Part 3

Rose went and Killdee led Mike out into the yard to keep him walking. Spikes of water drove against his cheeks. Things dazzled a little before his eyes. He felt confused. Distracted. He must pull himself together. Mike and Rose depended on him. He must be strong. Not afraid. Rain fell in a solid flood and Mike stopped and tried to lie down. Killdee was firm and urged him on. Round and round the barn they went. Walking, walking.

Sheets of water hid the cabin. Beat and slashed on his shoulders. Chilled the very flesh on his bones. Made him shudder foolishly.

Something braced him. Maybe shame. Was he a man or not? What were wind and rain and thunder and lightning that he’d fear them?

Women and children mind such things. Not strong men.

Mike must not lie down and die. He must walk this colic off. Plowing Green Thursday had nothing to do with his sickness. Bad teeth. Rotten, weevily corn. They were worse than lightning. Or plowing Green Thursday.

Rose was scary. Chicken-hearted. All good women are so. It was right for them to be afraid of things. Right.

The rain battered down and Mike and Killdee walked on and on unheeding.

A voice piped shrill above the storm’s roaring. Killdee smiled. Rose wanted him. She thought he could keep harm away from her. He’d go to her soon and put on dry clothes. A fire was still in the chimney. He would build it up and its light would make the cabin bright and cheerful. Mike was getting better. His belly was less near bursting. Soon he could go back to his stable. Thank God!

Rose was running toward him! Screaming! Was she sick? No, she had Baby Rose in her arms. She held Baby Rose out to him.

Killdee felt numb. Dazed. What had happened? He couldn’t think. He was stunned--or drunk----

As he went into the cabin a fog of smoke filled his eyes. The air was rank with the smell of burned cloth--burned meat----

He stumbled to a chair and sat down in it. He was holding Baby Rose’s fire-blackened, scorched little body in his arms. What must he do? What?

“Go git Maum Hannah,” Rose said between teeth that chattered.

Killdee put the baby on the bed and went staggering blindly across the fields through the storm. Lightning mocked him. Thunderbolts flouted him. Made him go the wrong way. Made him stumble. Made him afraid. Told him it was Green Thursday, and this morning he stirred the earth!

At last he reached Maum Hannah’s cabin. It sat safe behind the pile of ashes where a man’s house had been. Fire burned that house, yesterday. Maum Hannah said Jesus burned it.

* * * * *

All night Killdee and Rose sat beside the bed. Rose moaned incessantly. Her own burned hands were held out in front of her. She didn’t seem to know he was there.

Maum Hannah kept putting white hog lard and white cotton over the little crisp ears and fingers. Mary West held the pan. The pan itself kept shaking. Killdee took it and tried to hold it steady, but it shook in his hand just the same.

Baby Rose never cried at all. Her breath came easy. Soft. Like whispering. It made Killdee weak and sick to hear the long gaps that came between.

All night he listened for it. Then just before day, it stopped. He kept trying to hear it. Just one more time. His own breast cramped with an effort to catch air! Baby Rose wasn’t breathing! No! She was gone! Gone!

Rose got down on her knees and prayed and begged and called to her to come back. Not to go. Not to leave her. But she was gone. Gone.

Rose got up and shrieked and cried and waved her arms. She said God was hard. Unfair. Killdee had done wrong. He had stirred the earth on a holy day. He should suffer. Not her. Not her child. But Baby Rose lay still. Dead.

Maum Hannah talked to Rose and tried to quiet her. She told Rose that it was to be. The child’s time had come. God called Baby Rose because her work here was over. Her time was out. To question what God had done was a sin. Rose must bear her sorrow with patience.

Killdee sat in the doorway and looked out at the thick, black night. His muscular hands shook helplessly and clutched at the rough board step. His strength had left him. He felt weak. Shaken. Afraid. The darkness came up close. It filled his eyes and ears and nostrils. It slipped past him into the fire-lit room. The fire still burned. There was no other light to be had. But darkness filled the corners. Silent darkness. Black, dumb darkness. It told nobody what it was, or what it was doing. It was like death. It came. It went. Nobody could keep it away. Nobody.

The wind had died. Faint flashes of lightning low in the sky were followed by thunder that muttered and mumbled. Killdee’s heart was black. Bitter.

If God wanted to call Baby Rose, why did He burn her to death? She had never harmed God. Or anybody. She had never done anything wrong. She was too little to sin. If God was mad with him for plowing Green Thursday, why didn’t He strike him with lightning and kill him? That would have been easy enough. But to burn a baby--it wasn’t square.

How could God have the heart to burn a baby? Who made the baby so she loved to play in the fire, if God didn’t? Yes. God did it!

Rose gave her other things to play with. Rose made her a pretty little cloth doll. He had gotten an empty cigar box from the cross-roads store and made her a nice little doll wagon. But she loved the fire more than anything else.

She didn’t know it would burn her. He told her it would. Rose told her too. But she was a baby. She didn’t understand.

Maybe she wasn’t playing with fire! Who could tell? Rose was on the bed with her head covered up to keep from seeing the lightning. A gust of wind might have sucked a flame out to catch her little dress. The lightning might have sent a tongue of fire in through the window to kill her.

Rose didn’t know. Rose was on the bed. With her eyes shut. Scared. A coward. She let her baby burn to death. She was to blame. Rose and God.

Something inside him made him shake and shiver as he sat there trying to think things out. Something kept telling him he had plowed the ground on Green Thursday. He had stirred the earth on a holy day.

Keen, blasting grief wrung him to the core. Resentment heated his blood like a fever. Burnt the marrow in his skull. Emboldened him. With set lips and rigid muscles, he glared at the overhead darkness. He was helpless. Yes. He had to take whatever came. There was nothing else to do. Nothing! He could fight men. Settle with them. But God--Ha!--that was a different matter. God kept out of reach. Yes. He did his worst. He cut men at the very roots. Blighted them. He burned tender girl-children. And nobody could ever get even with Him. Up there in the sky, He had the whole world in His cold-blooded reach.

* * * * *

A star blinked out between flying clouds and was gone. Where was baby Rose? Was she up there? No. She was inside on the bed. Dead. Dead.

Maum Hannah laid a light hand on his shoulder.

“Son,” she said, “better come eenside now. De night air’ll gi’ you a chill. Day’ll soon be clean. Andrew mus’ come mek a lil box to fit de baby. You haffer lay em way, you know.”

Her hand waited. It must have felt his misery, for it shook just a little. Killdee knew she pitied him as she murmured:

“Try to fret out loud, son. You could bear de pain mo better ef you would cry. Eenside frettin’ kin bus’ you’ heart open.”

* * * * *

They waited until the sun had set in the little grave, then Killdee and Andrew placed the small pine box that held Baby Rose, carefully down in the earth. Together they filled in the damp, red clay, and smoothed it over the top, into a mound. When it was done, Killdee fell to his knees on the ground and wept bitterly. But Andrew said solemnly to him:

“Don’ cry, Killdee. De Lawd hab gi’ em. De Lawd hab tek em away. Bressed be de name ob de Lawd.”

Andrew walked home with him to Rose, who strove with Maum Hannah’s help and encouragement to bring another child into the world.

Maum Hannah looked up at Killdee when he walked in, and said:

“Some duh comin’ an’ some duh gwinen. Him up-yonder duh tek an’ sen. Be tanksful, son. Be tanksful.”

But Killdee’s eyes were fixed on a small cloth doll that had fallen out of its cigar-box wagon and that lay face down on the floor.

_Missie_

The day was almost gone. Rose was cooking supper when a shadow darkened the doorway. She looked around quickly. Who was there? Killdee always came in with heavy steps that could be heard.

A strange little figure stood on the top step. A girl who was small and dirty and ragged. A broken, rusty dishpan filled with fat light-wood splinters was balanced on her head. Thin, trembling, black hands steadied it as the child looked up into Rose’s face with a diffident smile and said softly:

“Dese is some fat chip I fetch fo’ you.”

Rose looked at the rich pine chips piled high on the pan. Then she searched the child’s narrow face. Her keen eyes noted the pointed chin, the curve of the purplish, dark-red lips, the delicate, bluish bloom on the black cheeks. A stranger. Who?

“Who is you, gal?” she asked abruptly. “Whe’ you come f’om?”

Rose knew everybody in this part of the world and she had never seen or heard of this child before.

“I name Missie,” the child answered. “My mammy an’ all o’ we come f’om ober de ribber fo’ pick cotton. None ain’ mek to we home.”

“Whe’ you git dem chip?” Rose asked after a moment’s thought.

“I cut dem off a stump back o’ we house,” was the prompt reply.

“Whe’ you house dey?” Rose asked again.

The child turned and pointed across the field to a dark line of woods that showed a jagged edge under the sunset sky.

“We house is yonder,” she said simply.

“Great Gawd,” Rose said, “I know em. Da ol’, broke-down house. Da’s a bad-luck house, gal. Too much a people dead een em. I wouldn’ trust fo’ stay dey. I too faid o’ hants.”

Missie’s big eyes glistened in the firelight as she heard, but she did not answer.

“Put de chip down by de fireplace,” Rose bade her. “I glad to git em. Wha’ you want fo’ em?”

Missie dropped her eyes and said shyly.

“Please, ma’am, gi’ me a lil piece o’ bread.”

Rose scanned the thin face, the slight body. Was the child hungry? She went to the safe and looked in a pan there. She broke off a piece of corn pone left from dinner and handed it to Missie, who took it eagerly and started out of the door.

“Wait,” Rose said. “You ain’ got no manners? You ain’ gwine say ’Tank you’?”

Missie bowed and pulled a foot back to make a curtsey and said solemnly:

“Tank you, ma’am.”

“Da’s right,” Rose laughed. “You kin cutsey good fo-true. But look how you drap crumbs on de clean flo’.”

Missie gave a quick look around the room and spied a field-straw broom in the corner. She laid her bread carefully on the table and, getting the broom, swept all the crumbs into the fire with a few deft strokes.

“Why, you is a smart lil gal,” Rose approved. “You kin sweep nice. When you gits hongry again, fetch me some mo splinters an’ I’ll gi’ you bread.”

Missie took up her bread and made another curtsey.

“Good ebenin’, ma’am,” she said respectfully.

Rose laughed again and responded:

“Good ebenin’.” But as an afterthought she called to the child:

“Come back heah a minute. Wha’ you las’ name, gal?”

Missie reflected seriously and answered:

“I dunno, ma’am. Ma ain’ nebber tell me.”

“I don’ reckon you got none,” Rose pronounced severely.

Missie seemed not to understand, for she gave a puzzled look at Rose, then went away down the path.

In the fading light Rose saw that a thin, yellow cur dog walked beside her and that Missie fed him bits of her bread.

When Killdee came in from the field and saw the fat splinters and heard how Missie swept up crumbs off the floor and curtseyed when she said good-by, the thought flashed into his mind that Missie would be the very person to come and stay with Rose and help her take care of Jim.

“Let’s git em,” he said.

“You reckon ’e mammy would gi’ em ’way?” Rose considered.

“Sho ’e will. Anyway, I kin go ax em.”

* * * * *

The next day at noon when Killdee and Mike came home for dinner, Missie and the yellow cur dog were walking behind them. Both waited outside by the stable door until Mike was fed, then they walked slowly behind Killdee into the house.

“I got em,” Killdee announced brightly. “I got you a lil gal.”

Rose’s eyes were on the dog. Killdee saw she disapproved.

A string of fresh egg-shells hung on a nail by the chimney dangled in the draught. Rose had put them there this morning. Strung like that and hung beside the fire, egg-shells would make her hens lay.

Missie looked from them to Rose, then at the dog.

“Son don’ suck egg. No’m,” she defended.

“Don’ tell me no lie, gal,” Rose warned.

“No’m, Son ain’ suck a egg een e life. We raise em,” Missie affirmed.

“Wha ’e name?” Rose asked sternly.

“We call em ’Son,’ ma’am.”

“You gi’ de dawg to me, Missie. I eber did want a coon dawg. I bet e is a good one,” Killdee intervened. “An’ I’ll kill em ef e suck one o’ Rose eggs.”

Missie looked up quickly, but the expression on Killdee’s face reassured her. Rose saw something like a message pass between Killdee and Missie and she retorted:

“Ef ’e suck eggs you won’ hab a chance to kill em. I’ll tend to em my own se’f,” she threatened. Her tone was sharp.

Killdee drew a chair forward and sat down.

“Come heah, gal,” he said. “Lemme look at you good. I ain’ had time tell now.”

Rose stood with arms akimbo and watched Missie come forward. The small bare head with its sunburned wool was bowed humbly. The slim, black fingers plucked nervously at the soiled, ragged dress. One ashy toe of a slender foot dug at a line of a crack in the floor.

“Look een my eye, gal. Don’t be faid. Tell me you name,” Killdee coaxed with an amused smile on his face.

“Come heah, close to me, gal,” he repeated.

“Don’ plague em, Killdee,” Rose chided him.

“I ain’ plaguin’ em,” Killdee declared. “I des axin’ em ’e name. I haffer know ’e name, enty?”

Missie lifted her eyes timidly. They met Killdee’s and her curved lashes flickered and dropped. Killdee saw that the dark-red lips quivered and a dimple came and went in the pointed chin. The child was shy as a wild bird. The little breast was heaving with a sudden sob and a bright tear fell with a tiny pat on Rose’s clean floor. Missie quickly put up an arm to wipe away the others that were following it.

Killdee was distressed. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. No.

“Don’ cry, lil gal. Don’ cry. I wasn’ makin’ fun o’ you. No. Come heah close to me. I like lil gals like you.”

He put out a big hand and pity made his deep voice very gentle.

“Come heah, lil gal. Come close to me. I had a lil gal one time.”

Missie raised her eyes again and, though there were tears on her long lashes, her lips parted and Killdee saw teeth white as rice grains showing between them.

“Da’s right,” he encouraged. “Da’s right. Try fo’ laugh, gal. Don’t cry. I can’ stan’ fo’ see a gal-chillen cry. Come stan’ close to me and tell me yo’ name.”

Missie came closer, but when Killdee put an arm around her and drew her up to him, her heart beat fast with fear. He was so big. So strong. So different from anybody she had ever seen in her life before.

Yet mingled with the fear was a thrill of something like joy. She sensed that in the strength of this man she would find safety. Protection. And she sensed in the sharp tone of Rose’s voice something that made her afraid and unhappy.

Yes, Killdee was her friend. It was good to lean right against him so. To feel his arm around her. And she leaned with simple trust and wiped her eyes and cheeks dry with her sleeve.

Rose was shocked. The girl was filthy. More than likely, full of lice. Killdee was a thoughtless man. He didn’t know how to look after himself.

“You le’ da gal git close you, Killdee?” she cried out. “Wait tell I scour ’em an’ put clean clo’es on em. Gawd! I wouldn’ le’ em touch me no-how.”

Killdee laughed and drew his arm away, saying:

“You reckon e’s lousy?”

“Sho ’e is,” Rose affirmed. She pointed to the shelf.

“Look on de shelf, gal. Git dem two buckets an’ go to de spring fo’ water. I gwine hotten a potful and scrub you hide good.”

As Missie started for the buckets, Killdee shook his head.

“No, Rose. One bucket is plenty fo’ a lil gal to fetch up da steep hill. You ain’ fo’ strain a gal-chillen. Missie ain’ had no dinner. E don’ know de way to de spring. You fo-git. Missie ain’ nuttin’ but a baby.”

“Baby!” Rose scoffed. “Baby nuttin’! E might lil an’ dry, but shucks! e’s plenty ol’ fo’ go to de spring an’ fetch two buckets o’ water.”

“Gi’ em some dinner fus’, Rose. When I finish my own, I’ll git you de water.”

Rose said no more. She fixed a pan of food for Killdee, then one for Missie and one for herself, and they all sat down to eat. There was a strange silence. Somehow the little girl’s presence made a difference already.

When Killdee finished eating, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and got up.

“I’ll git you all de water you want now. Ef Jim ain’ wake when I come back, I gwine wake him. I haffer play wid em a lil befo’ I go back to de fiel’.”

“No, you ain’ gwine wake em nuttin’,” Rose declared, looking over at the bed, and a tender smile softened her heavy mouth.

“Yes I is,” Killdee returned playfully. “You got a gal to nuss em fo’ you now. I wan’ see how Jim like dis gal anyhow.”

Missie ate her dinner hungrily. It tasted good, for she had never had many full meals in her life.

After Killdee had gone to the field again, Rose and Missie washed the pots and pans together. Rose showed the child where each thing stayed when it was clean.

“You is fo’ do dis ebey day, Missie,” Rose said simply, and Missie nodded assent.

When all the pots and pans were put away, Rose sat down to rest and smoke her pipe.

“Sweep de flo’, gal. Sweep easy, too. Don’ wake Jim.”

But Jim did wake and when Missie started toward him with an eager, happy smile, Rose stopped her.

“No,” she said, “don’ touch em. You’s full o’ lice. I don’ want Jim to git none on em. No, my Gawd! Wait tell I git you clean. Den you kin mind em all you want.”

* * * * *

When Killdee came home at dark, a queer, comical little figure stood by the hearth helping Rose cook supper. Missie, after Rose had cleaned her.

Every bit of wool had been clipped from her small head. The only garment she wore was one of Killdee’s own shirts. The sleeves were cut off the right length for the thin arms, and the neck-band, lapped over and pinned together, hung awkwardly. The child glanced shamefacedly at him when he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Rose! Dis gal look like a skinned rabbit.”

Killdee looked at Missie again and held his sides. Rose stood looking and laughing too.

“I had to do em so, Killdee,” Rose explained. “E was pure lousy. ’E dress was sewed on em. I cut off ebyting e had on an’ bu’nt em up. Den I clip ’e haid. Dat ol’ shu’t o’ you’ own been too ol’ fo’ patch any mo’. But de gal is clean. An’ Jim is pure crazy ’bout em. ’E play so much ’e gone sleep by fus’ dark.”

Killdee walked over to the hearth where Missie stood and put a hand on her shoulder. How pitiful that poor little bare head was! He didn’t know just what to say.

“Nemmine, Missie,” he murmured, “You haih’ll soon grow back. I’m gwine to de sto’ nex’ Sat’day an’ I’ll buy you a dress. A purty dress. An’ some o’ dese days I’m gwine buy you some shoes fo’ wear on Sunday, too.”

Missie could not look up. Two bright tears dropped on the clean white sand of the hearth.

Killdee leaned and took her hand and led her with him to a chair.

“Jim is gone to sleep, lil gal. I got to hol’ some kinder chillen een my lap. Lemme hol’ you a minute.”

“No-suh,” Rose objected, “Missie ain’ no baby fo’ you to spile. Go git me a pan out de safe, gal. You too big fo’ set een Killdee lap.”

Missie went to the safe and Killdee sat down in the doorway. He took out his pipe and lit it and smoked in silence.

The day was gone. A slender, young moon guarded the evening star. Crickets chirped a few trial notes together. A cow bell jangled down in the pasture. A whippoorwill called uneath words. The hot breeze that fanned his face blew the smoke from his mouth back into the cabin.

A sudden weariness seemed to sap his strength. A feeling of loneliness darkened his heart. The fields out there, the woods beyond them, all lay quiet. Peaceful. Why could he not be so? Why must he always strive, struggle with something inside his heart? Rose didn’t understand. No.

His pipe was finished. Looking inside, he asked:

“Whe’ is Missie gwine sleep, Rose?”

“I gwine mek em a pallet on de flo’,” Rose answered cheerfully. “I got plenty o’ quilt.”

When Missie was curled up on one folded quilt on the floor and covered over with another, she knew she must not let Rose and Killdee hear her crying. But when she thought of her Mother, of Sis, of all of them at home, her heart felt likely to burst with longing for them.