Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 14
Meeting was over. The cabin was dim, the fire almost dead, the dim lamp sputtered out. Most of the crowd hurried out into the cool night.
A few of them lingered outside around the door-step, the men smoking, the women talking low. The street was full of happiness. Some of the people hummed snatches of hymn tunes as they walked home. Some of the sinners were whistling.
A thin yellow moon had risen above the trees that rimmed the fields, and its light fell clear on the earth as Mary stepped carefully down the rickety steps out into the yard. Andrew greeted her kindly, "You baby sho is growin nice, Si May-e. E'll soon be too heavy for you to tote, enty?"
"Gawd sends strength wid every load," Maum Hannah answered as she grunted and hobbled down the steps. "Wait! honey, wait on me! I want to walk a piece wid you. Stretchin my leg will help to run some o de misery out o my knee, den I can rest mo better to-night."
Nothing but Maum Hannah's kindness of heart made her come along to keep Mary company. Her limping steps were uneven and slow as the two of them walked slowly down the street together.
The road lay cool and white in the moonlight. A breeze sweet with honey from the September blossoms fanned Mary's face. A late courting mocking-bird sang in a honeysuckle vine fit to split his throat. "Summer is over soon, winter is just round de corner," Maum Hannah called to him, but the bird sang more blithely than ever. Crickets chirred and chirred.
Black moon shadows were dancing in Mary's yard, and their strange antics made her halt. She hated to step on moon shadows.
"Honey," Maum Hannah stopped too. "You git some clothes fo Unex and come sleep to my house to-night. I ain' satisfy fo you to stay home here all by yousef."
Mary shook her head and thanked the kind old soul. She had better stay home to-night. July might get a boat and paddle home up de river. She'd hate for him not to find her at home and the house locked up.
Maum Hannah caught in her breath. She started to say something, then changed her mind. "Do like you think best, honey. Stay home if you want to. Budda Ben'll come sleep here to be company for you. July won' mind him, I know, as cripple as po Budda is. You wouldn' feel so awful lonesome wid somebody to call on if you git nervish in de night."
Mary said she had no extra bed, but Maum Hannah declared that would not matter to Budda. Mary could make him a pallet out of some quilts right down on the floor and Budda would sleep as sweet on them as he could on a feather-bed. Budda would do anything for Mary, and the poor creature had little chance to do much outside of cutting wood.
She waited until Mary had unlatched the door, and, after laying Unex on the bed, had blown the half-dead coals into a blaze for light. Then she called, "Good night, Si May-e, God bless you," and limped away. Mary fixed the pallet and sat waiting on the door-step for Budda Ben. The night became still, the dark fields spread out in front were silent. Cabins far across them showed bright spots of firelight where doors flung wide open to let out the heat matched in size a great star shining toward sunset side. But they were dark red while the star in the sky shone clear blue.
"Si May-e" a deep voice called her. Her heart leaped into her throat, it sounded so much like July. "Dis is me, June. If you needs anyting, any time, please callon me. Budda Ben is so crippled, e can' get around, not so fast dese days."
"Tank you kindly, June," she answered huskily.
"Is you got plenty o wood to keep you fire burnin?"
"Plenty. Budda Ben cut em fo me."
June was a sinner and he seldom went to meeting or church, but his heart was soft and kind. "Is dey anyting I can do fo you? I'd be glad to stay."
"No, Budda Ben is gwine to stay wid me, but sit down, till e comes."
As he sat beside her the narrow step creaked with his weight. He rested his arms on his knees with his head hunched low between his big stooping shoulders. Mary couldn't talk, and they sat silent until June cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly.
"I doubt if July is gwine to get away from Cinder anytime soon, Si May-e."
Mary couldn't answer that and presently he went on, "If I was you, I wouldn' fret 'bout em. You don' have to need fo nothin; you got plenty o friends here to help you long."
"I know dat, June."
"I draws wages and rations too, evy Sat'day Gawd sends, and I ain' got a soul but myself. I been givin dem rations to Doll, but I'd sooner give em to you if you'll take em."
"Tank you kindly, June."
She wanted to cry, to tell June how her heart was pure sick. She wanted him to give her sympathy, but he was so steady, so clear-seeing she strove to be good-mannered. She slipped a hand through his big arm next to her and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, but June turned his face away and moved his body uneasily.
The clear moonlight showed Budda Ben coming down the street, half squatting as he walked, leaning on his stick. June got to his feet. "I'll be gwine now."
"Good night, June. Tank you fo comin."
"You welcome, Si May-e."
She could feel the powerful muscles in his arms bulging as they both went gently around her.
"Good night," he whispered.
"Good night, June," she whispered back.
When Budda Ben was fixed for the night on his pallet of quilts, Mary went to bed, but she lay awake and sobbed softly so Budda could not hear her and the baby would not waken. Sleep did not come until long after the cock crowed for midnight, and it left with the first crowing for dawn.
Budda got up early and had the fire burning, the kettle boiling, everything ready for Mary to cook breakfast. He moved softly, but when he took down the door bar to go she called to him, "Stay, Budda, eat breakfast wid me. I'll cook em in no time."
Her limbs were shaky, her hands trembled weakly, her feet were heavy weights, but she put on her garments as fast as she could, then she mixed meal and cold water together, added boiling water and stirred it carefully and let it cook gently into smooth white mush, while Budda fried slices of fat meat, and made sweetened water with molasses. Then they sat down to eat.
Unex was happy. He jumped and crowed and cooed and tried to hurry Mary who blew on each spoonful of food to cool it before she put it into his greedy little mouth. Budda stared at his pan of food or at the fire, saying almost nothing, and Mary didn't utter a word. She kept at the mush and milk, feeding Unex but eating almost nothing herself. Then Budda Ben turned on her, and put a big slice of meat on her pan and in a gruff ugly voice began scolding her. She must eat, and not act like a foolish child. Already her cheeks were hollow and her skin ashy. What was July that she should grieve after him so? Nothing but a trifling low-down scoundrel, a worthless hound, yet she went on over his leaving, weeping in the night, hardly sleeping, not even wrapping her hair yesterday and it a Sunday, as if July were next to Jesus himself. She was a fool, a silly fool. She was lucky to be rid of him.
Budda's eyes snapped, his words crackled, but Mary made no answer. When Budda had spoken gently to her last night, it made her cry. She could bear scolding better than pity and tenderness.
Budda lighted his pipe and hobbled away, promising to come back to-night after supper.
When he had gone, Mary scoured the pots and pans, and straightened up the cabin, but every little while she went to the window and gazed toward the road that lead from the landing,—maybe July would come.
The days dragged slowly by, their mild sunshine pale to Mary's eyes. The long nights falling out of starry skies were still and well-nigh endless. People were as kind as could be to her. There was scarcely any field work to be done, but she had a gracious plenty to live on, with milk from her cow, the eggs her hens laid, the greens from her garden. Haws, chinquapins and persimmons were ripe. Hickory nuts and walnuts were falling. She had laid in a supply of dry field peas and potatoes and rice and corn before July went off, and now she swapped her fattened pig in the pen with Andrew for a fresh piece of meat every week.
The Quarter people came and went, back and forth, to church, to meeting at Maum Hannah's house, to Grab-All for rations, to dances and birth-night suppers, living their lives happily; but Mary stayed alone, sitting by her fire, staring at nothing, creeping like an old woman about the house, or out into the yard, down to the spring for water, then back again, dull, lonely, sorrowful. The cabin was tiresome but she lacked energy and desire to leave it for some more cheerful place.
Balked of what mattered most on earth to her, she grieved and pined until all her strength was drained and misery had her numbed. For a while she met with sympathy and pity. She could hear the other women discussing her trouble, pitying her, wondering what would become of her. Nobody ever came right out and asked her what she would do, but they all sighed with sympathy whenever they came near her. "I too sorry for you, Si May-e," they'd say. "Dat July is a case. A heavy case to do you such a way."
She was weighted down with sorrow. Day and night, even when July was not in her consciousness her heart lay hard in her breast. Sometimes her dull misery changed to showers of stinging black fury. She'd like to kill Cinder and July too. She'd like to cut their smooth black throats from ear to ear with a razor. She'd like to beat in their skulls with a hatchet. This world was not big enough to hold them and herself. She knew she was a fool, for they were far out of her reachh Maum Hannah and Budda Ben did all they could to help her to peace and yet in their manner, in everybody's manner, in every word spoken to comfort her, she felt a tinge of reproach.
Day after day went by, night after night, all alike. The hot weather had cooled and the sun paled. Mary picked cotton in the field with the other women, but instead of keeping up with the best as she had always done, her cotton weights fell off, and the money she made was scarcely enough for rations, but every Saturday night, after giving her part of his rations, June got her extra things, such as a can of salmon or a loaf of white bread, from Grab-All.
Winter came with a bleak cold wind and a gray rain, then she made Unex a red flannel petticoat and put one on herself, for her blood was thin and her bones chilly. Budda could not keep warm on a pallet and Mary made him go home to his own bed. She was not afraid, and she might as well get used to staying alone.
Ducks flocked into the rice-fields, quacking and splashing, feeding all night long. Now and then somebody brought Mary one to eat, or some oysters, or a fish. She had food, fire, clothes, shelter; she needed nothing, yet misery gnawed at her heart day and night. When she failed to take up her life again people lost patience with her and became indifferent. Her silence, her tottering walk, her haggard body were unheeded, and she was allowed to weep alone.
The winter was spotted with cold days and hot days, and Unex took a cough and shook his little body day and night. That vexed Maum Hannah. She said that Mary was to blame. Unex was poisoned with bad breast milk. Mary was wicked to fret while her baby was depending on her for food.
Day after day she sat gazing at nothing, her eyes on the blue hills over the river. There was nothing to see, nothing to hope. The tide came and went, noons followed mornings, night followed day. She was young in years, but her youth was gone. Her heart sobbed in her breast.
On New Year's morning, Maum Hannah came in for a talk. Jesus was the onliest one who could help Mary now. Nobody else could. Nobody else.
"A devil spirit is got you, honey. It's more'n likely Cinder put a conjure on you an' July all two. But try prayin. It'll do you all de good. Jedus'll show you how to live wid you sorrow. Jedus is de main man, honey, de best one what ever lived. He had a heap more trouble'n you. Dem mean Jews hung em on a cross an' e ain' done em a wrong ting, either. Jedus axed Gawd to have mussy on em de same as you got to ax Gawd to have mussy on Cinder what done you wrong. Jedus'll make you strong, gal. Make you well, too. Gawd is his Pa, an' Gawd made de sun an' de moon an' de world an' all o we. You ax Jedus to help you to forgive Cinder. He might would send July back home."
Mary said she hated Cinder. She did not want to forgive her.
"Gawd laid a heavy hand on you, fo-true, gal, but you better be careful. E might knock you harder next time. Gawd is a strange Gawd. You better pray to Him instead o frettin so hard fo July. 'Stead o lookin down, you better look up. Git out and work. Sweat some evy day. It'll help you to shed a lot o misery."
Mary asked if she knew what love is.
"Love?" she repeated. "Is I know love? Honey, I knew em fo-true. A 'oman wha live long as me is bound to know em." She smoked silently, then she added:
"Dey is two diffunt kinds o love, Si May-e. Two; eye-love an' heart-love. Eye-love is tricky. E will fool you. E done fool plenty o people. Two people'll meet an' tink dey have love. It seem so. De 'oman look good to de man; de man look good to de 'oman. Evy time dey meet dey talk pleasant talk. Den dey gone an' married togedder. But soon, all-two'll wish to Gawd dey ain' never see one annudder.
"Heart-love is diffunt. Diffunt from eye-love as day is from night. Sometimes joy walk long wid em, but e go much wid sorrow. Heart-love and sorrow is one mudder's chillen. When you meets wid heart-love, peace'll leave you. But heart-love is brave. E kin pure smile in de face o deat', honey. E pure shames deat'."
Maum Hannah leaned and mended the fire and mumbled on, but Mary thought about July and heart-love.
"It's a diffunce between flesh chillen an' heart chillun too. Plenty o lawful chillen is po pitiful flesh chillen. A heart child is always a blossom. I dunno how-come-so, but it's so. Unex is a heart child, honey, and dat ought to make you glad, instead o sad."
Unex, who had become a thin, tall, solemn-faced baby, sat in a box near the fire, listening and sucking at a rind of bacon, watching Maum Hannah and Mary with big, round, unwinking eyes.
"Poor creeter," Maum Hannah pitied him. "E is hungry as e only can be. Looka how e strives to get a lil meat off dat skin. I declare to Gawd, it pure hurts me to my heart to see how dat child is gone back. E come into de world as fine as anybody. Now look at em; po as a snake; hands no bigger'n a possum paw. I'm gwine to tell you de Gawd's truth, Si May-e; it might sound hard to say so, but if you let dat child dead, Gawd'll hold it against you. You nurses you troubles more'n you child. If you'd quit cherishin sorrow so much an' give all dat time to Unex, you weuld be better off."
Maum Hannah grunted and got up, then limped to the door to go, when a sudden thought struck her. "May-e, gal," she called out, "I know what would help you a lot; you ought to smoke. A pipe is good to help people when dey is worried in dey mind.
Mary shook her head. She had tried a pipe once or twice in her life and always got sick as a dog. She was not strong enough to stand tobacco smoke.
"But you mustn' mind gettin a lil sick at de start. You'll get over it. An' when you get so you can stand it, you'll crave to smoke, same as you crave victuals an' water." Maum Hannah felt in her apron pocket and took out a small clay pipe, stained brown with use.
"My pipe is broke in good. I'm gwine to leave em here wid you to-night. You try em. It'll do you all de good. I'd a been in my grave too long if I didn't smoke. My pipe is one o de best friends I ever had. Dat is de Gawd's truth. Soon as you learn on my-own, you get you a pipe bowl from Grab-All an' Budda Ben'll cut you a nice fig stem. A quarter's worth o tobacco a week'll make you a new 'oman. You try em an' you'll see."
Maum Hannah's heart was set on Mary's smoking and there was nothing to do but take the pipe and promise to try it.
"How'll you smoke to-night if I keep you pipe, Auntie?"
"I got another pipe yonder home, honey. It's a twin to dis one, just as sweet an' good. I couldn't live widout em."
Before first dark fell Budda Ben came in. He was vexed, and he began talking at once. "Looka here, Si May-e, you done fretted long enough. You got to stop or I'm pure done wid you. I come here to tell you how I feel about de way you's a-actin."
Budda did not hold back his words in bitter blame of her grief, but, although he had come to scold her, she knew she had no better friend in the world.
"Budda, do light you pipe an' don' talk hard at me to-night. Talk some pleasant talk, instead o such stiff words."
"I come to talk stiff words, gal. You ain' got a soul but me an' Ma to tell you to you face what is pleasin to Jedus: de Gawd's truth. Ma is too good-hearted to hurt you feelins, so I'm gwine to do so."
"No, Budda, you's wrong. Auntie has just been here a-hurtin my feelins awful bad."
"I'm glad to hear it. I'm gwine to hurt em some more. You may as well set still an' listen till I get done. Anybody to see you would think you was a diffunt breed from we. You got so you act like a don'-care, triflin Dinka nigger; or a puny, sickly no-manners Guinea. You must be forgot who you come from, enty? You garden is all growed up in weeds; you ain' set a hen in Gawd knows when; you don' half tend to you cow. If you nanny goat didn' scuffle for rations, Unex wouldn't have a Gawd's drop o milk."
Budda's face looked drawn, his eyes were sorrowful, his breath was quick and short, but his words fell stern and firm.
"Why, gal, you done fretted so you is pure old an' ugly."
"I wish I was dead," Mary faltered.
"No, you don't, neither. You don' wish no such a thing. It's a sin to say so, too. Sposen you was to die, who'd raise Unex? Cinder? Is dat what you want?" Budda stuck his pipe between his teeth and his eyes glared fiercely at her.
"Le me tell you dis, Si May-e; you may as well not wish to die. Nobody can' die not till de times comes. I know. One time when I was so mizzable I couldn't stand to live no longer, I dressed mysef up in my Sunday clothes an' went away down yonder in dem thickest pine woods. I stretched my length on de ground an' I folded my hands across my breast an' I tried to die. I held my breat'. I tried to hinder my heart from beatin. But I couldn' die. I looked straight up at de sun an' I begged Gawd to strike me dead. Den I wallowed all over de ground, an' I prayed to Jedus to take me. I pure sweated, but it didn' do me no good. I couldn' die. I got up an' come on back home, an' I been here ever since. It ain' no use to be a-tryin to die. We got to stay here till our time is out. An' whilst we are a-stayin we may as well try to act mannersable, enty?"
Mary tried to nod her head. Budda Ben was right. She knew that.
"You hold up you head, gal, an' quit a-draggin you feet. Fo Gawd's sake wash you face an' wrap you hair nice an' put on a clean dress an' apron. Yesterday's sun is set, Si May-e. Last year's rain is dry. It's better to let old sorrows sleep an' tink on what's a-comin to-morrow. Plenty o to-morrows is ahead o you. Plenty o good to-morrows too, if you'll listen at what I'm a-tellin you."
Budda declared that nobody could help her but herself. Nobody. She was wasting her life, losing her friends and her health and everything else she had left. Even if July had tricked her and broken her heart, she was not the first woman to have her heart broken by a low-down man. She would not be the last, either. The best thing she could do was to put July clean out of her mind, to forget him. Yes, forget him.
Budda looked straight at her, without flinching, and when the tears flowed out of her eyes, he did not soften his voice one whit. When he had finished, he smiled a one-sided smile and said very kindly, "Now, Si May-e, I'm a done-talk man. I hope I ain' wasted my breath."
Mary tried to smile and to sound brave as she answered, "No, Budda you ain' wasted em. I know good an' well all you say is de Gawd's truth. I know I ain' doin right. I'm gwine to learn to smoke. Auntie left her pipe here for me to learn how to smoke on. E said smokin would help me to stop bein so nervish an' down-hearted."
"Sho e will, if you learn how to smoke right an' not careless an' wrong," Budda declared heartily. "Le me fill you pipe now, an' show you how."
A draft from the door took the smoke from Budda's pipe and swept it up the chimney as he filled his mother's for Mary, packing moist plug-cut tobacco into its small bowl, pinch by pinch. He laid a tiny coal on it and putting the stem in his mouth, pulled until the crumbs of tobacco glowed and he puffed out a mouthful of strong sweet smoke. He explained that most people burn up tobacco in a pipe and call it smoking. Smoking a pipe is not child's play. There is a right way and a wrong way to do it. His old grandfather, Daddy Champagne, dead long years ago, taught him how to smoke. Young people used to listen at what the old people tried to teach them. He had listened and learned how to smoke. Puffing fast or drawing hard burns the tobacco and gives little comfort. Mary must pull with a steady slow breath and puff the smoke out gently. That's the way. One good pipeful of plug-cut tobacco ought to last the best part of an hour. Maybe more.
Mary sat on the cabin door-step to breathe some fresh air and steady her dizzy head long after Budda Ben had hobbled away. The sun had set and the dusk lay deep around her. The great, dark red field was blurred and the cabins far across it showed bright spots of firelight from doors flung wide open to let out the heat, for the night was warm and within them the big chimneys held hot-blazing fires that cooked supper.
The air was filled with the cool scent of the frosty earth. Most of the day sounds were stilled, and night voices took their places. A partridge lost from its covey whistled anxiously, and its mates called back swift heartening notes. Little Nan, the mother of two new-born kids, bleated low warning baas to her children who had skipped away from where she was tethered to the crape-myrtle tree for the night. A screech owl began a mournful song. A bad-luck sound. Mary got up quickly and put the shovel in the fire to stop it. People have to rule owls. She would learn to rule herself and her feelings, too. She would not let another tear fall out of her eyes.