rose did not hear the appeal in Missie’s voice.
“Go, I tell you!” she screamed. “Before my han’ slap you! You le’
Killdee’s bread bu’n up! You don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em! No! I gwine
tell ’em so, too!”
“But I is keer ’bout ’em, Aun’ Rose. You couldn’t tell ’em I don’----”
Missie protested sorrowfully. “Aun’ Rose----”
Missie was miserable.
“Aun’ Rose----”
Rose scraped the charred crust off the bread and did not answer.
“Aun’ Rose--ef you tell Killdee--I ain’ keer ’bout ’em--you tell
somet’ing ain’ so----”
Rose lifted narrowed eyes to look at her.
“You mean to call me a lie, gal? Tell me dat!”
“No’m--but ef you tell Killdee----”
Rose got up and faced her there in the shed-room door.
“Well, I gwine tell ’em, heah? I gwine tell ’em soon’s ’e come. I gwine
tell ’em you talk impident talk to me! Soon’s ’e come! Ef I wasn’t a
good ’oman I’d kill you right now!”
“Aun’ Rose,”--Missie stopped crying. She met Rose’s eyes without
flinching. She spoke firmly. Distinctly.
“Ef you tell Killdee dat, you is a lie.”
Her little figure seemed to heighten. Killdee was coming up the steps.
Rose heard him and raised her voice.
“Killdee, dis gal call me a lie! You heah ’em?”
She began crying hysterically.
“I try fo mek em do right! You heah em? E call me lie! Lie! E t’ink you
gwine side wid em! E t’ink you gwine uphold em agains’ me!”
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, wha’ is dis?” Killdee asked. He was shocked.
Astonished.
“Who you call lie, Missie?”
“You heah wha’ e say, enty, Killdee?” Rose quavered. “I glad you come
een time fo’ heah em. You wouldn’ a’ b’lieb’ me. Not lessen you heah
em----”
“Wha’ you mean by sich a talk, Missie?” Killdee was looking straight at
her. “You mek me feel ’shame’. You would say sich a t’ing.”
Missie’s knees trembled under her.
“I decla’ to Gawd!” Killdee lamented.
Missie stood silent with her head down.
“No! E ain’ shame! E ain’t got no shame!” Rose sobbed violently.
“You haffer beg Rose pardon, Missie. You is, enty?” Killdee asked her.
He couldn’t bear to be hard on her.
Missie lifted great, wet eyes and looked at him. She shook her head. She
couldn’t do it. Killdee did not understand.
“No, Killdee. No. Aun’ Rose ain’ talkin’ straight. No. E know good too,
e ain’ tellin’ you wha’ I say to em.”
She looked at Rose and waited. Rose would have to tell him.
“Listen at em, Killdee,” Rose wailed. “E duh talk sassy talk to me now.”
Missie held still. Surprised. Rose was willing to let Killdee believe
what was not so. Rose was not ashamed to stand there and let a lie stand
for the truth. A lie!
Killdee’s eyes flashed with anger. He took a step forward.
“Look-a at me, Missie. You dassn’t to talk sassy to Rose!” He came still
nearer. “You would call Rose a lie, too? Me an’ Rose is been too easy on
you. Da’s de trouble. Da’s how-come you pass lie so glib on you’ tongue!
I ain’ lay my han’ on you yet een my life, gal. But, befo’ Gawd, ef you
don’t tek back wha’ you call Rose, I’m gwine lick you to-night! Lie?
Lie? I’ll show you how fo’ call people lie. I’m gwine lick you.”
He did not wait for Missie to answer him. He jerked the new harness down
from its peg on the wall. He fumbled and tugged and pulled at the oiled
pieces of leather.
What was Killdee doing? Missie’s heart quivered with terror. She
shivered, for Killdee was holding up one thick leather trace. He looked
at it, then dropped it. Dark thin streaks of grease marked the floor.
Killdee kept fumbling until he selected one of the holding-back straps.
He unbuckled this from the harness and, with it clutched in one tense
hand, came toward her.
She was sure now what he meant to do. He was going to beat her. Beat
her! Her mouth felt dry. Icy chills went down her spine. Killdee was
going to beat her with that strap in his hand.
She tried to say something. To tell him. But her lips were stiff. They
would not move.
Killdee stood glaring at her and the black leather strap shook in his
grasp.
“Come heah, gal!” he said sternly, “I gwine l’a’n you some manners
to-night.”
Missie seemed somehow unable to move. She took one step forward.
Tottering. Uncertain. What was she to do? Killdee mistrusted her.
“What de matter ail you? Ain’ you heah me say ’Come heah’?”
He seized her by the shoulder. The grip of his fingers hurt. They were
set on ruling her. Crushing her. Each one of them. Hard. Cruel. Galling.
They needn’t tighten like that. She wouldn’t try to get away. No. She’d
stand still. Let him beat her if he wanted to do it. Yes, beat her. And
she had thought he was her friend. That he loved her. And he didn’t even
believe what she said.
* * * * *
Killdee’s breath labored. Blood beat in his ears. He’d teach this girl a
lesson. One she’d never forget. He’d show her he was master in this
house. Rose was watching. She’d see that he’d give Missie her due.
Bright drops glittered on Missie’s lashes. Her soft lips began trembling
in a pitiful, helpless way. The dimple in her chin came and went. It
seemed to beg for tenderness, gentleness.
Killdee had made up his mind. He would not be changed. He would do what
he started to do.
He clutched the slight shoulder tighter. Its thin, narrow blade moved a
little under his taut fingers. His hand holding the strap with resolute
steadiness began faltering. It shook. It let go. For a soft, wet cheek
was pressed close against it.
The strap fell to the floor. Its shiny buckle made a dull, flat thump.
The length of leather twisted over and lay still.
Missie staggered a little. She closed her eyes and put up a hand to her
forehead.
Killdee turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at her again. As he
hurried out of the door, Rose gleeked a scornful “Chicken heart” at him,
but he hardly heard what she said for his blood drummed thick in his
ears.
He stumbled out into the night and walked blindly across the moon-lit
fields. The warm breath of them filled with the scent of plum-blossoms
was disturbing. Smothering. Like the heated air in his cabin. He longed
for a breath that was cool and clear. It would help him to think.
What was he to do--What? He had to face things. He couldn’t run
away--not from Missie. Not now. She needed him more than ever. And he
needed her. Yes, needed her--
He was caught in a trap. Caught fast. How could he ever get loose? Deep
down in his heart, did he want to get loose? He was not sure.
Voices of the singers at Meeting in the Quarter floated over the fields
and blent with his throbbing pulses.
“I’m--so--glad--
My trouble--won’ las’--always--”
He knew the singers and the words and the mournful tune well, but
to-night all of them seemed strange. Different. He stopped to listen.
People singing to God. Asking for help. How far away they seemed. As far
as those faint stars in the glowing sky. As far as God. He was alone in
the night.
Something in his heart answered the singers.
“Joy can’ las’ always needer. You sing about trouble. I’m gwine take one
joy whilst I kin.”
THE END
* * * * *
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Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
look up a hot=> took up a hot {pg 122}