Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 9
On a fine afternoon in the late summer, Mary stayed at home to wash the clothes and to cook a fine fat possum July had caught the night before for supper.
The Quarter street was quiet, except for the children playing around Maum Hannah's door, while their mothers were in the field picking the first cotton that was opening. The stillness was peaceful except when merry laughter drifted in from the cotton-pickers. Contentment filled the world as Mary went about her tasks, humming low to herself so as not to wake the baby, stopping now and then to look at him as he slept.
Sunshine fell on the floor through the open window making the room look cheerful and bright. Outside in the yard, the clean clothes were hanging on the line, drying. Inside, all the pots on the hearth steamed merrily, the possum was roasting, new potatoes were softening in the ashes. When the rooster hopped up on the door-step, flapped his wings three times and crowed, Mary stopped to listen, for that rooster had sense. He always knew when somebody was coming and gave her notice. He crowed every hour in the day to tell the time, then at midnight and again at dawn. No clock could have been better, but whenever he came up to the door and flapped his wings three times and crowed, Mary might as well stop and get ready for company. Her clothes were wet through with sweat, and she must change them before she got caught looking like a fright.
She had hardly put a fresh white apron on over her clean dress when who should walk in but Cinder. A surprise indeed. That rooster was wise. Yet, in spite of all the warning he had given, Mary felt upset and disturbed. A cloud passed over the sun and dimmed the day and gave the air a queer greenish light. Why had Cinder come back?
"Is I scared you?" Cinder asked with a dry little laugh. "You jumped all over when you seed me."
"No,—no,—you just make me feel surprise. I didn' know you was home an' when my eyes first fell on you, I thought right at first, you might be a sperit."
"No, gal, I sho ain' no sperit. Dis is de same old mean Cinder a-walkin in de flesh."
As they shook hands slowly, Mary noticed that Cinder's hand was as hot as fever, so she said as kindly as she could, "Come set down whe de air is cool here by de window, an' tell me how you do an' whe you been." Mary tried her best to sound pleased and cordial as she placed the chair beside the window.
Cinder sat down carefully, spreading out the fine rustling cloth of her black silk skirt. She was dressed in the finest of clothes. Gold was in her front teeth, and her cheeks were covered with a dust of white powder which made her look pale and strange. She was nervish too. Her hands acted tremblish and her face had a twist-mouth look.
Talk was hard to make. "How's July?" Cinder asked and Mary answered. "July's well," then a silence lay heavy between them again.
"You is mighty dressed up and it a Friday." Cinder smoothed out her skirts again.
Mary answered as politely as she could that the rooster had flapped his wings and crowed three times at the door, so she knew somebody was coming. She had changed her clothes to look decent to meet her visitor.
A sudden gust of wind came down the chimney and blew ashes over the hearth and a smell of food rose in the room. Cinder sniffed and gave a short laugh.
"Jedus, Gawd, is dat possum I smell? I ever was raven about possum. Do, for Gawd's sake, le me taste em."
She spoke with her old bold ease, and asked for the possum as if she had a perfect right to it.
Mary got up and filled two pans, one for Cinder and one for herself, for she had not stopped to eat any food since early breakfast. Cinder took up her spoon and began eating slowly and looking around the room. "You house looks nice and clean, Si May-e," she praised. "You ever was a good scourer. But how-come you ain' got no chimney on you lamp?"
Mary swallowed a mouthful before she answered. "De chimney got broke, but de fire gives plenty of light. Me an' July don' set up late."
Cinder's round eyes narrowed a little.
"It's awful bad luck for a lamp chimney to break, enty?"
"I don' know, I never did hear so."
"You didn'? Great Gawd, gal, I been knowin dat ever since I was knee high. It's de worst sign ever was when a lamp chimney breaks in you house."
Mary looked straight and hard into Cinder's eyes, but they turned away and gazed out of the window where a dark cloud was banked in the west. What was the use to dispute?
"Fire makes a house awful hot in de summer time, enty? Look like you'd a heap rather be out in de field in de coolness. But it's gwine to rain, enty?"
"I like de hotness," Mary answered quickly, "I like to sweat a plenty. I can work in de field any time I get ready."
Cinder smiled steadily, but she looked older. Her eyes were deeper set and her skin had lost its shiny blackness. She had a string of red beads around her neck, gold earrings in her ears, and a gold ring on one finger. In spite of the scent of cooking food, the whole room smelled sweet from something about her; not Hoyt's German Cologne or essence of lemon or any of the perfumes Mary knew, but a strange new scent, that was delicate as the breath of crab-apple blossoms. Just as likely as not it came from some new charm Cinder got yonder in town to put a spell on the men here. She always knew some way to make the men take to her, although she was skinny and dry, and had a fox chin and squirrel teeth and a sly stepping walk like a cat.
A sudden flash of lightning made Cinder jump, and Mary looked straight at her mouth. "I'd be 'fraid so much gold an' silver would draw lightnin," she remarked.
But Cinder grinned and one thin shoulder lifted with her old scornful shrug. She wore gold all the time. She was not afraid it would draw lightning. People in town always wore plenty of rings and bracelets and necklaces, and lightning never struck them. She had many more things in her trunk besides these bracelets and beads and rings. At one store yonder in town, you could buy a fine diamond ring for a quarter. Town stores were not like Grab-All.
"Whyn't you stay in town if fine tings is so cheap dere? Why you come back here?"
Cinder looked up at her quickly.
"You talk like you ain' so glad I come. Dat's a pity. But July'll be glad to see me."
Cinder's pan was empty and she got up to go. But she paused at the door. "I hear-say you got a baby, Si May-e."
"I sho is, de finest lil boy-chile ever was. De pure spit o July too. E's a-sleepin right yonder on de bed un de shed room."
"I hear-say you had em too soon, an' de deacons turned you out de church. Is dat so?"
"No, it ain' so. You know good as me it ain' so. I ain' been a church-member, not since I danced at Foolishness on de night o my weddin."
A flash of lightning made Cinder's eyes glitter, but a smile fluttered over her thin lips as she moistened them with the tip of her pointed red tongue.
"I ain' meant a bit o harm by axin. You is my own second cousin, an' I was a waiter at you weddin. I ever did think a lot o July. I come mighty nigh marryin him mysef one time. E use to beg me so, but I'm glad now I didn' done it."
Thunder was rolling and the clothes were on the line in the yard, but Mary had forgotten them.
"You say July begged you to marry em? July? Great Gawd! Dat's de biggest lie ever was! Gal, you ain' shame to talk such a talk? You like to a popped you gizzard-string a-tryin to get July. Evybody in dis Quarter knows dat. You'd jump up an' crack you heels wid joy evy day Gawd sends, if you could a caught him. You know dat too, good as me."
The words were hardly off Mary's lips when a shadow darkened the doorway and July walked in. His eyes blinked when they fell on Cinder, as if he were trying to make her out.
"De Great I Am! Whe'd you come from, Cinder?" he asked in glad astonishment. "I didn' know you was home. How you do, gal."
His big rough shoes were covered with dust trom the road and caked with river mud that made ugly tracks on the clean floor, but he was too taken up with Cinder to notice.
"Do scrape off you feets, July," Mary bade him, but he didn't hear for Cinder was holding his hand, laughing up into his face, gazing at him with shining eager eyes, answering his questions with trembling lips. A flame of hot jealousy flared up in Mary's heart. Cinder had forgotten that July's lawful wedded wife was looking straight at her, watching every move she made, seeing how she held July's eyes, and how her sweet-mouthed talk pleased him. Mary's ears tingled as they heard Cinder's words, but Unex woke with a loud wail and she had to geo get the child, who had slept a long time and needed food. A bad dream must have scared him to make him cry so hard.
The shed room was stifling hot although the sun was under a heavy cloud and in spite of the lightning Mary sat close to the open window.
"You look better'n I ever seed you in my life," July declared, as free and easy as if he were a single man.
"You look good, yousef," Cinder answered him in a voice that was husky with pleasure. Lightning lit their faces and a long mutter of thunder rumbled, but Cinder, heeding none of it, stood sweet-talking July, pretending that she was the only person in the world who knew how fine and handsome and smart he was; and July, with all the sense he had, stood looking down at her, his ears drinking up every deceitful word, his eyes swallowing in all her silly town airs. Cinder was as tricky as a fox, no wonder her chin was pointed, but she had no more sense than a sparrow except when it came to making eyes at men.
"July," Mary called sharply, "go fetch in de clothes. It's gwine to rain." A gust of wind lifted a cloud of dust off the ground and sent it into the house. A clap of thunder cracked overhead.
"Good-by, Si May-e," Cinder called out sweetly, and out of the door she went, leaving a cloud of that sweet smell behind her.
July followed her out, but he soon came back with his arms full of clothes which he laid on the bed. "You want me to do anything else?" he asked quietly. The trees were rustling loudly as the wind bent their branches low. Pans flew off the shelf and the papered wall crackled.
Mary was almost ready to cry with impatience. Where were July's senses that he stood asking her what to do when a rain was almost on them. He soon had the cabin closed tight, but it was filled with an awkward silence that marked the heavy rolling thunder. Mary wanted to say many things but she remembered Maum Hannah's training; when the thunder rolls, people must sit down quiet and listen while Up-Yonder, the Great I Am, the Maker of all things, talks.
Instead of helping himself out of the pots, July fixed himself a cup of sweetened water and swallowed it down, thirstily.
Mary could keep silent no longer even if the clouds were shouting.
"What de matter all you, July? How-come you don' eat some possum?"
"I got de headache. I ain' hungry."
"How-come you got de headache?"
"I dunno, lessen so much sun-hot to-day done it."
That was a poor excuse. Sun-hot could not make July's head ache when shade covered the whole swamp where he worked. Sun-hot does not make people sick. July must have headache for some other reason. His eyes looked like corn-liquor eyes.
"Come lay down on de bed. Le me put a wet rag on you head, July. Dat'll make you feel more better. When de rain stops I'll get a collard leaf an' tie on em. Dat'll make you well."
Men are like children when things go wrong. July was as helpless as Unex now. Mary pushed the rough-dried clothes aside and made him lie down on the bed, and soon he was sound asleep, in spite of the storm outside.
Lightning cracked sharp whips overhead and ran crooked white fingers through the cracks of the house. Mary shivered at the crashes of thunder and held Unex closer, but July lay still and snored. The muddy boots were still on his feet, ruining the clean bed, soiling the clean clothes. He was no more than a child after all. She had to look after him the same as she looked after Unex. Putting the baby on a quilt on the floor, she gently, quietly, began untying the string that fastened the shoes, and slipped them off his feet carefully, slowly, so he would not wake. Sleep would cure his head.
A wild wind whined around the house corners, rain poured on the roof and beat at the door and windows, trying to get in. The trees creaked painfully as the storm wrenched their limbs, darkness blotted out the day. Then the storm slackened, and July woke.
He sat up and stretched, buttoned up his shirt at the neck, got up and opened the door to look out. He felt better. His head was clear now, after his nap.
Lord, how good and clean the fresh air smelled after the cabin's hot lack of breath. He went into the shed room and changed his clothes and stepped out into the yard to see if any damage had been done by the storm, and to breathe the fresh pleasant air.
Evening had come with a crimson sky and a clear thin wishing moon hung in the west. Bull bats darted about catching gnats and mosquitoes; squirrels chittered and scurried from one tree to another; frogs croaked noisily; grasshoppers, crickets, katydids, glad to be alive, made a whir of loud clear chirping. Partridges whistled "Bob White, peas ripe," asking, answering, over and over again. The street, washed clean except for boughs and green leaves torn from the trees by the fierce wind and puddles left in low places by the streams of rain-water that gurgled away toward the river, was full of women and children, carrying in wood for the night, going to get the cows and milk them, calling up their fowls and scattering grain around the different doorways, to show each flock which was home.
Distant thunder boomed far away over the river where the storm had gone and the air grew chilly, but July was restless. Instead of sitting down quietly, or offering to help fix the ash-cake for supper, or to fetch a bucket of fresh water from the spring, he went into the shed room, tarried there a minute and came out buttoning up his shirt at the neck.
"Whe you gwine?" Mary asked him timidly.
He waited a minute; then he asked, "How-come you got to know evywhe I go, here lately? I'm gwine whe I'm gwine. Dat's whe I'm gwine." His words ripped through the quiet.
The room was hot. Its close air was full of the smell of steam from the pots and smoke from July's pipe. There was scarcely a sound except Mary's sniffles. July walked to the fireplace and stirred among the ashes, selecting a small live coal which he dropped into his pipe bowl. Her back was turned to him, but she knew how his lips were drawn, how his pipe stem was gripped between his set teeth, how his chin was pushed forward, how his lean young face had grown hard and set.
"How-come you duh cry?"
How could she tell him when he stood there smoking, gazing down at the sticks of wood, jerking out his words so vexedly.
Instead of going to fetch the cow home, for it was past milking time, he walked out, his heavy brows frowning, his wide lips tightened. Mary watched him from the window as far as she could see him walking to the very end of the street. Cinder was still on his mind. He was going to see her, and leave all the evening work for Mary to do alone. Tall, slim, dark as the tree-trunks, he moved quickly through the twilight, then disappeared.
Mary listened at his feet splashing through a pool left by the rain. His overalls would have to be washed again, but that troubled her less than the vague uneasiness that gnawed at her heart. July was not himself. He had gone off and left her with supper to cook, all the things to feed and the cow to milk.
Night fell and the baby had gone back to sleep but July had not come home. Mary drew the pots a little farther away from the fire so the food they held would not scorch or become dry, then she went to the door and looked up and down the street for sign of him.
Children were playing games in the dusk, shouting, singing, screaming out when the one who was "booger-man" ran out from a hiding-place to catch somebody, but Mary's mind was too full of something else to notice them. July loved his home, he loved her and Unex; what made him stay so long? The little new moon slowly fell behind the black trees, a multitude of cold white stars crowded the sky, twinkling, sparkling, now and then one of them dropping toward the earth, marking a path for somebody's soul. The fire dwindled and almost went out for lack of a stick of wood, but Mary sat on the door-step, alone, and an aching uneasiness had her flesh trembling and all her bones weak.
One by one the houses grew dark and silent, tears rolled out of her eyes and fell in her lap. July had forgotten her.
The dawn brought him. A puff of cool air pushed in with him when he opened the door. Mary sniffed it softly for a faint scent of Cinder's perfume came with it on July's clothes.
"You needn' walk so easy, I'm wake, July. I ain' shut my eyes all night long. I'm sick as I only can be. Worry-ation kills me. Whyn' you tell me you was gwine off an' not a-comin home?"
July gave her no answer, but with his jawe locked he sank into a chair and began putting on his boots to go to his work in the swamp. Mary could not tell if he heard her or not for he made no sign that he did. Then anger stirred her.
"Whyn' you answer me, July? Whe you been? What de matter all you?"
Then he straightened up. "Nuttin' ain' de matter all me. I been in de woods shootin' a little crap, dat's all. You ought not to quarrel if I pleasure mysef a lil."
"I can smell de stench o Cinder's scent on you, so you needn' lie to me. I ain' no fool. I got some sense—some sense"
July shrugged. "If you got so much sense, whyn' you bank de fire last night? E's dead as a wedge. Now I got to go borrow a piece from somebody to hotten me some victuals to eat."
He knelt on the hearth, muttering and stirring among the ashes, moving blackened chunks of wood, trying to find a live ember. When he found one he laid a fat splinter on it and blew it into a blaze. Mary wept quietly for she could think of no words to tell July how hurt she was, how utterly grieved at the way he was doing her now. She'd forgive him if he would only come sit on the bed beside her and hold her hand and ask her pardon. She was even willing to get up and go to him and beg his pardon for being vexed, if he would only look at her. But he didn't. He ate some food and left her without saying good-by.