Part 4

Could she bear to stay here? When everybody got sound asleep, she’d get up and slip out of the door and go back to her mother. She wouldn’t be afraid of the dark with Son. He’d go with her and keep anything from hurting her.

But her clothes were burned up. Her hair was clipped off. She had nothing on but Killdee’s old shirt. She couldn’t let them see her like that. Not like that.

Sobs wrenched her. She was afraid. Misery made her ache all over.

Killdee leaned over her, patting her gently, saying: “Good night.”

She slipped a hand into his big, warm one and held to it. If he would just stay here by her a little!

“You mus’ dream a good dream to-night, lil gal. Dis is de fus’ night you sleep in dis house. All you dream’ll come true,” he whispered.

Missie looked at him and tried to smile. She would never be afraid of him any more. No. And if he wanted her, she’d stay here and try to be happy with Rose.

“Do, Killdee,” Rose scolded. “Le’ de gal go to sleep.”

* * * * *

Next morning Missie woke early. She tried to recall her dream. What was it? She couldn’t quite remember. But it was something pleasant. It seemed to be something about Killdee.

_Meeting_

When Missie came to live with Rose and Killdee, she had never been to church or to prayer-meeting in her life, and the first time she went to the quarters for meeting with Rose her heart thrilled at what she saw.

The night was dark, and as they got nearer Maum Martha’s cabin where meeting was held every Wednesday night, the light from the open door shone out on black people who stood in the yard, laughing and talking.

As they went up the weak old steps, Rose warned her:

“Mine you’ eye an’ don’ fall. Don’ le’ dese steps broke you leg de fus’ time you come to meetin’.”

Narrow wooden benches filled the room. Missie took her seat on one of those back near the door. Rose had explained to her on the way that only members could sit up in front near the fire. Sinners had to sit far back. And Missie was a sinner, for she had never sought to find peace, nor had she been baptized.

As Rose sat on the front bench, it creaked with her weight.

“Jedus! Do don’ fall!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Dese bench is gittin’ too ol’ fo’ be trusted.”

Maum Martha, an old, fat woman who sat on one on the opposite side of the fire, sighed:

“Lawd, yes. Dey is ol’. My own daddy, Champagne, mek dem befo’ my time. Da’s how-come dey stay under my house. Da’s how-come meetin’ is heah wid me. Dey ain’ gwine las’ much longer ef de mens ain’ ca’ful how dey tote em. Mens is change sense I was young. Dey don’ keer ef dey broke de meetin’ bench. Dey ain’ got prays een de back side o’ dey head. Dey mind run too fas’ on gals an’ dancin’ an’ sin. Dey povoke me!”

Maum Martha’s eyes narrowed as she peered through the half-light at Missie.

“Who dat gal a-settin’ by de do?” she asked.

“Dat de gal Killdee git fo’ me to raise,” Rose owned it proudly.

“I declea!” Maum Martha approved. “You hab luck fo’ git sich a big gal. E big ’nough fo’ mind you baby, enty?”

“Sho,” Rose agreed. “E ain’ so big, but e strong. E kin hoe, too. An’ cut wood. An’ fetch water f’om de spring. E kin put one bucket on e head an’ tek one een each hand and walk right up dat steep hill. E stronger’n me.”

People were coming in. Men, women, children, followed Daddy Cato, an old man, who took his place at the little pine table in the center of the room. With a splinter from the hearth, he lit the small glass kerosene lamp.

What a strange-looking person he was! His arms seemed too long. The sleeves of his greenish black coat left his bony wrists naked. His vest was too short. It left part of his shirt showing above his big, loose pantaloons.

He rested the finger-tips of his great hands on the table in front of him and looked over the crowd of quiet people that filled the room.

One eyelid drooped and covered an eye. One side of his kind old mouth was twisted.

“Chillen,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “hell ain’ no hole.”

The silence was tense. The congregation listened attentively.

“A hole would ’a’ been full long time ago,” he continued.

“Do Jedus!” somebody exclaimed, but most of the people stayed silent.

Daddy Cato rubbed the scattered white hairs on his chin thoughtfully.

“Chillen,” he said solemnly, “I dunno e-zactly wha’ hell is.” He hesitated and cleared his throat before he went on. “But I tink e mus’ be a lake.”

“Yes, my Gawd! E mus’ be,” somebody answered fervently.

Missie felt uncomfortable. Rose had told her a lot about hell and God since she came. God lived in heaven. He loved Christians and hated sinners. He burned sinners in a place he called hell.

All the fire in the world came from hell. God swam it through seven rivers to cool it before he brought it here. Seven wide rivers.

The fire in the chimney behind Daddy Cato was so hot that sweat ran out on his forehead and drops fell from his face. Hell fire is seven times hotter than that fire. God must be terrible. It scared her to think about him.

Killdee was a sinner, Rose said. Killdee laughed when Rose said it. Killdee wasn’t afraid of God or hell or anything. How could he be so bold!

Wind through the open door fluttered the fringe of cut newspapers that covered the mantelshelf. They began a funny, wild dancing behind Daddy Cato’s back.

“De do haffer shet,” he said, and Andrew got up and closed it and put up the bar to hold it in place.

Soon somebody knocked and Andrew had to open it again. Maum Hannah came in, and old Daddy Cudjoe. They hurried past the sinners and went to the benches where the members sat, away from the draughty back walls. As Maum Hannah warmed her hands by the fire, she looked behind her.

“E too col’ to-night fo’ mek de sinners set so far f’om de fire. Gawd mek de win’ blow. Him know good how col’ e is. Le’ dem chillen come up an’ warm. Po’ lil creeter. Gawd ain’ gwine be bex ’bout dat.”

But the members looked serious and shook their heads and the sinners stayed where they were.

Newspapers that were pasted all over the walls swelled out when the wind blew a hard gust. The paste that held them must be stout! Brown spots showed where rain had beaten in through cracks and stained them. Age had yellowed them. But to Missie they looked very fine.

The rafters overhead were almost hidden with newspapers tied to barrel hoops and cut into fringes. These swung gently like blossoms.

Pictures were tacked around the walls. Over the mantelshelf a beautiful wild bay horse pranced with all four of its feet lifted high.

A white lady with a pink dress on was near him. She laughed and looked at a bottle of something brown in her hand.

On the opposite wall was a double row of large pictures. Awful pictures. Negroes naked to the waist. All of them broken out with an ugly sickness. Missie did not know that they were pictures of small-pox victims sent out by the State, but she felt sick inside to see such swollen cheeks and bodies.

What did Maum Martha want with them there? Maybe they were sinners----

Daddy Cato was singing. The people were getting to their feet, and joining in the song. How solemn it sounded! Chills ran over her as she listened.

“Roll, Jordan, roll,” were the only words she could make out, but these were sung over and over.

Daddy Cato held up his hand and sang some words alone. His deep voice filled the cabin and roused an aching in Missie’s heart.

“Roll, Jordan, roll,” he sang, and the firelight flickered over the low, dark walls. Nobody else made a sound. His voice was enough. So sad. So pitiful. Missie could hardly keep from crying.

Poor Daddy Cato, old gray-headed man, was crying out to something for help. Was he singing to God?

Then Maum Hannah joined with him and the two old voices swelled upward. The others swayed from side to side and hummed low. Where was God?

Missie had never felt so lonely before. She had never felt sorrow before. But in the cry of those two old voices she felt her own helplessness, her insecurity against some unknown, strange power. She wished Killdee could have come. He was yonder at home taking care of little Jim. But then, Killdee was sinner. God was going to burn Killdee if he didn’t repent. Rose said so. There seemed to be no escape from this God. None.

“Sing, chillen, sing,” Daddy Cato bade, and the whole congregation united in a heaving flood of sound that pressed against the very walls and deadened the moaning of the wind outside.

“Roll, Jordan, roll.”

Missie’s lips moved with the words. Her heart moved with something like prayer. God must be hearing now. Everybody was singing. Calling to Him.

Daddy Cato began praying. Missie shut her eyes. In her darkness her mother’s face came before her. How she wished her mother were here to hold her hand! To keep her from being afraid! For she was afraid. Yes. Of God. Of this singing. Of those sick people on the walls. Of the darkness. Of everything. Yes, everything.

Cold, or maybe it was fear, made gooseflesh break out on her body.

“Chillen,” Daddy Cato said.

The congregation answered: “Yessuh.”

“Dey’s a stranger een de lan’,” he told them.

“Enty?” they answered in surprise.

“Somebody duh meet da stranger eby day.”

What was Daddy Cato talking about? A stranger. Who? The members facing Missie from the other side of the fire had their eyes fixed on Daddy Cato’s face. Maum Hannah nodded sorrowfully at him. She understood him.

“Chillen, da stranger pass me by, mighty close one time,” Daddy Cato said.

“Enty?” they mumbled back.

“So close tell I felt e breat’,----”

Somebody cried out: “Do, Jedus!”

“Yinner see my face---- how e lef’ em----”

A tremble cramped Daddy Cato’s black lips. He held up the smoky lamp and pointed to his motionless cheek. His face was wrong. One whole side of it. It was still. It didn’t move at all. Even when the other side cried it was quiet.

“E pa-lyze,” somebody whispered. “Da wha’ ’e duh talk ’bout----”

There were grunts of sympathy.

“Chillen----” Daddy Cato’s voice broke, then he went on earnestly: “When da stranger kiss you--an’ e gwine kiss eby one--eby one!”

The good side of his face began crying. It twisted like a child’s. The members on the front benches began praying and groaning and moaning: “Do, Jedus! Hab mussy, Lawd!”

Some of them rocked from side to side and begged Daddy Cato to go on.

“Tell em, brudder! Tell em! Heah em, sinners! Heah em fo-true!”

Missie shivered. She was a sinner. Rose said so. A sinner. And it made her afraid to look at Daddy Cato’s face, all crooked--wrong----

“Chillen,” he began again with his voice low and tight in his throat, “yinner know wha’ da stranger leab when e kiss you?”

“No, suh,” they answered him softly. The firelight shone bright in their wide-opened eyes.

“When da stranger kiss you--’e ain’ gwine leab nuttin’--nuttin’!”

Daddy Cato’s lips stumbled with what he wanted to say. “_Nuttin ain’ leab but a box o’ col’ meat. Col’ meat!_”

His words fell cold. Flat. There was no answer to them. A gust of wind shrilled around the corner of the cabin. The newspaper fringes on the mantelshelf shook with a smoky draught that sucked down the chimney. The heavy, black log made a crunching, frying sound. It had burned through, and it broke in the middle and sent a shower of sparks crackling up the wide, black chimney.

Daddy Cato wiped his eyes on his sleeve and one of the members began to sing: “Hush! Hush! Somebody’s a-callin’ my name.”

Missie thought at first he meant what he said. He said it solemnly. But the others began saying it with him. They sang it. Over and over again they sang it, and a wailing chorus followed it:

“Oh, Lawd, what am I gwine do?”

It was so pitiful. They sounded so humble. So helpless. The little children got closer together. Their lips moved too, as they sang the words. When the song was ended, Daddy Cato called out:

“Come an’ pray, Brudder Andrew.”

Missie knew Andrew. He was Rose’s cousin. She watched him as he came forward to the table and knelt down. He stepped in a slow, easy, careless way, and after he knelt by the table the light of the kerosene lamp in his wide-open eyes made Missie think of a rattlesnake’s eyes in the sun. His head came out from a stoop in his big shoulders. As he folded his arms on the table, his lean, sinewy hands grasped his elbows firmly. His hair was clipped close from his head. The ridges in it showed plain. His nostrils swelled out and his thin lips quivered with the words that burred over them. And his eyes--maybe talking to God made them shine so and glitter--and stare----

“Our Fader--we, Dy chillen, is bow heah be-fo Dee to-night---- Come close--an’ listen---- Don’ le’ de win’ tek de wud we say. An’ scatter dem---- We ain’ strong ez You. No. We weak. You put we heah. You tek we ’way when You ready. You ain’ ax we nuttin’. Nuttin’!”

Sweat oozed from his smooth black forehead. From his flattened nostrils. He held his words to a smothered singing that almost ran them together.

Missie stood up to see his face better, but somebody touched her and she sat down again and let the words flow over her.

O Gawd, I know de time ain’ long When my room gwine be lak a public hall, My face gwine be lak a lookin’-glass, An’ my teet’ll be shet ’gainst a silence. No mo’ breat’ll heave een my breas’; My han’s’ll be col’ an’ empty, An’ be layin’ folded pun-top ’em. Dese ol’ feet’ll be tu’n todes sunrise-side, An’ dis head’ll be tu’n todes de wes’. Tain’ no use den fo’ my eyes to crack dey-se’f open.

De life ob a man is same lak de pat’ ob de sun. Een de mawnin’ e rise up bright een de east-- Ebyting look shine an’ beautiful. ’E soon sta’t plowin’ e furrow ’cross de element ob de sky.

’E strong, e brabe-- When de cloud come stan’ een ’e way, ’e fight em. E knock em--e ain’ faid; De lightnin’ flash een e han’ Tell de cloud fall down een rain.

But de time haffer come w’en ’e strengt’ gwine fail. E ceasted f’om climbin’ higher. ’E sta’t fo’ drap todes de wes’. ’E moan tell de sky tu’n red. But ’e haffer go to ’e res’. ’E sink.

’E gone. ’E gone down behime de hill, De hill whe’ de pine trees is t’ick, De hill whe’ de night be’s black.

Dey’s pine trees a waitin’ yonder now Fo’ drap needle ober my grabe. Oh, Lawd! dat’s de time! My hea’t git weak w’en I t’ink on em-- Dat how-come I down on my knees! Fader, stan’ by me den! Be a light on da da’k crooked pat’; Be a shade f’om da’ hot bunnin’ sun; Be a bridge fo’ me ober deep water; Hol’ my han’ tell I git across, Tell I git Home!

Andrew’s black eyes were staring at something beyond the wall. His big, strong teeth were bared. They ground together harshly, and his hands strained at each other.

The room was still. Too still. Maybe Andrew was in a trance. Rose said people went into a trance when they looked on the face of God.

But suddenly Andrew smiled and said: “Amen!”

He got up and walked slowly back to his seat, and wiped his face on his sleeve as he went. The congregation sat up straight and Daddy Cato began singing:

“Jedus is my maul and wedge----”

Everybody sang it with him. Then Daddy Cudjoe was called on to pray.

Daddy Cudjoe is old and crooked. His face was lined and creased with deep wrinkles. His teeth were all gone so he speaks with a funny, childish lisp.

Everybody smiled in a kindly way when he went forward and knelt by the table. He bent over so low that his head almost touched the floor. The lamplight fell on his snow-white hair and he rubbed his knotted, old, trembling, black hands together.

Some of the children grinned when his thin cracked high voice cried out:

“Massuh Jedus--dis duh me--ol’ Cudjoe----!

I know good fo’-true I ain’ nuttin’!

Des’ a po’ ol’ black nigger!

But de Book say You know all dem lil sparrow-bud an’ ting----

Dat how-come me, Ol’ Cudjoe, hab de hea’t fo’ ax You fo’ don’ fo-git me.

I don’ be f’aid--not liken I nusen to be.

Seem lak--sometime--de grabe’ll be sweet----”

He began to sob, but the members encouraged him to go on.

“Go on, Daddy! Talk wid Him! E ain’ gwine fo-git you! E know you!”

Heartened by them, the old man tussled on with his prayer.

“When I git to heab’n I wan’ leddown an’ res’ tree week. On a big white counterpane bed. Da’s all I wan’ do. Dis res’.

I ain’ no count, not fo’ wuk, no mo--I all de time wanter set down. Yessuh.

I don’ wan’ no gol’ shoe, please, Suh--Shoe eber did hu’t my feet--Don’ gi’ me no okra an’ tomattus soup fo’ eat, Suh--I so lub clabber and sweet milk. An’ honey an’ white flour bread.”

The children laughed out loud at this. Daddy Cato looked at them and shook his head, then he said:

“Dat’ll do now, Cudjoe. You done talk wid Him good. You done say a-plenty. Say ’Amen’ now.”

And Daddy Cudjoe did. He got up painfully from his curved knees and went hobbling back to his seat by the fire, brushing the tears out of his eyes.

Andrew began a spiritual, clapping his hands slowly together as he sang,

“I’m gwine to see my Jedus, Set right by His side! Set right by His side!”

“Push de bench back, chillen,” Daddy Cato directed.

There was a great fuss and clutter and rattling. Everybody was moving. Missie felt dazed by the crowding and cramming. The benches were hurried outside and put back under the house, except those placed around the walls.

Sinners and Christians were all mixed together, the men singers in one corner, and the women forming a ring in the middle of the room where the table had been.

The shouting was starting.

Missie didn’t see Rose, so she got close beside Maum Hannah in a corner out of the draught.

Women in the circle took short, shuffling steps and their hands were held out in front of them limp from the wrist.

As the men’s singing and handclapping went faster, the women’s short, shuffling steps became nimbler.

Mothers with babies in their arms stood close to the wall and sang in sharp, high, piercing voices and shook the babies in time. Little children with round, black eyes and spindling bare legs moved their lips earnestly and beat time with small, bony palms and heels.

The cupped hands of the men in the corner made deafening claps. Their knees bent and stiffened with frantic jerks. How could they do it? Their strained throats were corded. Veins swelled in their temples. Their set eyes glared. Sweat poured off their faces. Over and over they shouted fiercely:

“I’m gwine to see my Jedus! Set right by His side! Set right by His side!”

Keen treble voices chimed above the thundering rhythm. Missie felt terrified.

“Send de sperit, Jedus!” Daddy Cato cried, and the good part of his face laughed with joy.

Rose was in the ring of shouters with her hat in her hand.

“Hol’ my hat tell I done,” she yelled to Missie as she passed. The hat was tossed forward.

The exhausted singers stopped with a breathless laugh. The door was choked with people trying to push out into the yard for air.

“I decla’ to Gawd, I ain’ got a dry t’read on.” Rose patted her thick wet body as she said it.

“But you sho is shout nice, Cun Rose,” Andrew assured her politely.

There were two ways home. At Maum Hannah’s cabin, the road divided. One way went around the fields and the other dwindled to a path that ran through the woods and across the duck-dam gully.

“Le’s don’ go home t’rough dem woods, not to-night,” Rose suggested to Missie, who was holding fast to her hand. “I ain’ ’f’aid de da’k, but dem woods always hab a kinder strange look when de moon is young lak e is to-night.”

Missie was glad to go around the long way, even if it did lead by the graveyard. God was everywhere, Rose said, but the fields couldn’t hide Him the way thick woods might do. As they walked on, Rose talked pleasantly.

“You know, gal, ef you trabble roun’ at night, ’specialty een de spring endurin’ de small o’ de moon, you more’n likely to see a plat eye,” Rose changed to a husky whisper.

“Long up yonder by Gilliken’s sto’ at de cross-road, close by de two notch mile post, a lil dawg’ll come runnin’ up by you and kinder rub hisse’f up on you’ leg. Ef you shoot em e’ll tu’n to a hog. You shoot em agin an’ e’ll tu’n to a hoss. Shoot em agin, an’ e’ll tu’n to a man ’thout no haid. Ef you keep on a shootin’ em e’ll tu’n to a fog--to dis something nudder kinder like a cloud.

“Den you better run hard ez you kin. Dey say: ’A cowardly man don’ tote no broke bones.’”

Missie listened, and shivered. A plat eye was as bad as God.

_Mount Pleasant_

The next Saturday morning Rose said to Killdee:

“I ain’ been to Mount Pleasant Church een so long, man. Lemme hab ol’ Mike an’ de wagon. Me an’ Missie could go by an’ tek Maum Hannah long, too. Missie is a ign’ant gal. E ought to go to a reg-lar preachin’ one time.”

“Sho. Go ef you wanter,” Killdee agreed cheerfully.

And so on Sunday morning before noon, Rose and Missie were dressed, ready to go. Missie’s dress was white and a red ribbon was tied around her waist. Rose washed her face clean and greased it with nice white hog lard. It shone, Killdee said, and he laughed out loud when he looked at her all ready to go.

Missie hardly knew Rose in her fine flowered purple muslin. It stayed in the trunk in the shed room. Rose had on a corset, too, and her wrapped hair was completely covered with a black, wool wig she had bought from the cross-roads store. This fitted smooth and tight and it had a knot right in the back. It made Rose’s black sailor hat almost too small for her head, but it looked very grand.