inquired.
“But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n
I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got
come from de rheumatism.”
“Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested.
“Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks
into the yard.
“Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,”
said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing
along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.”
Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to
the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and
guessing the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and
told her to go in.
Carmelite laid the pan of cornbread on the table and sat down, looking
about the room slowly. She was impressed with the clean, orderly poverty
of its furnishing. Save for an old table and two chairs, the place was
almost bare. Some iron pots on the hearth gave evidence that all the
cooking was done in the open fireplace, on the level with the floor, and
greatly in need of repairs.
Aunt Fisky drew a chair from the corner by the chimney and sat down.
Carmelite looked at her without speaking, thinking of her tired old body
and the weary expression on her kindly wrinkled old face. Her guinea-blue
dress was patched in many places, but was clean and carefully ironed. Her
head-handkerchief, once a bright piece of yellow-and-brown plaid gingham,
now old and faded, was tied with care; the two tabs in front drooping
over like a tired butterfly resting after a long flight.
“Daughter, I’m sho glad to set down,” Aunt Fisky sighed, after a brief
silence. “I’m so played-out till I got de swimmin’ in de head.”
“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ stummic mus’ be ain’ workin’ right,” Carmelite advised
her again. “W’at make you don’ take a couple o’ dem pumma-crissul off de
bush you got yonder, an’ eat ’um; an’ see if dey don’ help you? Dey sho
is good w’en somh’n be wrong wid yo’ intwuds.” (Inwards.)
“Daughter, I know de things is good,” Aunt Fisky answered; fully mindful
of Carmelite’s well-meant interest. “But I’m des natchally ’fraid to
meddle wid ’um,” she continued. “Ever since ole Unc’ Jo Mingo died from
eatin’ pumma-crissul seeds off de bush in ’is yard.... I don’ trus’ ’um.
So I don’ wan’ tamper wid ’um.”
“But, Aun’ Fisky, ain’t you b’lieve greed’ness had a whole lot to do
wid Unc’ Jo Mingo death?” Carmelite asked her. “It look to me like
pumma-crissul kilt ’im ’cause he ain’ use no jedgment ’bout eatin’ ’um,”
she went on. “Ain’ sattafy eating two or three seeds, w’en somebody tol’
’im dey was good for certain sickness; had to keep on eatin’ ’um, aft’
he done found out he like de way dey tas’e; till he done et a _whole
han’-full_.... ’Tain no wonder Unc’ Jo Mingo died. Wid all dat castor oil
surgin’ up an’ down ’is body.”
But Aunt Fisky’s judgment was going to be her protection. She knew that
palma Christi seeds were good medicine. She had heard the white folks
talk about it, she told Carmelite. But she was afraid to meddle with
them, and would rather use some remedy she knew better. Okra seed tea was
just as good; and she would try a dose of that, if old Uncle Bendigo’s
ointment didn’t bring relief after a few days more.
Carmelite advised her to be careful about what she ate; and seized the
occasion to call her attention to the pan of corn-bread. Aunt Fisky got
up and unwrapped the present; thanked Carmelite for her thoughtfulness,
and asked her if she needed any eggs. Carmelite told her about the raffle
she was giving; and said she wanted to bake a cake, and would take a half
dozen duck eggs, if Aunt Fisky could spare them.
The old woman brought the eggs from the next room; and after turning the
cornbread out on the table, she put the eggs in Carmelite’s pan, and sat
down again for a chat.
“Do Gussie know anything ’bout de raffle at yo’ house to-night?” Aunt
Fisky inquired.
Carmelite hesitated slightly, uncertain what to answer.
“Gussie ’tenshun don’ run to’ads quilts, Aun’ Fisky. An’ da’s de reason
I ain’ say nothin’ to ’im,” she apologized. “An’ innyway, de raffle ain’
goin’ las’ long. ’Cause you know, evvybody goin’ straight from my house,
yonder to Tempe wake at de New Hope church.... An’ I ’spec Gussie goin’
too.”
“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her.
“Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I
dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is
money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried
to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my
own color.”
“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down
steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.
“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’
’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing
smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over
Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de
banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh
way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des
look at you _hard_, an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”
Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could
talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what
they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets”
(illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.
But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the
wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about
the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when
they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of
their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention.
Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned
their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and
dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.
Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things
going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the
washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had
to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks
to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she
could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her
comfort.
“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to
you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her
head with perfect understanding.
Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to
shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under
her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and
force him to show her the right respect.
“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no _nigger_, like you an’ me?”
Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’
make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger
feelin’s.... Gussie a _w’ite_ man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I
change Gussie natchal ways?”
Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden
vehemence.
“Gussie ain’ _good_ as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word
as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n
to play proud wid _you_, an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im
up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie
ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’
owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able
to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie
lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in
de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”
Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It
would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s
mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie
had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go
back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t
recognize him.
“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,”
Carmelite declared with positive conviction.
“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky
assured her with simple loyalty.
“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and
wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.
Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand;
she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for
Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t
have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in
the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind;
when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite
would see. Just wait.
“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and
making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie
come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs
from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for
’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder
an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’
Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a
cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the
doorway, looking pensively across the green.
Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of
the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters
of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a
dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it
came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the
white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat
people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread
an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie
that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No
indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes.
And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”
Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the
thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical
sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the
occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being
creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it
could be worn.
Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she
decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was
going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing
something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a
market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she
hurried along.
When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of
singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices
singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. Nookie recognized the
voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear.
She would walk right in.
Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board,
pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain
spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from
getting soiled.
Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though
he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison,
tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.
Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at
the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet
entrance. At length she exclaimed:
“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh?
Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in
front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go
yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so
haphazzud,—big as you is!”
Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room,
laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over
the petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said
casually:
“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’
call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”
“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh
together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat
i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh
in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”
With calm politeness, Soongy said:
“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy
was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’
ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”
Nookie looked puzzled.
“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im
stay in-do’s?”
“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp,
play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times
an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he
so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp,
wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l A-rabs from down de
street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick
feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’
’tall good to eat.”
Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and
disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she
didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor
colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and
so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called
it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to
keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp
niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried
in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter,
when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch
them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had
to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and
knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard.
And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up
with your hands, and throw out on the bank.
Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and tchoupique stew she knew how
to make, Nookie asked:
“Soongy, you say you don’ eat shoe-pick?”
“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat
lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”
“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he
came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a
string.
He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy
looked at him crossly, and shouted:
“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip
off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in
de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back
whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you
speechless!... You hyeah me?”
Dink looked at her appealingly and left the room.
“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie
asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you
tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”
“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. “Dink got plenny time
to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight
ain’ come yet.”
Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in
Dink’s behalf.
“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he
doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh
slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’
col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’
over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”
Soongy looked up from her ironing, and answered impatiently:
“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid
dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l
to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no
egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come
hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you
gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way
you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”
“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to
press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no
charcoal to my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so
I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is
you?” She asked, falteringly.
“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much
as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the
board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me
feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat
shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”
Nookie laughed pleasantly, and said:
“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so
critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um
roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a
plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin
an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you
want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’
to me, you hyeah?”
The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy
said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:
“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ dress, an’ go home an’
lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head....
Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so,
he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to
put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is
name.”
Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the
fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress,
she said:
“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you
is.”
Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the
dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of
conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their
tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next
room, like a broken response.
Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in
the basket, making ready to go.
“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she
said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons.
“An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I
git to Carmelite house, in front all dem people say dey comin’,” she
called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he
kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good
befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”
The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink
had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him
commandingly:
“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me
straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny
clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”
All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering
over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began
falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and
coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of
smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound
of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to
go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to
help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had
to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would
expect him.
Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old
cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him
get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he
was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and
hinder him. It would only make him cross.
Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in
the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin
first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and
get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for
a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he
got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home
to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”
This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter
by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and
whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and
such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft
of sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty
on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down
the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for
their cook stoves and fireplaces.
Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who
thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz
lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally
Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night
with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling;
when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by
canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.
Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be
called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four
posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked
hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week.
Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each
foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about
in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his
white and colored patrons.
Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual
after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted
of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on
a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of
chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung
with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red
flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull
squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of
empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past)
hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.
For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were
being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old
Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed
his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue,
regardless of caste or color.