sentimental expedition, and agreeable to leaving him to the enjoyment of
his own devices; Mr. Amos told him to take the whole day, and to let the
house-cleaning go for another time.
No. He insisted on following his own mind, and getting through with what
he had to do, so he would hear no more talk about that play-gone miljew
scent in the house; when he got back from Gritny, and wanted to tell
about what took place when they put Gussie away.... He couldn’t talk
sociable when people kept on makin’ a whole lot of complainin’.... “An’
innyway,—de sun done comed out dis mawnin’, an’ I ain’ goin’ risk puttin’
de thing off no longer.... So gimme some change to go to market an’ buy
yo’ li’l foods for dis evenin’.... An’ go ’head to yo’ office, an’ lemme
git to my business.”
Mr. Amos gave him the money for the purchases, and was about to leave,
when Felo followed him to the door and asked:
“You want some yam sweet potato dis evenin’? Fixed in de oven wid butter
an’ milk an’ vunilla essen’, an’ some dem w’ite-o’-aig things you call
mush-mallow?”
Mr. Amos gave a smile of assent, remembering this was one of Felo’s
boasted specialties, and that it was intended as a delicate compliment.
“An’ you want some smothered poke-chops, an’ stuffed aigplant wid swimps
in ’um?” Felo suggested.
“Why do you want to make such a feast?” Mr. Amos asked in surprise.
“After you finish all the house-cleaning you say you mean to do, you
better rest yourself; if you hope to do any singing at a wake tonight....
Fix the yams, if you care to. But get something else easy to cook.”
“Man, go ’head to yo’ office, for Gawd sake,” Felo told him; provoked at
having his show of hospitality received with such marked indifference.
“’Tain no use try’n to sattafy some people, w’en dey ain’ never learnt
how to ’preshate li’l favors did for ’um wid a free heart.... Go ’head
to yo’ office.... An’ you better be glad if you come back hyuh an’ fin’
coffee an’ bread to eat, w’en you git home dis evenin’.”
Left to himself, after he had done his marketing in the neighborhood,
it was not long until Felo’s domestic maneuvering was in full swing.
Any casual passer-by would have supposed the house was in process of
evacuation. Festoons of bed-clothes and barricades of pillows protruded
negligently from upstairs windows; scarves and cushions and draperies
of many colors flaunted in reckless abandon from down-stairs windows;
rugs hung over the side fence, and blankets flapped on the back-yard
clothes-line. Everything was brought out to bask in the welcome sunshine
and to gather freshness from the pleasant flowing breeze. Filled with
abundant energy and the unflagging desire to please, Felo was determined
to overlook no single detail about the house. Work don’t never hurt
nobody if they goes at it with the right sperret, he told himself....
He sho was goin’ to try his best to keep people from thinkin’ his boss
was runnin’ a li’l ole picayune boa’din’-house.... This house was a
rezzident; and he sho was goin’ keep it lookin’ so.... And Mr. Amos never
need feel ’shamed to have any comp’ny try to ’zamine his toys and things,
and all them “heavy-heavy-hangs-ove’-yo’-head” he had on the wall; after
Felo got done playin’ with ’um....
When he came home in the evening, Mr. Amos was struck by the orderly
appearance of everything. The rugs were fresh-looking and arranged with
care; the floors and the furniture were rubbed and polished; bright
flowers were on the piano and tables; and the whole house looked
cheerful and inviting.
As he walked back to the diningroom he heard the pleasant sound of Felo’s
voice, singing at his work in the kitchen.
“Death he is a cruel monster in dis lan’;
You kin call but he won’t answer, ain’t it gran’?”
The words didn’t carry a very cheerful greeting; but the melody was a
lovely one; thought Mr. Amos, as he stood listening, waiting until Felo
would finish the verse.
“I kin leave at break of day,
You will find but empty clay,—
Lawd, I wonder w’at they’ll say
W’en I’m gone...?”
“What a strange allurement death and wakes and funerals seem to hold out
to him; when at heart he is really of a happy disposition,” Mr. Amos
commented, as Felo ended his song and changed to a soft murmuring hum.
Mr. Amos stood looking about the room, waiting for Felo to sing again.
Suddenly he became conscious of the odor of pineapple. Wondering where
it came from, he soon discovered a large pineapple towering out of the
punch bowl on the corner cupboard, and another one standing on a tray on
the side table.
“Well, what do you call this?” He asked Felo, not knowing how to regard
the unusual decoration.
Felo came in from the kitchen, smiling, wanting to know if everything
wasn’t “sattafactual.”
Everything was fine. He was thoroughly pleased; Mr. Amos told him. “But
will you kindly tell me why you bought these pineapples and put them in
here after this fashion?”
Felo looked at the pineapples thoughtfully, his face assuming a puzzled
expression. What was the matter with them? They were nice and fresh....
He never let nobody sell him no cheap rotten fruits.... These pineapples
were fine ripe pineapples.... And nobody couldn’t buy no better
pineapples for two-bits a piece....
“But you know I never eat pineapples,” Mr. Amos informed him placidly.
“Dah bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed, abashed; rolling his eyes impressively
from one pineapple to the other. “You know, I clean forgot you ain’ never
eat pineapple,” he tried to explain. “Gawd knows.” He apologized with
deep feeling. “De thing sho did slip my membunce, jus’ like I tell you.”
“And that’s the reason why you bought two pineapples instead of one?”
Mr. Amos asked, teasingly.
“You ain’ try’n to raise no complaint ’bout fo’-bits, is you?” Felo went
on. “But you know, de things look so nice an’ temptin’ w’en I seen ’um on
de Dago stan’ dis mawnin’; I thought on w’at I hyeah’d you say,—how dis
place smell so mouldy.... So I say: I’m goin’ buy dese pair o’ pineapples
an’ put ’um in de room hyuh; an’ I know dey goin’ sho out-stink a
billy-goat.... An’ I bet you ain’ smell no miljew scent up in hyuh now.
Is you?”
Mr. Amos complimented him on his novel method of disinfecting, but said
he preferred to smell the tempting scent that came floating in from the
pots.
Felo rolled his eyes appreciatively, saying:
“Well, hurry up an’ set to de table, an’ lemme bring you yo’ li’l foods
befo’ yo’ appatite fo’sake you. Evvything ready. So come on an’ eat. An’
maybe I kin go ’way from hyuh soon, w’en I git thoo waitin’ on you.”
Further urging was unnecessary. Mr. Amos knew by the regaling odors
coming from the kitchen, that the evening meal would consist of much more
than the meager “coffee and bread” which Felo promised in the morning.
Having revoked his threat, in spite of the many duties accomplished that
day, Felo had exerted himself in preparing a truly noble dinner.
Not satisfied with the simple luxury of eggplant stuffed with shrimp and
tomato, seasoned with onion, thyme, parsley and red pepper, macerated
with milk and butter, Felo had added the epicurean garnish of rolled
toast and grated sapsago cheese. The yam potatoes, crowned with an
aureole of golden-brown marshmallows, looked like an arrangement
of autumn leaves mottled with sunshine; and Mr. Amos found himself
wondering if it were not a bowl of delectable vegetables masquerading
as a delicious dessert. The pork chops were smothered in a rich tomato
gravy flavored with cloves and lemon peel; a tempting ragout, which Felo
assured Mr. Amos, as he placed before him a plate of hot biscuits just
out of the oven, “sho will make you rear back an’ smack yo’ lips manful,
after you done sopped some o’ dese light biscuits in dis good ole-time
Creyall gravy.”
Knowing that Felo at all times looked for more active proof than simple
words of praise in appreciation of his culinary efforts, Mr. Amos
endeavored to “perish” and “destroy” as much as was humanly possible.
Because Felo was most pleased when he saw people “eat good”; and “et like
dey bin use to good eatin’.” Feeling that “a dinner table full o’ empty
plates an’ dishes was cert’ny mo’ convincin’ den a whole lot o’ col’
overs settin’ up in de ’frigerator.”
When Mr. Amos finished his coffee, he went upstairs to lie down, leaving
Felo to “scuffle wid his pots an’ make quick tracks for Gritny.” It was
not long before the kitchen boomed with the happy chorus of “De ole sheep
done knowed de road”; every now and then a broken cadence floating off
through the house like the sound of jubilation:
“My brother, ain’t you got yo’ counts all sealed?
De young lambs mus’ find de way.
You better git ’um ready ’fore you leave dis field;
De young lambs mus’ find de way.”
It was a pleasant sound, and Mr. Amos delayed reading his book as long as
the singing continued. As soon as there was silence in the kitchen, he
knew that Felo was dressing, and that it would not be long until he was
on his way across the river to Gussie’s wake.
If there were two particular forms of divertissement equally cherished
by every dweller of the East Green and thereabouts, perhaps the one
holding second place would be the fine funeral following a nice wake.
Granting this, it was easy to understand why Gussie’s obsequies seemed
to offer something of more than ordinary importance. Being a white man,
and an outcast among his own color; and a man without religion, and
therefore counted a lost soul among his church-going colored companions;
they were deeply concerned about how he would be “put away with any right
kind of form and fashion.” ... Who could they get to preach his funeral
if the colored elder didn’t want to come?... Maybe Aunt Fisky would get
the white folks to bring the priest to say prayers and swing smoke over
Gussie and sprinkle him with holy water?...
Conjectural comment was at its height when Felo arrived. And curious to
know the full particulars, like all the other members present, he asked
Aunt Fisky if she had done anything regarding the funeral ceremonies. She
told him quietly that she didn’t want any priest or revyun of any kind to
come up in her house.... She wasn’t no hypocrite.... Everybody in Gritny
knew that Gussie never was no church member.... And now that Gussie was
’ceased, there wasn’t no use for any elder to stand up and preach about
his sinful ways.... It couldn’t help Gussie none. And what good would
it do anybody else?... They ain’t got to tell Gawd about it; ’cause Gawd
already knowed what Gussie was. So He didn’t have to listen to a whole
lot o’ random.... And besides, she didn’t believe in rakin’-up people’s
wrong-doin’ after they gone. The members could sing over Gussie much as
they pleased. And the man from the Peefus Lodge could say the Ow Father
and read something out his book. And that’s all she cared about.... And
she was goin’ to see that they did it, too.... Gussie had dragged on
long enough with a whole lot o’ racket and confusion. So she made up her
mind that she was goin’ to see him go ’way from this earth quiet and
respectable.... She wasn’t goin’ to find no fault ’bout havin’ a brass
band; ’cause she knowed Gussie always liked music and was _too_ proud to
walk behind a purrade. So, if people cared anything at all about her and
Gussie feelin’s, she cert’ny would look to see them respect her wishes in
this lonesome interprise....
Felo said he would tell everyone present, and promised to see that her
wishes would be obeyed. He went over to talk to Carmelite, where she was
sitting in a corner, looking very dejected. She shook hands with him and
listened silently as he repeated what Aunt Fisky had told him.
“An’ you sho kin count on me, Mr. Felo, to help you make dese niggers do
de right thing,” Carmelite assured him feelingly.
“You goin’ set up all night?” Felo asked her.
“Sho Gawd is,” she declared with fervor. “Bad as I feel; I’m goin’ stay
right hyuh, an’ fix de coffee an’ do all I kin, befo’ I go home to my
house.”
“W’a’s de matter?” Felo asked wonderingly. “You ain’ sick, is you?”
No; she wasn’t ’zacly sick; Carmelite told him. She was jus’ feelin’
down-casted.... Sittin’ there an’ lookin’ at Gussie, an’ callin’ back to
her mind what took place to her house last night.... Gussie eatin’ up all
her duck-egg cake with nobody but himself, yonder in her kitchen.... And
hyuh a whole crowd o’ people come to eat crackers and coffee over Gussie;
and he layin there on the table and ain’t knowin’ a thing ’bout what was
goin’ on....
“An’ lookin’ so natchal, too. Widout any puttin’-on a-tall,” came
Frozine’s sympathetic comment.
“Ain’t it true,” agreed Mozella. “For a man bin cut half-in-two like he
is, Gussie sho do look natchal.”
“An’ ain’ he got a nice pale color?” remarked Soongy.
“Sho is,” declared Nookie. “I ain’ never took notice till now, how pale
Gussie complexion.”
“Look like Death done bleached his skin mo’ lighter,” Carmelite reflected
pensively.
“An’ Gussie sho look like somebody diffunt, layin’ up there strouded in
dem purrade clo’se he got on,” said Pinkey, taking a seat along-side of
Carmelite.
At sight of Aunt Fisky coming in from the back room, all comment ceased
for a while. She came over where the women were sitting, and gave
Carmelite a pan full of orange leaves, asking her to pin them on the
sheet “droped” over the table where Gussie was lying. Carmelite and
several of the women got down on their knees and began pinning the orange
leaves on the sheet, making a border in the form of a cross all around
the bier.
At length, a low mournful humming began to tremble in the room as the
women went on with their work in the dim weird light from the flickering
candles, standing in bottles on the mantelpiece and on the table at
Gussie’s head and feet.
Before long the old house was vibrating to the rolling sound of
“Didn’t my Lawd deliver Daniel,
And why not every man...?”
Their voices pulsating with unusual fervor and their minds thrilled with
the import of the words:
“O de wind blows east, an’ de wind blows west;
It blows like a Judgment Day;
An’ ev’ry poor soul that never did pray
’ll be glad to pray dat day.”
One by one the neighbors continued to come in, each one bringing along
from home a chair to sit on; knowing that Aunt Fisky would not be able to
accommodate them, and that the crowd would increase as the night went on.
Felo began looking about eagerly to see if Lethe had come. What kept
her so late? He asked himself.... He would run around to her house to
see what was the matter.... Now was a good time. The singing was at its
height.... Nobody would miss him....
Felo lost no time, but hurried on across the Green and down the street
to Lethe’s house. As he opened the gate, he was surprised to find her
sitting on the gallery steps, leaning against the post in the darkness.
“W’at you doin’, settin’ out hyuh in de jew all alone?” He asked
abruptly. “Who you waitin’ for? Settin’ out hyuh in de dark, wid dis
chill air blowin’ ’cross yo’ shoulders, an’ nothin’ on to puhteck you
from de night dampness?”
“I’m waitin’ hyuh for Lizzie Cole to come,” Lethe answered, quietly.
“Settin’ out hyuh on-cuncerned, waitin’ for ole loud-mouth Lizzie;
an’ Aun’ Fisky an’ evvybody waitin’ yonder for you to come to Gussie
wake; an’ had to git me to come see w’at keepin’ you?” He complained.
“W’at kind o’ game dis is you play’n, inny-way?” He demanded with mock
seriousness. “You ain’ inten’ to go to de wake tonight?”
“I gotta wait hyuh till Lizzie come wid dem chickens, befo’ I kin go,”
Lethe answered calmly.
“W’at chickens you talkin’ ’bout?” He asked impatiently. “I don’ know
nothin’ ’bout any chickens.... Ole crazy Lizzie ain’ thinkin’ ’bout
bringin’ no chickens to Gussie wake, is she?... An’ you ain’ wan’ play
fool an’ uphol’ ’uh in ’uh devilment?”
“Felo, for Gawd sake set down, an’ don’ talk so hasty,” Lethe told him
with annoyance. “Lizzie comin’ hyuh to bring de chickens she wan’ me keep
for ’uh till she come back from sugar-grindin’, yonder whah she goin’ to
Lafoosh plantation.”
“W’en she goin’?” Felo asked, sitting down beside Lethe on the step.
“Dey got a whole crowd o’ wimmins goin’ in de mawnin’; an’ I spec’
Lizzie goin’ ’long wid’ um’ on de Morgan train.”
“An’ she had to wait till dis late in de night to go ketch chickens an’
fetch ’um hyuh to bother you wid ’um?... W’at make ole lazy Chester
couldn’ brought ’um hyuh in de day-time?”
“Chester gone away,” Lethe informed him.
“Who? Chester gone sugar-grindin’!” Felo exclaimed, laughing with great
amusement. “Lizzie Cole better hurry an’ go yonder an’ look after
Chester, befo’ some dem green country niggers sasharate de po’ boy body
an’ soul, w’en he workin’ munks de mens, cuttin’ sugar cane in de big
open fiel’.”
“W’at make you all time wan’ be so scoffish?” Lethe asked him. “Chester
ain’ big enough to take care himself?... Chester ain’ simple.... An’ you
ain’ need to worry ’bout Chester. ’Cause Chester ain’ gone to no country
to cut no sugar cane.... Whah Chester gone ain’ nobody business. So try’n
keep still, an’ don’ be talkin’ all ove’ yo’ mouth till you know somh’n
’bout people mo’ better’n guessin’ an’ supposin’.”
“But no!” Felo faltered; surprised at her unexpected defensive attitude.
“Since w’en you done come to be mixed up in Chester business so, you
gotta set to me like dis?”
“Felo, is you a plumb fool all by yo’-self?” Lethe asked him quietly.
“W’at I wan’ do, havin’ any traffic wid chillun like Chester?... You ain’
got to come hyuh an’ ’cuse me, suspicious like dat....”
“Chillun, man, or boy; or w’atsome-ever you wan’ call it,” he interrupted
sullenly. “But look like y’all two mus’ be got some kind o’ secut
un’stannin’ wid each-another; w’en you so quick to take up de queshtun,
an’ ack like you know somh’n you don’ wan’ tell ’bout.... But da’s
alright,” he went on, with an aggrieved air. “You ain’ compel to lemme
know w’at goin’ on.... W’en you got Chester right hyuh so conveenyun all
de time; an’ I’m way yonder ’cross de river, countin’ on evvything bein’
straight, an’ trus’in all things is fair an’ square.... You ain’ compel
to tell me nothin’, if da’s de way yo’ mind lead you....”
“Felo, for Gawd sake, shet yo’ mouth an’ keep still,” Lethe told him;
getting up from the steps and starting to go into the house. “Hyuh come
Lizzie, now.... So come in-doors, if you wan’ find out ’bout Chester....
Leave Lizzie tell you ’bout him. She ain’ goin’ hol’ nothin’ back from
you.... Hyuh she is, now. Go ’head inside; an’ don’ look so hateful.”
Lizzie arrived with a great bunch of squawking chickens in each hand.
Seeing the gate closed, and unable to help herself, she called out
boisterously:
“Whah y’all done lef’ yo’ manners, you can’t come hyuh an’ open dis gate
an’ lemme in? You wan’ leave me stay out hyuh all night helpless? Wid all
dis mighty roocus dese crazy chickens raisin’ right hyuh in front Lethe
door?... Come open dis gate, for Gawd sake. Befo’ some dese inquiztun
w’ite folks run up hyuh an’ try to ’res’ Lizzie for robbin’ people
hen-roos’ after hours like dis is.... Stop yo’ grinnin’, an’ come hyuh
an’ gimme a han’,” she commanded.
Felo hurried to open the gate and let her in, and Lethe led the way to
the back yard; both of them laughing heartily at Lizzie’s amusing speech
and the antics she performed as she deposited the squawking chickens on
the ground. Felo helped her untie the strings from their feet, and after
they were put away for the night and Lethe saw that the chicken house
door was made fast, the party went into the kitchen and sat down to talk.
After scanning the room inquisitively, Lizzie got up and helped herself
to a dipper of water from the bucket standing on the table; then kicked
off her shoes and made herself ready to enjoy any form of entertainment
the night would offer. Seeing that she was in a loquacious humor, Lethe
encouraged her to talk of Chester; knowing how curious Felo was to learn
something of his whereabouts. At the mention of his name, Felo asked if
Chester was going to the wake.
“No,” Lizzie answered quietly; then added with a grandiloquent air, that
Mr. Frackshun was trav’lin’.
“To Lafourche?” Felo inquired.
“No. To furren parts,” Lizzie told him, enigmatically.
“To the sugar-grindin’?” Felo persisted.
No. Mr. Frackshun didn’t care nothin’ ’bout playin’ in a cane field;
Lizzie informed him facetiously. Mr. Frackshun said he found cuttin’ cane
too bitterly against the constitution.... ’Tain’ everybody kin stand it
like wimmins bin use to it.... An’ innyway, Mr. Frackshun said he was
afraid of his feets gittin’ fros’-bitten, cold mawnin’s like they had
in the country.... And a cane-knife was such a dang’us-lookin’ weepon,
Mr. Frackshun said he couldn’t see how he was goin’ to git use to totin’
one....
What was Lizzie tryin’ to make out of Chester? Felo asked her
reprovingly. Since when did Chester come to be so high-up and particular
that he could pick and choose the kind of work he wanted to do, when
niggers in Gritny was glad to do any kind of work that come to their
hand, tight as money was this time of the year?... Was she satisfied to
listen to Chester’s crazy talk, and leave him stay home playin’ weak and
timmasun, layin’ up on her all winter long doin’ nothin’? While she was
scufflin’ yonder in the frosty cane-field, workin’ her poor fool-self to
death till way after Christmas, when the grindin’ was over?... Lizzie
must think Chester was some kind of jew’lry had to be locked up in the
house to keep people from runnin’ off with....
“But you know de ole house so rickety an’ lavadated, Mr. Felo, da’s
de very reason I sont Chester ’way from hyuh,” Lizzie told him with
impressive seriousness. “My li’l ole shanty ain’ no safe place to hide
nothin’ w’en dese Gritny w’ite folks commences plund’in an’ searchin’....
An’ jus’ like you say,—Chester so simple an’ timmasun,—Lizzie ain’ feel
like she wan’ take no chances.... So da’s how come she make de jew’lry
take a depahter.” (Departure.)
“Lawd! Lizzie, you sho is a circus,” exclaimed Lethe, laughing heartily.
Felo looked puzzled and annoyed, and scowled at Lethe, wondering at her
amusement. What did Lizzie mean? He asked her impatiently. Did she think
he came there to waste time and listen to a whole lot of riddles and
humbug?... He wasn’t no chillun.... If she wanted to talk, why didn’t
she talk plain and natchal; and not try to talk a mouth full of mystery
nobody wasn’t able to ’lucidate....
“Dey ain’ got no myst’ry ’bout Chester goin’ ’way from hyuh, Mr. Felo,”
Lizzie explained quietly. “I _sont_ de boy ’way from hyuh; an’ I know de
place whah he gone to. An’ dey ain’ nobody else but Lizzie Cole to be
helt ’sponsible for de boy welfare, w’en de time come for givin’ ’count
on Chester Frackshun disa’pyunce out o’ Gritny.... So sen’ ’um to me,
w’en dey wan’ ax queshtun an’ find out somh’n.... I ain’t ’fraid to face
’um.”
“Who dat you got to face ’bout Chester goin’ away?” Felo asked quickly.
“All dem parties an’ parties settin’ up in de cou’t-house, try’n to play
smart,” Lizzie answered.
“W’at thing dis Chester done commit, you gotta worry ’bout people in de
cou’t-house callin’ on you?” Felo asked with eager surprise.
“’Tain’ nothin’ Chester did,—’zac’ly speakin’,” Lizzie went on to
explain. It was the things the white folks might come to do if they
heard that Chester was under suspicion.... Because he had already runned
up on danger two times: with all these niggers blabbin’ about the way
ole Unc’ Peesah died. And about the needle Tempe got from Chester the
night before the old man passed out. Then come Unc’ Nat, spreadin’ the
news that Chester was the one that left the well open at the corner the
night Tempe got drownded, makin’ it look like the boy wanted to get her
out of the way to stop any more talk about the fatal needle.... Who? No
indeed.... She wasn’t goin’ to leave a poor simple motherless boy like
Chester stay home alone when she went to the sugar-grindin’, so the white
folks could come and land him up in jail; when he was just natchally
innocent and helpless.... ’Specially when that man lookin’ after the
light on the Morgan road, had come to her the mawnin’ after Gussie was
runned over; inquirin’ what time it was when Chester come home the night
before; and if he seen the switch light burnin’ when he went ’cross the
Green.... Tryin’ to make it look like Chester had somh’n to do with bein’
mixed-up in how Gussie come to be runned over by a switch engine....
“Lawd, Lizzie! Go ’way from hyuh,” Lethe exclaimed aghast. “You ain’
never tol’ me dat befo’.”