Part 10

Killdee laid his hand right on the Bible. It was as if he swore to something. He leaned forward. His words snipped off short. His lips flared and bared his strong teeth.

“De fus’ nigger eber call my wife name een dis chu’ch is got to deal wid me! Me! Killdee Pinesett! Da’s all.”

Killdee took his hand off the Bible. He smiled pleasantly at them. Surprise numbed the tense faces. Taut muscles held still.

“I’ll say good day to yinner now. I see you-all done heah me good.”

He went down the pulpit steps. Down the aisle. On out of the church. He unhitched his mule and rode away down the red dusty road.

* * * * *

Afterward Killdee heard many stories of what was said and done when he left. But Rose’s name was not mentioned. That was certain.

Resolutions that asked Reverend Felder never to darken the door of Mount Pleasant Church again were passed. Daddy Cato was appointed to carry the message to him. But it wasn’t possible to turn Rose out without calling her name. She remained a member in good standing.

Before Daddy Cato got down the country to see Reverend Felder, news came that the preacher was dead. Dead with lockjaw. It was whispered that the lockjaw was caused by a wound. A strange wound. Somewhere in his leg. But nobody ever said how he got it.

_Plum Blossoms_

The soft dusk of the enervating spring evening had come, but Killdee plowed on. Since dawn, with only an hour at noon for food and water, his easy-stepping, bare, black feet had trudged up and down the cotton rows, his steady hands had held the plow stock in place.

All day his eyes had watched for sprigs of grass. Every slight blade told of deadly roots that were sneaking down to strangle the tender cotton.

Deftly he turned and guided the plow’s sharp steel edge, cutting grass away without injuring the plants he protected.

Monotonous. Yes. But as Killdee walked and walked, dreams came to him. Here, alone in his field, between the warm earth and the sky, dreams filled the hours. They kept fatigue and discouragement away. Kept hope bright in his heart. Hardships were forgotten. Disappointments paled.

He pictured to himself a time when things would be better. Easier. When his labor, his striving, would bear fruit.

He’d give his folks a better house to live in. Give them pleasures. He himself would be different. Better. Happier. Freer.

The picture was never quite finished. Even the clearest, plainest dreams melted, faded--without ever telling the secret of what would make them come true. They went away and left him nothing but this unending struggle, day after day, to provide a bread and a roof for himself and his family.

The spring always made them glow. They quickened and stirred something in his blood. He was glad to live. Glad to strive.

Maybe he was only like the grass here underfoot. Like those trees yonder. Everything was restless with life. Everything gave some sign. Maybe the joy in his heart was just his sign, his way of showing the rising sap that the spring called up.

To him the whole world was only the bit of surface lying quiet around him. The long low line of soft blue hills trembling into haze yonder over the river, the narrow band of purple pines, showing dark against the bright afterglow, and rimming the brown fields, these seemed the boundary of things, the farthest edge.

The fields, cut at intervals by narrow, rough, red roads and dotted with small, gray, weather-stained cabins, lay quiet and still. Nothing showed that life here was precious, and pain bitter or how men here strove and women trembled when love and joy were threatened.

Turning around at the end of the row, Killdee stopped and looked at the dark, ragged edge of the pines where the sun had set. The light had grown too dim for him to see the grass. He must stop. The moist, brown earth gave the air a rich, warm smell. It was good. To breathe it deep rested him. The smell of it roused him.

He unhitched the mule and, leading him by one of the rope plow-lines, walked down a furrow towards home.

The firelight in his cabin yonder shone from its wide, open door. It gleamed like a great, red star just risen from the edge of the field.

Rose would have his supper there waiting. He would eat and smoke a pipeful, and then he ought to go straight to bed, so he’d be fresh and ready for work in the morning.

To-day was Friday, the last working-day in the week for everybody on the plantation but Killdee. But he worked on Saturdays too. Work was the way to make his dreams come true.

For years after he and Rose were married, he had worked an old, slow mule. Poor old Mike. Dead now. In Mike’s place he had gotten Joe. Young. Fast-stepping. Steady. Plowing had become a pleasure. A satisfaction.

Mike had always been tired. He couldn’t hurry. His teeth were worn out. Even with the ground meal Killdee fed him, Mike stayed weak and poor. Joe’s teeth were strong and sound. At night Killdee heard them crunching ears of corn, and it sounded like music.

Killdee had bought Joe himself. He had gone into debt to get him. He bought a new set of harness too, and the harness had cost a lot of money.

When Mike died, he had tried plowing two oxen that he raised and broke. But they couldn’t keep ahead of the grass. He bought Joe. He worked every fair day but Sunday. He would pay for Joe in a year or two. Sure!

Every Sunday now Rose could go to church in the wagon. The new harness was strong. Joe never could run away with a harness like that. Never.

Missie was big enough to stay at home and take care of the children. Missie was almost a grown woman. Little and black and dry, but wise. She was young, and old too.

That was a lucky day for Rose and himself when they took little Missie to raise. Poor little girl! As he walked across the mellow, fresh-plowed earth, the smell of it filled his nostrils. Missie came before his eyes. The slender, unformed figure in its straight, homespun dress. The small, black head, with its wool wrapped tight with ball thread. The dark, red mouth, almost purple. The bluish bloom on the black cheeks. The pointed chin where that dimple showed when she laughed. The soft, black eyes, the curved lashes, the slim, black feet that touched the ground with such lightness. Missie--good little Missie----

Killdee was passing close by a thicket of wild plums near the edge of the field. They were just bursting into full bloom. He stopped and threw back his head and shoulders and took a deep breath of fragrance. Spring was come! Plum blossoms!

Moonlight whitened the dusk, frogs chanted merrily, crickets were chirping. Killdee closed his eyes and murmured:

“Sing, brudders! Sing! You been sleepin’, enty! But now you’s a-wakin’ up.”

He walked on, whistling a low tune.

* * * * *

With Rose, the day had been a hard one. Many things had gone wrong. A stray dog had come and broken up a nest full of eggs that would soon have hatched. The clothes she and Missie washed on Monday did not dry because it rained on them, and now some of them showed signs of mildew. Her very best petticoat, the one she wanted to wear to church Sunday, was ugly with it. Sparrows had scratched up seed in the garden. Everything seemed to be wrong!

There was a frown on her face as she rolled the sleeves back from her plump arms. Holding her skirts aside, she drew red coals out on the hearth. She placed an iron griddle carefully on them, and going to the shelf where she kept the groceries, she dipped up a measure of meal out of the sack, put it into a pan, and added water from a bucket on the shelf.

With a sigh she thought how glad she was the children were fed and asleep in bed. She wished Killdee would come on. It was late. She glanced out of the open door. It was nearly night, yet she saw nothing of him. She was tired. The spring days were getting long.

Killdee loved work. He was strong and able to go all day. All night too, if he wanted to. But she was jaded when night came. Glad to rest. Killdee ought to think of her and come on.

Missie came out of the shed-room, where she had been putting the children to sleep. She still hummed the tune she had sung to them, “Bye-and-bye, when the morning comes.”

“Do don’ keep on a-singin’,” Rose said complainingly.

Missie sang too much. She was always singing. Rose jerked the spoon as she stirred the meal and water together. It was aggravating to have somebody always singing and happy. There was nothing to be so happy about.

If Missie cared about things as she ought to do, she wouldn’t be singing. Not with Mike dead and Killdee in debt for the new mule--and that new harness. Missie was old enough now to feel responsibility.

Yet why should Missie care? She got her good three meals a day. And clothes. A bed to sleep in. Her mother before her hadn’t cared about things. That was why somebody had to take Missie to raise her. Rose sighed, and stirred the meal with such energy that bits of it fluttered over the side of the pan and fell lightly on the fresh-scoured floor.

“Git a broom an’ sweep up da meal befo’ you’ foot step on ’em,” she said abruptly to Missie.

How quick and sharp her words sounded! Missie glanced at Rose’s face, then got the field-straw broom from its place in the corner and began to sweep. She had scoured the floor that day, and the bare room had a fresh, clean, cozy look in the warm, flickering light.

She had taken a few fresh eggs to the cross-roads store and exchanged them for clean newspapers. These cut into fringes fluttered from the wide mantelshelf, where a coco-cola bottle filled with water held a spray of plum blossoms, white, fragile, already shattering.

“Dem plum blossom duh mess up de flo’ wusser’n de meal,” Rose said crossly. “Sweep ’em up!”

Missie carefully swept the bits of meal and the delicate petals into the fire, and then put the broom back where it belonged.

She stopped to look at the mantelpiece. How pretty it looked! Killdee liked things to look pretty. He didn’t mind if they littered the floor a little.

Rose turned to her impatiently.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, don’ be stannin’ dere a-gazin’. Heah lately you all de time doin’ like you’s a-walkin’ een you sleep. Wha’ de matter ail you, gal?”

Missie’s eyes lifted to Rose’s face. She was startled by its hard, accusing look.

“You--you wan’ me fo’ do--anything--Aun’ Rose?” she asked timidly.

“I can’ be a-tellin’ you wha’ fo’ do eby minute.” Rose answered, as she took the long fire-stick and impatiently shoved pieces of blazing wood farther back in the fireplace. “Looks like old ez you is, you could see wha’ fo’ do.”

There was a cheery clinking of trace-chains and a whistled tune outside. Killdee was coming. Missie went to the door. She leaned against the lintel and listened. How she loved the thud-thud of the new mule’s feet. He came home brisk, almost trotting, after plowing all day. And Killdee was whistling.

So different from the days when he plowed old Mike. It was better that old Mike died. He was too slow, poor old fellow. It took him all day to plow just a little piece of the crop. And every night Killdee came home so tired. So downhearted.

But now with Joe it was different. Joe and Killdee were matched up together. Both were strong. Stout. Able to work without tiring. Killdee had the crop all clean and growing fast. Every night he came home happy. To-night he was even whistling. What if he was in debt? He was a man. He could work and pay. He had Joe to help him. He had the fine new harness.

Missie’s heart beat fast with pleasure. It was right for Killdee to have the best mule in the world. The best harness. She wished he could have--well, everything!

She smiled to think how pleased Killdee would be to see she had oiled the new harness that day.

When she finished the scouring, she had taken it down from the peg on the wall where it hung and greased it all and wiped every buckle clean. There it hung. Shiny. New as the day it was bought.

Joe would look fine dressed up in it when Killdee took Rose to Mount Pleasant Church next Sunday.

Missie looked up at the starlit sky. It was clear. Sunday would be clear too. Joe would hold his head high and prance. Killdee would have to hold the lines tight to rule him. Everybody would look at Killdee and Joe.

The gentle breeze blowing in Missie’s face seemed to hold some of the light of the clear sky. Some of the freshness of the plowed earth. The delicious smell of plum blossoms had never seemed so piercing sweet as to-night.

Rose’s voice, sharp, reproving, interrupted Missie’s thoughts.

“Looks like you’d go help Killdee feed up, ’stead o’ standin’ dere a-moonin’. Killdee mus’ be mighty tired to-night.”

“Why--Aun’ Rose,” Missie faltered.

“Oh, you mek surprise, enty? You t’ink you kin go an’ dress you’se’f up, an’ stan’ ’roun’ an’ look at de moon, while me an’ Killdee duh wuk.”

“I ain’ dress’ up, Aun’ Rose. I been so dirty--my dress been wet at I scour.”

“Mighty strange how I haffer keep on my same one. You kin go put on clean one,” Rose snapped.

Missie’s fingers felt the rough cloth of the dress she wore. What Rose said was true. She had put on a clean one when she finished scouring. The one she had on was wet and soiled. She had greased the harness and that made it worse. She had put on a clean one. And Rose had on the same one she had worn all the week. Rose was provoked about it.

“Aun’ Rose--I--I ain’----” Missie tried to explain, but there was nothing to say. There was no excuse. She felt sick inside that Rose could not understand.

“You could ’a’ gone an’ put een feed good ez Killdee. You could do ’em eby night good ez him. You could tek de mule to de branch fo’ drink. But no. You rudder go dress up. An’ stan’ een de do’. An’ watch me an’ him. Me an’ Killdee could wuk finger to de bone! Wha’ you keer?”

Rose poured the batter of meal and water on the hissing hot griddle. She took pains to scrape every bit from the sides of the pan. She smoothed it over the top with the big, iron spoon. Missie saw that the spoon was unsteady. Holding the empty pan and the spoon out to Missie, she said, without looking up:

“Heah! Tek dese an’ wash ’em!”

Missie took them and went slowly to the shelf where three galvanized water buckets stood in a row full to the top with water. Keeping these full was part of her work. With one on her head and one in each hand, she had learned to come up the hill from the spring with them full, almost as easily as she went down with them empty.

Her heart felt troubled. She hardly thought what she was doing as she took the gourd dipper from the nail where it hung beside the buckets and poured water into the pan. Rose watched her. Then suddenly railed:

“You can’ wash nuttin’ clean wid col’ water! Much times ez I don tol’ you! Gi’ ’em heah to me!”

Rose reached for the pan.

“No,” said Missie, holding it back. “No, Aun’ Rose, I kin wash ’em. I was des a-rinsin’ ’em. We mos’ always wait tell mawnin’ fo’ wash de supper t’ings good. I kin wash ’em now.”

She went to the hearth where the big, black iron kettle sat breathing steam from its spout. She poured hot water into the pan and began stirring it around. Rose dropped a knife on the door. China plates in her hands rattled against each other.

“Aun’ Rose----” Missie hesitated, “you set down an’ lemme fix Killdee’s supper. I ain’ offer fo’ do ’em-by-it seem lak you would rudder--do ’em you’se’f---- You know I be’s glad when I kin he’p you--or eeder him----”

Missie’s words trailed slower and slower, for she saw the expression on Rose’s face. Hard. Angry. Missie felt like crying, yet she waited for Rose’s answer.

“Ki!” Rose sneered. The water in the kettle simmered loud.

“How you mean ’Ki,’ Aun’ Rose?” Missie was distressed.

“I mean ’em des lak I say ’em,” Rose retorted.

“I mean ’em des lak e soun’. You know ef you had-a respec’ fo’ me, you’d be cookin’ de supper now. Ef you keered ’bout Killdee, you’d ’a’ been out yonder een de bahnyahd a-puttin’ up de mule--an’ feedin’ ’em.--No! You gone dress up! Dress up so nobody can’ call on you to do nuttin’.”

“I is keer ’bout Killdee. ’Bout you too, Aun’ Rose. Yinner’s all de mammy and daddy I got. Dey ain’ nuttin’ I wouldn’ do fo’ Killdee--nuttin’----” Missie could hardly talk.

“Talk you’ sweet-mout’ talk to Killdee. ’E’ll b’lieb anyt’ing. But you can’ fool me. No! I know you don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em. You des keer ’bout dem t’ing Killdee buy fo’ you. I know!”

Rose was putting a dish on the little bare pine table in the middle of the room. It fell with a crash and shattered into white bits all over the floor.

“Lemme git ’em up, Aun’ Rose----” Missie said quickly. She dropped to her knees and began picking up the broken pieces.

“No! Don’ tech ’em! I’m tired tell I’m pure trim’lin’. Da’s how-come I drap da dish. Keep you’ han’ offen ’em! You pick flowers an’ cut paper lambrekin all day. You heah Killdee comin’. You wan’ mek out you duh wuk. No. Git up off de flo’! Git up!”

Missie got to her feet slowly. What was the matter with Rose? She must be sick.

Rose picked up the broken pieces and tossed them into the fire. Then she got a knife to turn over the hoe-cake baking there on the griddle. It was burnt black. The smoke from it stung her eyes. Tears sprung, kindled with anger.

“Look at dis! Look!” she said furiously. “Bu’n up! De bread fo’ Killdee’s supper! Bu’n up! Bu’n up!”

The knife in her fat hand trembled. Her short fingers tightened on its handle.

“I reckon nobody didn’ tol’ you fo’ watch de bread, enty?”

Missie felt queer inside. Rose had often scolded her, but never like this before.

“Aun’ Rose,” she said humbly, “I too sorry--I would ’a’ watch de bread--I des’ fo’git--I des----”

“Shet you’ mout’, gal! You mek me too cross! Go git een de shed-room whe’ my eye can’ see you. Respec’! Respec’! You ain’ got a respec’ fo’ nobody. Go!”

Rose was in a rage.

“But, Aun’ Rose----” Rose did not hear the appeal in Missie’s voice.

“Go, I tell you!” she screamed. “Before my han’ slap you! You le’ Killdee’s bread bu’n up! You don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em! No! I gwine tell ’em so, too!”

“But I is keer ’bout ’em, Aun’ Rose. You couldn’t tell ’em I don’----” Missie protested sorrowfully. “Aun’ Rose----”

Missie was miserable.

“Aun’ Rose----”

Rose scraped the charred crust off the bread and did not answer.

“Aun’ Rose--ef you tell Killdee--I ain’ keer ’bout ’em--you tell somet’ing ain’ so----”

Rose lifted narrowed eyes to look at her.

“You mean to call me a lie, gal? Tell me dat!”

“No’m--but ef you tell Killdee----”

Rose got up and faced her there in the shed-room door.

“Well, I gwine tell ’em, heah? I gwine tell ’em soon’s ’e come. I gwine tell ’em you talk impident talk to me! Soon’s ’e come! Ef I wasn’t a good ’oman I’d kill you right now!”

“Aun’ Rose,”--Missie stopped crying. She met Rose’s eyes without flinching. She spoke firmly. Distinctly.

“Ef you tell Killdee dat, you is a lie.”

Her little figure seemed to heighten. Killdee was coming up the steps. Rose heard him and raised her voice.

“Killdee, dis gal call me a lie! You heah ’em?”

She began crying hysterically.

“I try fo mek em do right! You heah em? E call me lie! Lie! E t’ink you gwine side wid em! E t’ink you gwine uphold em agains’ me!”

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, wha’ is dis?” Killdee asked. He was shocked. Astonished.

“Who you call lie, Missie?”

“You heah wha’ e say, enty, Killdee?” Rose quavered. “I glad you come een time fo’ heah em. You wouldn’ a’ b’lieb’ me. Not lessen you heah em----”

“Wha’ you mean by sich a talk, Missie?” Killdee was looking straight at her. “You mek me feel ’shame’. You would say sich a t’ing.”

Missie’s knees trembled under her.

“I decla’ to Gawd!” Killdee lamented.

Missie stood silent with her head down.

“No! E ain’ shame! E ain’t got no shame!” Rose sobbed violently.

“You haffer beg Rose pardon, Missie. You is, enty?” Killdee asked her. He couldn’t bear to be hard on her.

Missie lifted great, wet eyes and looked at him. She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Killdee did not understand.

“No, Killdee. No. Aun’ Rose ain’ talkin’ straight. No. E know good too, e ain’ tellin’ you wha’ I say to em.”

She looked at Rose and waited. Rose would have to tell him.

“Listen at em, Killdee,” Rose wailed. “E duh talk sassy talk to me now.”

Missie held still. Surprised. Rose was willing to let Killdee believe what was not so. Rose was not ashamed to stand there and let a lie stand for the truth. A lie!

Killdee’s eyes flashed with anger. He took a step forward.

“Look-a at me, Missie. You dassn’t to talk sassy to Rose!” He came still nearer. “You would call Rose a lie, too? Me an’ Rose is been too easy on you. Da’s de trouble. Da’s how-come you pass lie so glib on you’ tongue! I ain’ lay my han’ on you yet een my life, gal. But, befo’ Gawd, ef you don’t tek back wha’ you call Rose, I’m gwine lick you to-night! Lie? Lie? I’ll show you how fo’ call people lie. I’m gwine lick you.”

He did not wait for Missie to answer him. He jerked the new harness down from its peg on the wall. He fumbled and tugged and pulled at the oiled pieces of leather.

What was Killdee doing? Missie’s heart quivered with terror. She shivered, for Killdee was holding up one thick leather trace. He looked at it, then dropped it. Dark thin streaks of grease marked the floor. Killdee kept fumbling until he selected one of the holding-back straps. He unbuckled this from the harness and, with it clutched in one tense hand, came toward her.

She was sure now what he meant to do. He was going to beat her. Beat her! Her mouth felt dry. Icy chills went down her spine. Killdee was going to beat her with that strap in his hand.

She tried to say something. To tell him. But her lips were stiff. They would not move.