Part 7

Far across the cotton field it shone red. As Killdee lifted serious eyes to look at it, his lean, gaunt, black face saddened.

The sun that set in Baby Rose’s grave was red, just like this sunset. Red like the fire that burned her tender baby flesh and killed her. He never saw a red sunset without thinking of little Baby Rose.

Now as he thought, his tired eyes filled with tears, and through the tears, the red coppery glow glistened, and flashed and gleamed mockingly before him.

Killdee heaved a deep sigh--a sigh so deep as to be almost a sob. He thought of Baby Jim there at home. Chubby little Baby Jim. Bright-eyed, brown, dimpled, with fuzzy little black wool just beginning to grow on his head.

Little Jim knew his daddy--knew him as well as Rose and Missie did. Jim loved him, too. He always came toddling with funny, uncertain steps to meet him.

Jim had already learned not to fall out of the door any more. He had learned that by falling over and over. He knew how it hurt. When he stood in the doorway, ready to go down the steps now, Rose and Missie laughed at the way Jim’s tiny fingers clutched the door-facing.

Jim laughed with them too. Perhaps he didn’t know why they laughed, but he always tried to join in whatever other people did. Good little Jim!

The thought of Jim cheered Killdee. Jim was his. His son. For Jim he was willing for hard work to crack his very sinews. For Jim’s sake he tried to be careful. Never again would he stir the earth on Green Thursday. Never.

Jim was a part of himself. Jim’s little hands, his funny little words, his stumbling, uncertain little feet, were the most precious things on earth.

Jim thought his old daddy was the greatest thing. The greatest man. Jim thought he was great as God! Jim didn’t know any better.

He liked to play in the fire just as Baby Rose had liked to do. He must be taught not to do it. He must learn that fire burns.

Baby Rose lay yonder in the graveyard in the little pine box Andrew made to fit her, with the heavy red earth piled up on her, all by her little lonesome self, because the thing she loved best to play with had killed her.

He ought to have taken her and shown her how it felt to be burned. She would not forget pain. No. But he didn’t think about it. He thought she would learn by herself.

Why did God make people like the things that would hurt them? Kill them? Why didn’t He let them know danger?

Winter was here. Fire had to burn big and bright in the chimney to keep the cabin warm. All day it must burn and at night be banked deep with ashes so it wouldn’t die out.

Cold weather was here. Even on fair days, Jim would have to stay inside the cabin to keep warm. Rose would be in the field. Missie, too. Rows of brown stalks still held fluffy, white cotton.

Rose and Missie would have to help pick the cotton. Killdee couldn’t gather it by himself. Sometimes nobody would be left at home with Jim.

If Jim were a little older he would be safe, for he’d know that fire burns. But Jim, happy little Jim, did not know it yet. Already he tried to take straws and sticks and hold them in the fire to see them blaze. When Rose or Missie scolded him and made him drop his pretty plaything, Jim didn’t understand why. He’d watch it when they made him drop it on the hearth, and his little lips would quiver because he couldn’t keep it in his hand.

Killdee sighed as he trudged on homeward. The time had come. He must teach little Jim that fire burns! Telling him so did no good. He’d have to show him. To-night he’d have to show him. He and Rose and Missie had talked it over. They had decided. It must be done. Jim must learn that fire burns.

When Killdee got nearer the dusky little cabin by the side of the road, two little black children stood on the doorstep waving at him. Black smoke rushed briskly out of the broad clay chimney. Bright sparks rose with it, shone and died.

A strange thing, fire! Burning inside there, hot, strong, fierce, while Rose cooked the supper. That fire was a good, kind friend that cooked food for them and kept them warm. Yet, it could scorch and kill a baby’s body, too.--Just as it ate up strong wood and turned it to ashes.

When those bright sparks rose and went out, where did they go? Killdee watched them. They sparked, raced, and were gone. Where?

Where did Baby Rose go?

Missie and Jim were coming running to meet him. Killdee stopped Mike and waited. Jim must have a ride. Missie was picking Jim up in her arms to bring him. He walked too slow to keep up with her.

Killdee took Jim from her and set him on the pile of wood in the wagon and put the rope lines into the chubby hands. Missie shouted and laughed when Jim shook the lines and tried to make patient, old Mike go faster.

When Mike stopped with his head at the wide gate of the barnyard, Killdee took Jim down and gave him back into Missie’s arms. He struggled and kicked and screamed to stay with his daddy, but Killdee smiled, and said gently:

“Tek him on een de house, Missie. Night air ain’ good fo’ lil chillen. Jim don’ know no better. Tek him on.”

As Killdee loosened the collar from Mike’s neck, he said to himself:

“Dey’s a lot he don’ know, po’ lil Jim! But I reckon none o’ we don’ know much, atter all.”

When Killdee went into the house, Rose was cooking supper on the open fire.

The chimney’s wide, black, sooty mouth, which stretched across one side of the room, was filled with logs of wood. A great fire licked at them with smacking, hungry tongues. Yellow flames crackled and roared up the chimney, devouring the logs, while red and blue flames played over the coals.

Pot hooks fastened firmly in the stone and clay held black iron pots in the blaze. The sandy hearth held three-legged pots. Pots with handles. Iron kettles. Iron spiders. All had tight-fitting covers. They sat black and comfortable. Missie had just scoured them clean and they were waiting there, ready to be used.

Ashes piled in one corner on the fireplace lay very still, until a puff of steam from underneath raised them like dust, and a fragrant smell went out into the room. Sweet potatoes were roasting there.

In another corner, corn shucks showed through a mound of ashes. Spurts of steam sizzing out made the mound heave like a small volcano. Ash cake was cooking there.

A frying-pan sat on live coals pulled out on the hearth. Slices of fat bacon sputtered and spit and curled around the edges as Rose dropped them on it. Good smells filled the room and streamed out of the open door to where the two little black children sat in the half-light.

They sniffed and laughed and got up and came running inside. Both hurried to the cupboard for a pan. Then to the shelf for a spoon. Little Jim did whatever Missie did. The frying bacon was the supper bell. They knew supper was ready when they smelled it. Killdee, coming in, saw them and smiled wistfully.

When their pans were helped, Missie and Jim sat on the floor to eat. When all the pans were empty, Missie washed them and put them away. Jim crawled up into Killdee’s lap.

“Sonny,” said Killdee, “is you lub you ol’ daddy?”

Jim answered with a bear-like hug.

“Sonny--” Killdee’s voice sounded queer and broken, “wha’ mek you play een de fire?”

Killdee took the baby’s fat fingers and looked at them.

Rose sat by the firelight with her patching.

“Killdee----” She leaned forward. Fear warped her face. “Killdee, wha’ you gwine do?”

“Honey----” Killdee met her eyes, then turned his own to the fire. Jim sat up and looked at each of them. Reaching up, he patted Killdee’s rough cheek.

“Ol’ Pa,” he said, laughing mischievously, “Ol’ Pa.”

Killdee looked at Rose. Her face was queer and drawn.

“I can’ ha’dly stan’ fo’ do em, Rose, but looka da fire. S’pose--s’pose----”

The strong oak logs were already crumbling to ashes, turning from fiery red to gray.

“Jim will play een de fire. Nobody can’ stop em. ’E’s a lil, ign’ant, trus’ful baby. ’E is. I better show em how fire kin bu’n. I better. Don’ look at me sorrowful, Rose. It hu’t me clean to my heart.”

Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Killdee kept trying to comfort her.

“People mus’ try fo show dey chillen how t’ings kin pain ’em. An’ kill ’em. Mebbe ef we had a show lil Rose ’bout fire--I dunno. Some t’ings _is to be_, I reckon. Maum Hannah say Baby Rose’s time was out.

“Tellin’ people don’ do no good. You haffer show em. Suffer em.”

The bright flames rippled innocently. They gave out a warm, kind light.

“You might be right, Killdee,” Rose tried to agree, but her breath caught with a sob.

Killdee turned up Jim’s small brown palm and looked at it. How could he burn it? How? Yet he must.

His strong fingers tightened sternly. He leaned forward and yook up a hot, live coal off the hearth, and laid it on Jim’s tender fingers.

The baby’s scream, the woman’s cry, the man’s groan, sounded all together. Missie came running to see what was wrong. Big tears rolled down her thin cheeks. She looked at Killdee with big, solemn eyes, then turned away without a word and went slowly back to bed in the shed room.

She understood. Little Jim had to be taught his lesson. Killdee had to do it. It was the only way.

Jim sobbed himself to sleep in Killdee’s lap. Sorrow had come to him without warning from the very one he loved best. His hand was burned and his baby heart was cut to the quick.

Killdee gave him to Rose and walked out into the night. He looked up at the stars. They shone up there like sparks that never did go out. He wondered if Baby Rose was up there--up there with them, and God.

_Catfish_

Killdee came home from the Cross-roads store one Saturday afternoon and his black face was bright with enthusiasm.

“Rose,” he said, taking a chair and putting it up close to the hearth where an iron pot simmered industriously with catfish stew, “I got a good plan. A good one. Lemme tell you ’bout em.”

Rose looked up from her sewing.

“Wha’ e is?” she asked with interest.

“I dunno wha’ you gwine t’ink ’bout em. We can’ hab much catfish fo’ eat ef I do em.”

Killdee breathed in the appetizing smell thoughtfully.

“Wha’ you duh talk ’bout, Killdee?” Rose asked, puzzled indeed.

He laughed and said teasingly:

“Guess wha’ e is.”

“Oh, go on an’ tell me,” she urged him.

“Well, dis is it. A man sellin’ futilizer wuz at de sto’ dis ebenin’. I heah him talkin’ ’bout de crops an’ t’ing. ’E say fish-scrap is de bes’ futilizer een de bunch. It’ll mek cawn an’ cotton grow off faster dan anyt’ing. De futilizer man say de factory meks de pure, naked fish into fish-scrap.”

Rose forgot all about the fish-stew in the pot there on the coals while Killdee described to her what he had heard. How big boats go on the ocean with wide, long nets, which they spread around schools of fish. How the fish are caught and carried to a place where they are ground up and sacked and sold to farmers for high prices.

“Lawd, Rose, ef I could mek my own futilizer! Ef I didn’t hab to buy none! We’d hab mo’ money dan we’d know wha’ fo’ do wid.”

Rose listened thoughtfully. It sounded wonderful indeed.

“But you ain’ got nuttin’ fo’ grind up de fish wid, Killdee.”

“No. Da’s so. But de fish don’ haffer be grind up. I could easy put dem een de groun’ an’ dey’d rot befo’ you know it. I gwine try em.”

Before many days passed, Killdee had fish traps made of split hickory strips set all along the bank of the tawny river. He used corn meal cooked into thick lumps for bait.

Every morning by daylight he was there at his traps getting out the fat catfish.

“How-come you goes to de ribber so reglar, son?” Maum Hannah asked him one morning, as he passed her cabin.

“I’m a-tryin’ fo’ git catfish,” he answered.

Maum Hannah thought he had a guilty look. She wondered what Killdee was doing back there on the river every day. Maybe he had a still.

“Better mine,” she warned, “you gwine ketch de fever. Too much o’ ribber swamp ain’ good. You better not be mekkin’ whiskey back dere. Mine! I heah you been gittin’ a lot o’ cawn mek eento meal, too. Mine!”

Killdee kept on patiently, persistently, until every stalk of corn in his field had a catfish right at its root. When those fish rotted, what a crop of corn he would have! His crop would be ahead of all the other crops, and he’d have no fertilizer bill to pay.

His fingers were often sore with poison from the catfish fins, and it did take a lot of meal for the bait, but Killdee felt he’d more than make it all back.

In the Fall he’d have more corn than he needed. He’d sell some. The barn would be full. The mule fat. The hogs would make bacon enough to last all year. Killdee was happy over the good work he was doing.

When every stalk was fed with a fish at its roots, he decided to go over and tell Maum Hannah all about it. He’d give her a load of the corn when it was made. She was so good to his folks. Now would be his chance to do something for her.

That night when supper was over, he took the path across the field and went to her cabin. His heart and step were light.

“How you dis ebenin’, Auntie?” he greeted her, as he walked right in through the open door.

“Come een, son. You had supper yet? I’m des’ now sta’tin’ fo’ eat.”

Maum Hannah was always glad to see him. She pointed to a chair.

“Yes’m, I done eat. You go on. Don’ stop. I des’ come fo’ talk wid you a lil, an’ fo’ see how you do.” His face was beaming. Maum Hannah’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she rallied: “I’d do better to-night ef I had catfish stew fo’ eat wid my bread. How-come you don’ bring me catfish no mo’?”

Killdee grinned.

“Da’s de bery t’ing I come fo’ talk wid you ’bout,” he said.

“I don’ see no fish een you han’, dough,” she answered.

“No’m, but I come fo’ tell you wha’ I duh do wid all dem catfish I catch. I feeds my cawn fiel’ on dem fish, ’stead o’ you an’ Rose an’ de chillen.” Killdee laughed heartily at his joke.

“Yes’m. Da same cawn fiel’ out yonder is got a catfish to eby stalk. You wait tell it rain. Da’s gwine be de fines’ piece o’ cawn een dis country. Da’s de reason I been gwine to de ribber so reg’lar. I been baitin’ fish wid all da meal.”

Maum Hannah grunted.

“Whe’ you heah o’ sich a t’ing, son?”

Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.

“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.

“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger--somehow, a nigger don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I hope e is.”

Killdee was confident.

“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.

“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”

“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.

When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between short puffs she said:

“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid you wuz doin’ dat.”

“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’ Christmus.”

Maum Hannah said gayly:

“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep em een. It spiles too quick.”

“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,” Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”

He got up to go. It was getting late.

“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and went to bed.

Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of the river swamp?

There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?

She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.

She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn, swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were digging up the fish.--Fighting over them.--And the smell of those catfish! Poor Killdee!

There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the path to her cabin.

She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think. She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not stop until every fish was eaten.

Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.

Men take trouble harder.--Harder.

The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.

She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.

“Auntie----” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.--Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’ is ruin’!--Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem catfish.”

His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.

“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now--now--dem Gawd-damn dawgs----”

Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.

She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy shoulder.

“Son--son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.

“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby. But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty--fo’ eat.--Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”

It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there, bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when she added:

“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een Him. Haffer!”

Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He laughed boisterously.

“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”

He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.

_Son_

All night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,--and clawed and scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his rough, yellow hide.

Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to sleep again.

Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.

As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.

Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast. But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.

Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.

“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een. Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”

Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.

But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and whined and scratched to be let out.

Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went down the steps into the night.

First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.