Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 26
As they walked home a bright afterglow tinged the fields and Mary hummed happily. At last, thank God, everything in the world was right. She talked of how she'd cook the bread for supper that night; she'd mix the meal thick and pat it into little flat cakes and fry them. She hadn't made corn-cakes that way in e long time, and the children would be glad for the change. They'd taste fine with the new wild honey Keepsie had robbed from a tree.
For some reason, July came into her mind, maybe because July liked fried corn-cakes better than any other kind of bread or maybe talking to Seraphine about fretting brought July back to her mind. Where was he—gone so long—where? How did he look—after all these years? Had he forgotten her too?
She heaved a sigh as she poured water into the basin on the shelf and washed her hands to mix the meal and water together. The children would all soon be coming in hungry. Already she heard steps outside and a soft tiptoeing right up to the doorway.
Mary smiled. One of the children was tipping up the steps, getting ready to jump at her and scare her; an old game of July's. She'd be ready.
She put the pan on the table and crept softly along the wall till she reached the door, then she eased behind it and stood waiting
Somebody was outside, right at the door. She could hear the quick breathing. She could almost hear the heart-beats as she waited, too, breathless. It was a game she and the children often played. But now the wait became too long. She would jump first, and turn the tables to-night. How the children did love to play!
In the soft twilight Mary stood behind the door—waiting—ready for the shrieks of laughter that would come with the quick-shouted, "I got you!"
She smiled and drew in the cool air stealthily through her nostrils. A strange smell came with it. It was not one of the children who stood there in the door. No! Mary tried to lean a little and see without being seen.
It was a stranger. A man.
"Who dat?" Mary called out sternly, moving out from her hiding-place. For some reason the words shook in her throat as she stepped forward and stood boldly in front of the door.
The strange man stood looking at her, hesitating, half smiling. Then he held out both hands. Who was he? He took a step toward her and stopped, and a familiar voice spoke softly. "Si May-e? Is dis you, Si May-e?"
Mary's heart leaped at the sound, and her astonished eyes stared at him.
"You ain' know me—Si May-e? Is you forgot you July?" he asked gently. He stood waiting for her to speak, holding his hands out to her—almost like a child. She looked at his face. At his hands. They were shaking. July's hands!
What must she do? What?
She could not think straight. She swallowed hard and put her hand up to her throat, and her heart thumped crazily as he spoke again.
"May-e—May-e, gal, I come back, honey. Please say you glad to see me. Don' stand up a-gazin at me so hard. Dis is you July, Si May-e."
He took her hands—both of them. She let him. She was paralyzed with joy and with misery. Her eyes dimmed and his face was blurred, but his voice had her heart quivering just as it used to do in the old days.
She drew her hands slowly out of his, and her voice sounded hollow and strange as she made it say, "No, you ain' my July. I ain' had no July in twenty years."
Her lips stiffened over the words; her tongue felt frozen, but July's old bold laugh answered her as he put a hand on each of her shoulders. "Yes you is, honey. I been gone a long time, fo-true, but I ain' forgot you, an' I ain' never blongst to nobody but you since de day you marked me in de ear wid dat knife. You 'member, enty?"
She nodded her head. She remembered well. She was dizzy with old memories. The old love and the old hurt and the old bitterness had all come back and were making her weak and faint. July took her swiftly in his arms and held her close to him and pressed his hot lips on hers.
That woke her up, wide awake. With the strength of a cyclone, she gave him a backward push which sent him stumbling down the steps. But he laughed pleasantly.
"Great Gawd, you is strong still yet. You got de same old devil in you, too. I don' blame you for pushin me off, honey. I wouldn' say a word if you was to knock me down an' stomp in my face, so long as you take me back."
"Take who back? You. July Pinesett? Be fo I'd let you come inside my door, I'd see you rotted in Hell."
"Why, Si May-e! What you mean? You wouldn' send me away, not after I come all dis way to see you. I been comin four days to git here. Stand still and lemme look at you good. I swear to Gawd, you ain' hardly changed." In the half-light, his black eyes peered at her. "You look better'n I ever see you. Yes, you is!"
His hand reached out and touched her shoulder, but Mary drew away and she felt her lips curling proudly, even if they did tremble.
"I might be ain' changed on de outside, but I sho is changed on de inside. Yessuh! Dis ain' de same silly gal you left, July. No. Don' fool yousef." She looked straight at him. Her weakness was passing, and the dim light was helping her hide it. July couldn't see how she shook from head to foot.
"Ki," she laughed. "I been duh talk 'bout you no longer'n last month. I told dem people right yonder at Heaven's Gate Church if you was to come home cold an' stiff in a box, I could look at you same as a stranger an' not a water wouldn' drean out my eye. I mean it, July." She nodded her head for emphasis. Then she pointed to the street.
"You may as well go on. I got to cook supper. I'm hungry. I ain' hardly eat good since breakfast."
But July persisted. "May-e, you listen. You don' know 'bout all dem things I fetched in my valise fo you. I got fine presents fo you an' Unex, too. Don' be so rash wid you talk. Wait! Lemme show you"
He picked up the suitcase from the bottom step. It was heavy. Bulging. He laid it down on the ground to open it. His fingers fumbled with the straps. But Mary stopped him.
"Don' open dat satchel, July! Don' unbuckle a strap in my yard. No! You own sister is a-livin right yonder down de street. Take you foot in you hand an' go to em. I don't want you or anyting you got."
July looked astonished. He took a purse out of his pocket. It was fat and full. He had brought money. Lots of money!
"Looka dis, Si May-e. I fetched all dis for you. All dis." He opened it and smoothed out the bills. Selecting the top one, he held it up.
"Ten dollars fo Unex," he said, then, taking the rest, he held it out to her. "Dis rest is fo you."
The light flickered weak in the sky. The world was dim. It was hard to send July away. Her charm could hold him faithful to her as long as she lived. Her blood raced through her body. The twilight showed that he was the same old July who had broken her heart, whose face was for ever sealed on her eyelids. He was dressed differently. He was a town man now. But he was still slim and straight, and the words fell from his lips with the same bold laugh she remembered so well.
It was not the sight of his money that kept her silent, but July did not understand. "Kiss me, gal. Say you glad I come home." He stepped forward with confidence, and Mary felt she must yield, but she caught herself.
"Don' put you hand on me again, July! Don' touch me! Take you money an' go. Get out o my yard. Me an' my chillen don' want not a brownie you got! Not one."
"Chillen?" July asked. "You got chillen? Si May-e?"
Mary placed her hands on her hips and held her head high. "Sho I got chillen." She laughed. "I got plenty o chillen! Plenty! Dey ain' none o you-own, July, so it ain' none o you business how many I got."
In spite of her laugh she shivered as a still tree shivers under a sudden gust of cold wind. He must not stay here and break her heart again. She must send him away, even if it wrung her flesh in two. Yet the bare thought of letting him go made the life in her dwindle.
She had taught her lips to laugh and sneer whenever his name was spoken. She made herself say ugly things about him. She had hoped to God that his body had grown fat and soft and paunchy; that his white teeth had dropped out. But here he was. Tall and straight, lean and keen-eyed. Hardly a gray hair was in his head.
"Whe is Unex, Si May-e? Maybe de boy what you had fo me would like to see his Daddy. E use to love me."
"Unex is gone, July. E went off and left me de same as you done. Gawd knows if e's livin or dead."
The children were coming, trooping up the street, laughing, playing; then they became quiet when they saw the stranger.
July looked at them, then he looked at Mary.
"Good-by, Si May-e."
"Good-by, July."
He picked up his suitcase and walked away.
"Who dat, Si May-e? Who dat?" the children asked curiously as soon as he was out of hearing.
Mary sucked her teeth and grunted.
"Yunnuh ever hear de people talk 'bout July Pinesett? Well, dat's him." And she went on with her cooking
"Whe e come f'om, Si May-e?" another asked.
Mary turned one of the smoking hot cakes over before she answered. "I don' know whe e come f'om, an' I don' know whe e's gwine; what's mo, I don' care." She sounded brave but her heart was beating wildly in her breast and hot tears were stinging her eyes.
As soon as supper was over Mary banked the fire and went to bed. It was early, but her head ached and her heart was fluttering like a bird.
She lay still in the dark, nursing her new grief with burning tears while the street rang with merriment. Everybody was welcoming July, everybody was rejoicing to see him back home again. And she, his lawful wife, was lying alone soaking her pillow with salty tears because she had sent him away.
When the cock crowed for midnight she got up. The house was hot and steamy, the bed was sweltering and the quilt cover stung her like nettles. She must have some fresh air to breathe. Easing the window-blind open she leaned out in the cool black night. Every tree was filled with the talk of crickets and locusts and katydids. Frogs were croaking in the rice-fields. The guineas roused and cackled. A whippoorwill called with every breath. Far down the street a guitar was strumming out chords, keeping time to a man's clear singing. July was picking his box and his song was the old one, "I'm gwine to live on till I die."
Would she see him to-morrow? Would she ever see him again? The stars were high and cold. The night was full of ghosts. She closed the window and drew the blind in tight.
The next morning dawned bright and hot, promising the kind of day Mary liked best, but her head was too heavy to lift off her pillow and her knees were too shaky to hold up her weight. Seraphine and Keepsie had to cook and milk, feed the beasts and fowls and children, and fetch water from the spring. She tried to speak cheerfully and encourage them, but the tears she strove to hold back rose and choked her words.
The tide was going out. The river wind smelled of the mud-flats, steaming and baking in the fire poured down by the sun. The water had gone and left them naked. The poor things were fastened down so they could not move. Like herself. Fastened down tight. She must bear her misery without complaining.