Part 9

But Missie had to stay to watch the precious pots. She couldn’t go to church to-day.

“I’m gwine put a few green walnuts een a sack an’ drag ’em ’roun’ een de pond. Enough to git a few fish. Fish’ud tase mighty good to-night fo’ supper,” Killdee said with sudden inspiration.

Rose was shocked.

“Why, Killdee! On Sunday? You’d stun fish on Sunday! You’s a case, Killdee. What ’ud Reverend Felder t’ink ef he’d find you doin’ sich a t’ing? Do wait tell nex’ Sunday. Don’ mek me shame o’ you to-day.”

Killdee gave a short laugh.

“Lawd! I bet dat nigger preacher ’ud eat dem fish same as me. Shucks!”

“I bet he wouldn’t do no sich a t’ing,” Rose defended indignantly. “You ought to be ’shame’ to talk ’bout a preacher so, an’ ’bout gittin’ fish on Sunday. You don’ know yet, Sunday is Gawd’s Day?”

Killdee smoked on in silence and Rose hurried her preparation. When she was ready to go, Killdee had the mule hitched to the wagon ready for her to drive.

How fine she sounded with her rustling, stiff-starched petticoats and new shoes that squeaked with each step! A corset, too! And Hoyt’s German Cologne from the cross-roads store!

“Lemme git a quilt to put ober you lap,” Killdee suggested, “Dese lines gwine git you’ dress dirty.”

“No. You go git a clean sheet out de trunk, Missie.”

Missie did, and away Rose went down the road and out of sight. Killdee watched until he could see her no longer.

How beautiful the day had turned out to be, and the morning had been dark and threatening.

Who was that coming down the road? A woman.--Mary West.--Killdee knew that walk. That slender, lithe body. It was a good thing Rose had gone. Rose hated Mary. Killdee smiled. You couldn’t blame Rose.

What was Mary coming here for? Something about her farm-work, maybe. He rose to meet her. How neat and nice her homespun dress was! Plain, cheap, but on Mary it looked as nice as silk.

Mary’s face was cheerful, pleasant.

“How you do dis fine day?” she inquired, and Killdee answered cordially, as he held out his hand:

“Fine, fine! An’ you look lak a flowers yard dis mawnin’.”

“I ain’ feel lak one,” Mary answered soberly. “I’m totin’ lightnin’ fo’ strike somebody right now.”

“Who? Me? Le’ ’em come. I kin stan’ a stroke out you’ han’.”

Killdee laughed at his own wit, but Mary stayed serious.

“Better don’ laugh yet, Killdee. Wait tell you heah wha’ I come fo’ say. I don’ know ef I right fo’ come tell you or no.”

She did seem to hesitate about something. Her steady, bright eyes seemed to be searching his face. Killdee laughed at her discomfort.

“You look lak you een chu’ch, Ma’y. But come een an’ set down.”

Mary followed him up the steps, but she would not sit in the chair he offered. She preferred to stand. How droll!

“Better not tell me de bad news. Ef it is so turrible, I might not could stan’ to heah ’em,” he rallied, but his words fell flat. Mary’s face kept its woeful look. She shook her head.

“But you gwine heah it sometime. Boun’ to! All de mens in de quarter is laughin’, makin’ spote o’ you, right now. An’ you settin’ heah an’ don’ know nuttin’ ’bout ’em.”

Killdee’s face changed. This was a different thing. Who had dared make sport of him? Laugh at him? What did Mary mean?

“Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout, gal!”

Killdee felt the very hair on his body bristling. His blood swelled and hottened.

“It ain’ easy fo’ tell you, Killdee! I don’ know ef you gwine b’lieb me or no----” Mary looked full in his eyes.

“Go on an’ tell me! Don’ act fool! Tell me wha’ you mean!”

He must hold still and make her tell all she knew. Mary couldn’t lie to him without flinching. No. She was in earnest. She was uneasy, too, and Mary was no coward of a woman.

“I might be wrong to dip een it. It ain’ none o’ my business. I des’ hates fo’ people speak light ’bout you, Killdee. I ain’ fo’git how good you been to me sence Bully gone off an’ lef’ me----”

“Aw----” Killdee was impatient. “Ef you got anyt’ing fo’ tell, go on an’ tell! I don’ wan’ none o’ you’ sweet-mout’ talk.”

Mary looked at his eyes.

“You call ’em sweet-mout’ talk, enty?” she laughed scornfully.

“Killdee,” she sneered, “you is a plain fool. A fool! You duh set home an’ smoke an’ all de people een de quarter right now is laughin’ ’bout Rose. Rose is fool ’bout da preacher Felder!”

“Wha’ you mean, nigger?” Killdee asked furiously.

He’d like to kill her. Devil!

“Killdee,” Mary answered coolly, “when Rose gone to da convention down de country, e stay een de same house wid Felder. An’ you heah home. So sati’fy. Mens ain’ got no sense. You is bad as any. You wife cuttin’ de buck an’ you blind ez a bat.”

“Who dat talk sich a talk?” Killdee demanded. He grasped Mary’s arm.

“You mus’ be mean who dat _ain’_ talk em!” Mary answered with a wry laugh.

Killdee was confused by this unexpected news. Rose? Reverend Felder? It was impossible. Ridiculous. He tried to laugh carelessly--easily---- But when he looked at Mary’s face, the laugh dried and stuck in his throat.

“Who sta’t dis talk, Mary? Is it you? I know you ain’ nebber lak Rose. But dis is a low-down talk. Ef you had feelin’ fo’ me, you wouldn’ do em, needer. You couldn’.”

Mary’s lips curled.

“I didn’ t’ink you was sich a ass, Killdee! I is one, myse’f, to come heah an’ tell you. I wish now I ain’ come.”

Mary turned to go. With arms akimbo she stopped in the path.

“Wha’ I keer ef de people laugh een you’ face?” she jeered. “How much you keer ’bout me? Wha’ I keer ef de deacons tu’n Rose out de chu’ch? I ain’ no member. No. I’d scorn to be one. You hanker fo’ ’oman lak Rose, enty? A ’oman who kin set up een de choir. An’ sing. An’ pop chewin-gum een e mout’. An’ wear fine clo’es. An’ shout ’bout Gawd an’ Jedus. Dem is de kinder ’oman you crave, enty? Good day! I gwine!”

Mary flung down the path.

Killdee was perplexed. What was Mary trying to do? Could what she said be true? Rose--Rev. Felder----

“Come back heah, Mary!” Killdee called with sudden decision. “Come heah an’ tell me all you know ’bout dis t’ing.”

Mary stopped. She looked at him.

“Wha’s de nuse?” she asked. “You don’ b’lieb me. You t’ink I’m workin’ some trick on Rose fo’ git you. I--I---- I wouldn’t hab you, Killdee! Not ef you was de las’ man ’pun top dis yearth. I kin stan’ a fool but not a damn one.” She laughed.

Killdee seized her wrist and thundered, “Shut you’ mout’! Don’ you call me no name. I’ll kill you right heah ef you do.”

Mary smiled, but Killdee talked on. He had to talk. Words rushed to his lips. First abuse. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was wrong. But he had to strike out at somebody. And all the time he knew Mary told the truth. Rose had no sense. Felder could easily turn her head. After the flood of bitter words passed, he blurted out: “Felder might be got her haid tu’n fo-true. Might be. I gwine fine out. But ef you lie to me--I--I’ll----”

He could not say “kill” to Mary again. Instead, he said:

“I’ll fine out de trut’. An’ ef you’s a-lyin’----”

As Mary met his gaze, she felt pity for him. He saw it. He released her arm and she walked away down the path that wound around down the hill, then up to the quarter, where she lived.

Killdee went back to his chair and sat down. He filled his pipe. Soon he filled it again. His quick, short puffs burned the tobacco fast.

What was the best thing for him to do? What? Mary might be lying. He couldn’t sit here and think. This was one time he couldn’t hold still. No! He’d get out and walk.

He went out into the yard, then around the house, and followed the path down the hill and on toward the river.

He wandered along the path at first, then he suddenly turned in another direction. He remembered old Daddy Cudjoe. He’d go see him.

Daddy Cudjoe lived away back on the river. He was a cunger doctor. A hoodoo man. He really did work wonders with people. He was feared as no other man in the country was feared. Killdee remembered when he was a little boy how he used to tremble at the sight of that old, bent figure.

Since then, he had learned much from the old man. Not of cungering, but of plain sense. As he grew older and needed advice, there was nobody who could understand his problems, his perplexities, as well as that little, old, shriveled man who lived all alone, away back there in a log-cabin on a hillside above the river. And, to-day, Killdee felt that old Cudjoe could advise him better than anybody else.

It was past noon when he reached the little clearing where the one-roomed cabin stood. Smoke puffed out of the clay chimney, saying that the old man was at home and not in the river-swamp digging roots.

Killdee walked right in without knocking.

“Hey, Daddy?” he said.

“Hey, son!” the keen-eared old man greeted him, looking up from the roots he was assorting. “Come on een. I glad fo’ see you. How you do?”

He held out his bony hand. It was more like a claw than a human hand. Killdee clasped it gently.

“I well, Uncle. How you do?”

“Fine. Fine. Busy. Busy,” he answered in his queer, cracked voice. Then he chuckled. The wrinkles deepened in his small, wizened face, and his bright eyes twinkled kindly.

“Wha’ de matter ail you to-day, son? You’ foot movin’ mighty heaby, enty?”

“Dey ain’ nuttin’, Daddy,” Killdee answered, drawing up a small home-made chair to one side and sitting down. “I des ain’ had nuttin’ much fo’ do to-day, bein’s it wuz Sunday. I t’ought I’d come see how you wuz a-gittin’ along.”

“Shut you’ mout’, boy. Go on an’ tell me wha’ dat got you fretted. You t’ink I too blind fo’ see how you’ face is all squinched up een a knot? Who dat got you bex’, now? A ’oman. I kin tell.”

Daddy’s toothless, red gums shone as he cackled with laughter.

“Daddy Cudjoe, you sho is got a second sight!” Killdee laughed, too. “I don’ b’lieb nobody could fool you. No. How you kin know so much?”

“I dunno,” the old man answered simply. “De buckra read book. I read face. You kin read cloud, enty? An’ sky? You kin tell when it gwine rain? Sho! I practise a diff’unt readin’. Da’s all. Face an’ book an’ sky. All is de same at you know how fo’ read ’em. Sho.”

Killdee listened thoughtfully.

“I reckon dey is ef you know de sign good. Yes. I reckon dey is.”

“Who dis you wan’ me fo’ cunger, now?” Daddy Cudjoe asked, chuckling again.

“Nobody, Daddy. Nobody. But I’s worriet. Worriet. I got to do somet’ing or nudder. An’ I don’ wanter mek mistake.”

Killdee pushed his worn, stained hat back from his forehead, then he took it off and laid it on the little bare, pine table beside him.

“Mistake is a bad t’ing,” Daddy Cudjoe admitted seriously. “Bad,” he added.

Killdee looked at the fire and blurted out:

“Women is de Debbil, Daddy Cudjoe.”

Daddy Cudjoe nodded his old, white head. Then he turned to Killdee with a merry light in his eyes.

“Who dis duh talk? Dis ain’ Killdee! Dis can’ be Killdee! My Gawd, son! You don’ mean fo’ say you l’a’n sich a t’ing. Can’ be!” and he laughed softly.

A wistful smile played over Killdee’s face as he sensed the old man’s amusement.

“I’ve know it a long time, Daddy,” he said, toying with his hat.

“Well, da’s good. Good,” said the old man, wiping the tears out of his eyes. “At you know a t’ing is de Debbil, den you know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Sho.”

“But I don’ always know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Da’s de trouble right now. I don’ know.”

“Who’s de ’oman, son?” Daddy Cudjoe asked. “Diff’unt kinder ’oman need diff’unt kinder treatment.”

“It Rose,” Killdee said simply.

“Rose?” The old man looked astonished.

“Rose? You don’ mean _you’_ Rose?” he asked, incredulous.

Killdee nodded his head. It shamed him to say it, even to Daddy Cudjoe.

“Wha’ dat Rose done, now?”

“It’s dat damn preacher,” Killdee asserted fiercely.

“Preacher? Wha’ preacher? You mean Andrew, enty?”

Daddy Cudjoe remembered things he had heard years ago.

“No. I mean Felder! ’E’s de one. Gawd-damn his black soul!”

Daddy Cudjoe could not restrain a relieved laugh, as he said:

“Oh, Felder. Don’ be a fool, son. No. You mus’n’ t’ink hard ef Rose pleasure ’e’se’f a lil wid de new preacher. Ki! You’s wrong. De preacher mought be a nicer man’n you, Killdee. Preachers is mighty sweet-smellin’ creeters mos’ ob de time. You ought not to be bex wid Rose.”

Daddy Cudjoe laughed at his joke. He felt easier. But Killdee’s face was gloomy. He couldn’t treat it lightly.

“Don’ plague me, Daddy Cudjoe. I can’ stan’ it. I ready right now fo’ kill da low-down son of a bitch. But I ain’ sho it bes’ for’ do em. De t’ing gits me is dis: Mary West say all de people on de plantation know ’bout dis t’ing befo’ me. Dey all is a-laughin’ at me fo’ a fool. Dat’s de t’ing riles me. I des’ like to sho ’em--sho ’em I ain’ on de lebbel wid common niggers lak dem. Sho ’em I don’ give a rip ’bout all dey say----”

Daddy Cudjoe listened, but said nothing.

“I could kill Rose. Killin’ a ’oman’s easy fo’ do----” Killdee stopped.

“Talk on, son. Talk on. You’ own mine’ll tell you wha’ fo’ do, toreckly.--Talk on. Talk. You’ mine’ll listen. It de one fo’ tell you wha’ fo’ do. You ain’ chillen fo’ me fo’ say wha’ you mus’ do. No. You own mine kin tell you better’n me.”

Killdee looked at him. Daddy Cudjoe was right. He himself must decide.

Daddy Cudjoe looked at the fire. His old face was sad. His voice cracked.

“I nuse to be a nyoung man, too, Killdee. I wuz strong one time ez you. I had trouble, too. Plenty. When I fus’ hab trouble, I’d talk it to people. Dey’s plenty o’ people fo’ listen when you talk ’bout you’ trouble.

“But, I soon fine out dat wa’n’ good. No. Den I begin gwine een de woods fo’ talk to myse’f. I talk t’ing out wid myse’f. You kin talk close-talk out een de woods. Dey ain’ nobody fo’ heah you. It’s de bes’ place, son. De bes’ place. Go talk dis t’ing out wid you’se’f. I can’ do you no good. You go off een dem woods an’ talk ’em. Da’s de bes’ way. Nobody can’ do you no good. You de onlies’ one kin do you’se’f good. Go talk ’em out wid you’se’f, son.”

Presently he added:

“You ain’ ’f’aid nobody, enty?”

’F’aid? ’F’aid, nuttin’!” Killdee answered fiercely.

“Den you ain’ hab no trouble. No. Trouble ain’ nuttin’ but bein’ ’f’aid. Bein’ ’f’aid! No! Ebbybody’s ’f’aid o’ somet’ing. You lucky ef you ain’ ’f’aid o’ nuttin’. Talk it ober wid you own se’f, son. Fine out wha’ mek you ’f’aid. You ’f’aid o’ somet’ing, or you wouldn’ o’ come fo’ see ol’ Daddy dis mawnin’.”

Killdee looked at the fire. Presently he said:

“Mebbe you’s right, Daddy. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid o’ dem niggers laughin’. I ain’ gwine be ’f’aid no mo’. Not me! Not Killdee! Ef I is, Daddy, an’ you heahs ’bout it, you come gi’ me a dose o’ pizen. Yessuh. You gi’ me a good dose, an’ lemme die!”

Killdee rose to go. Daddy Cudjoe nodded approval.

“Da’s right, son! Da’s de way fo’ talk! Sho! Lemme tell you dis one t’ing befo’ you go. Dese preacher, dese member, all dese Christian, dey is ’f’aid, too! You ’member dat! You mus’n’ be ’f’aid dem! Not no mo’.”

Killdee took the skinny, old, outstretched hand and held it affectionately, then he dropped it and followed the path to the woods.

It was almost dark when Killdee reached home. Missie and the other children were out in the yard. Missie said Rose was sick with a headache. She was lying down on the bed.

Killdee went inside. He couldn’t tell whether Rose was asleep or not, for she did not move or speak to him. “How you’ feelin’, now, Rose?” he asked somewhat gruffly.

Rose sniffled.

“I t’ink I feelin’ a lil better right now. I mek Missie git a collard leaf an’ tie on my haid. Dat he’p ’em some.”

Killdee turned from the bed.

“I t’ink so much chu’ch ain’ good fo’ you.”

Rose moved and sniffled again, but said nothing.

“Whe’ Revern’ Felder? ’E ain’ come home wid you? At you fix so much fine eatin’ fo’ eb e ain’ come?” Killdee demanded.

“’E ain’ come to Mount Pleasant to-day. ’E sen’ a answer ’e mighty sick,” Rose answered humbly.

“How-come you hab de haid-ache? You mus’ be eat too much.”

Killdee sat down in the doorway and took out his pipe and lit it again. His tongue was sore from so much smoking to-day, but he puffed fiercely on. It was hard to keep from saying what was in his mind. Hard. How he would like to wring the necks of a lot of people. Rose among them. Headache! He knew well enough she was only scared. That was what ailed her. She ought to be scared. Worse than scared.

He had stopped and talked to Mary again on his way home. Things were even worse than he suspected. Rose had made a fool of herself. Of him. The deacons were going to meet at the church next Sunday and consider what they would do with Rose and Felder. They’d mouth and rant and then turn them out. He knew.

Whether Rose had done wrong or not, she had gotten herself talked about. That was almost as bad as being guilty. She had gotten Felder talked about too. Andrew was spreading the news as fast as he could. Scoundrel!

The only thing to do was to meet the whole crowd of them face to face and say what he had to say to them all together. How could he do it? Where? Killdee smoked and thought.

* * * * *

Rose stayed sick all the week. Even Killdee began to be worried about her, although at first he thought she was pretending. Night after night he could hear her crying, and she scarcely ate enough to keep her alive.

When the next Sunday morning came, Killdee got up early and bathed and put on the best clothes he had.

“Whe’ you duh gwine, Killdee?” Missie asked him with a mischievous grin. “To church?”

“I gwine off a piece,” he replied with dignity.

Over and over he anxiously cast his eyes up at the sun to tell the time. When the hour before noon arrived, Killdee went into the barnyard and put a bridle and saddle on the mule, mounted him, and rode away. When he was gone, Rose sat up in bed and called Missie.

“Whe’ Killdee duh gwine?” she asked.

But Missie knew no more than Rose.

* * * * *

When Killdee rode up he could see through the windows that a large congregation was gathered at Mount Pleasant Church. There was no preacher, and the deacons were gathered all together in the pulpit.

Daddy Cato announced the hymn and lined it out two lines at a time. The congregation sang it slowly, solemnly. Daddy Cato called on Andrew to pray, but before Andrew’s prayer was ended, Killdee could see that the congregation was becoming restless. Instead of bowing their heads with closed eyes while Andrew told God the purpose of their gathering together, they craned their necks to look at him, as he stood waiting in the door for Andrew’s prayer to be finished.

Killdee could tell by the way Andrew yelled out his words that he must feel terribly annoyed. He prayed well. He must have studied up this prayer last night. It was like one old Reverend Duncan used to pray. But it was being wasted because the congregation did not listen.

Andrew’s eyes were open. He could see that the people did not hear his fine prayer. When he said “Amen” every eye was turned to the door. Killdee was there. He stood in the door waiting. As soon as “Amen” was said, Killdee walked right up the aisle to the little steps at the side of the pulpit. He did not stop there. He went right up where the deacons sat in the pulpit.

What in the world was Killdee thinking about? Was he crazy? The congregation sat with open mouths. No such behavior had ever been seen in Mount Pleasant Church before. Killdee, of all people in the world! Here to-day, when Rose’s misconduct was to be discussed. And up in the pulpit with the deacons themselves. He must be going crazy. Rose had run him crazy. Killdee could see it all in their faces. It made him smile. His heart had been beating uncomfortably, but now that the time had come it troubled him no more.

There was silence. The deacons could not speak for astonishment. What did Killdee mean?

Killdee stood there before them with a cool smile on his face. His words were cool. Quiet. He did not lift his voice one bit.

“I reckon you-all is surprise’ to see me heah to-day,” he said pleasantly, looking at each deacon, then at the congregation. Sheep. Scary sheep all running together. Flustered now. Addled. Andrew cleared his throat. The other deacons moved uncomfortably in their chairs. None of them seemed ready to answer, although Killdee gave them opportunity.

“I ain’ gwine tek up much o’ you’ time. I got to hurry on back home, bein’s my wife don’ feel so well to-day.”

He stepped forward a little and put his hand on the Bible. Some of the congregation took in sharp breaths. What did he mean? Putting his hand on the Word of God like that! Killdee was a good enough man, but everybody knew he was a sinner. He didn’t pretend to be anything else. Then why did he come here? It was too much. Too brazen. The deacons ought to make him get down. A wonder God didn’t strike him dead for blasphemy!

The deacons themselves seemed confounded. They sat staring. Dumb. Open-mouthed.

Killdee’s voice was a little tense when he began, but his words soon flowed distinctly. They were emphatic. Explicit, too. But quiet.

“I know why yinner come to chu’ch to-day,” he said. “I know all yinner been talkin’. You been talkin’ ’bout Rose. My wife. I ain’ fool ez I look,” he added.

A smile broke over his face as he looked at the congregation. His eyes twinkled at the deacons. They seemed, somehow, bewildered. Killdee continued:

“I come heah fo’ say des’ one t’ing. One! Yinner listen good. I ain’ gwine say em but one time. You listen. It’s dis----”