Part 2

“How come Sis’ Fanny don’ sell de hog?” asked Susan. “Hog meat bringin’ good price at the butcher shop dis time o’ year.”

“Da’s w’at I bin tellin’ her”; said Felo, “but she so cawntrary she won’ lissen. She say she keepin’ it to be a mother hog.”

The sudden arrival of Nookie put an end to any further intimate details which might have embroidered Felo’s domestic plaint. Her fantastic attire, as well as her dramatic entrance, made her the immediate object of attention.

She was a fat, glossy-black young woman, with shining eyes and teeth, fully conscious of the charms of both. Her dress was an antiquated blue silk creation of long-past glory; the skirt much-beruffled; the basque-front prodigal with “coffee-dipped” oriental lace, cascading from her neck far below the waist line. Her hat was a piece of home-evolved millinery, large and laborious; made of plaited pink crepe paper, a home-cured sea gull encompassing its luxuriant dimensions, with outspread, tethered wings. She carried a long handled parasol of blue silk, rich in rents and uncovered ribs; and over her arm was a faded, black cashmere cape, with remnants of fringe and ravished beads.

“But no, Nookie!” Susan exclaimed, after she had recovered from her surprise. “Whah you bin paradin’ today, droped-up in all yo’ curuss clo’se an’ gommux (garments)? Dis ain’ no Mardi Gras day.”

“Maybe Nookie bin yonder to de simmetery to put flow’hs on somebody grave. You know dis All Saints day,” volunteered Felo, with a playful smile. “No I ain’t,” replied Nookie, arranging her lips with studied care so as to display the whiteness of her fine teeth. “I des come from up de road; from seein’ dat ooman w’at give birth to a baby half-chile an’ half-turtle.”

“Nookie, set down an’ stop yo’ humbug, for Gawd sake,” said Tom, reprovingly. “You ain’ talkin’ to no chillun.”

“Gawd knows, Mr. Tom”; she assured him, “I ain’ tellin’ no false. Ain’t you bin read de newspaper day-befo’ yistiddy? Evvybody was talkin’ ’bout it. An’ I say: I’m goin’ see for myself. De paper say dey was goin’ sell it to de Chaddy Hospitle for $8,000 to put in a’kahol. An’ dey had flocks o’ people goin’ up yonder in misheens to see it. Dey say de ’ooman husban’ ain’ had nothin’ to do but stan’ at de front do’ an’ c’leck all dem fifty-censes in a hat. Dey was chargin’ only a dime; but de crowd got so plennyful, dey had to raise de price to fo’-bits. So I thought I better go see befo’ dey raise it higher.”

As she paused for breath, Susan said to her:

“Nookie, stop yo’ random, an’ talk somh’n people kin b’lieve w’en dey lissen at you.”

“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan,” declared Nookie with emotion, “w’at I’m say’n is de dyin’ truth from hyuh to heav’n. I bin yonder an’ seen de chile, sho’ nuff. An’ I bet if you seen all dem people droppin’ money in de hat, it goin’ make you feel like wishin’ you had bawned de chile yo’ own self. Yas Ma’am, I bin went to look at it.”

“An’ ain’ seen nothin’ but a ill-form chile,” scoffed Felo. “Somh’n kin happen to any fam’ly.”

“Who, Mr. Felo?” she retorted. “I know w’at I seen. I went ’long-side de bed, an’ w’en I look at him, de chile commence wavin’ his li’l turtle han’ at me, an’ I say: ‘Feet help body!’—An’ I ain’ wait to see no mo’. ’Cause I know if dat thing start to talk, da’s goin’ be de end o’ de worl’. So I broke out de house an’ made for de road.”

“An’ runned up in hyuh wid a lie in yo’ mouth,” Felo added quickly.

“Mr. Felo, g’way from hyuh!” Nookie replied, with apparent irritation. “You might know a heap o’ things ’bout keepin’ house for w’ite folks an’ lookin’ after Sis’ Fanny hog yonder, but Gawd got a whole lot o’ seecut ways you sho don’ know nothin’ ’bout.”

“Ain’t it true,” commented Susan, with a grunt of Christian approval.

“Sho is.” Nookie continued. “I know one cullud lady back o’ Gritny, was _comme ça_ one time; an’ she went to go take her daughter place an’ wash for a strange w’ite ooman. An’ w’en she went in de shed to fix de tubs an’ things, w’en she raise up de tub, she seen it full o’ duck feathers. Den a li’l w’ile aft’wuds, w’en her chile was bawn, ’stid it havin’ natchal furze und’ de arms an’ on de ches’, like people got; de thing had duck feathers growin’ on him. An’ evvy time it rained w’en he growed up, he had to go swimmin’ in de cunnal. Sho did. An’ he live’ to be thirty-some-odd years old; w’en he got drownded try’n to harpoon a buf’lo feesh.”

With a look of playful commiseration, Felo said to her:

“Gal, come set down to de table an’ take a li’l nur’shment.” Then addressing Susan: “Give de gal a plate o’ gumbo, Sis’ Susan. She talkin’ out her head bein’ hongry an’ patigue aft’ dat long walk she had up de road.”

Susan got up and filled a plate with gumbo and put it on the table. Nookie went over to Felo and gave him a gentle slap of appreciation on the back of his head, saying to him, as she sat down to eat:

“Gawd knows, Mr. Felo, you sho kin read people mind.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Uncle Foteen; a venerable, picturesque relic of antebellum days, leaning heavily on a broom handle walking stick.

Felo placed a chair for him near the fire; and after taking his tattered hat and walking stick and putting them on the bench across the room, Susan handed him a cup of coffee, giving him kindly greeting:

“Unc’ Foteen, we sho please’ to see you. You ain’ bin hyuh for a long time. But look like evvything alright wid you; an’ you got yo’ good strank yet.”

“Yas, Sis’ Susan,” he replied thoughtfully, nodding his impressive white head. “Ole Foteen still hyuh ’munks de livin’ to wait on de fam’ly an’ give thanks in de kingdom. W’en I puts my right foot down, I say: Thank Gawd. An’ w’en I takes my lef’ foot up, I say: Praise de Lawd.”

“A-men.” Came the fervent response from Tom.

“Drink yo’ coffee, Unc’ Foteen; an’ lemme fix you a plate o’ gumbo, an’ you kin eat ’fo de fire to yo’ sattafaction,” said Susan, uncovering the fragrant pot.

Uncle Foteen had become a legend in the village, as simple country people often do. Everybody knew of his connection with the Guillaume family; and his story of loyalty and faithful servitude was told again and again by the new generation of colored people; with admiration by some, with undue censure by others. For many years before the Civil War, Uncle Foteen’s genial usefulness in the Guillaume household resembled that of Coventry Patmore’s “Briggs,” who was

“Factotum, butler, footman, groom, Who helped the gardener, fed the pigs, Preserved the game, and drove the brougham”....

Being sometime valet to “ole Marse Sylvain,” coachman to Mamzelle Olympe, and impressive major domo of the dining-room on every festive occasion.

After emancipation was declared, and old Foteen was given his freedom, he asked to remain with the family in the old capacity; and he was given a home in the quarters, rent free as long as he lived; wages for his services; and was taken care of with every attention due so worthy a retainer.

One by one, the members of the family passed on to the Great Beyond, none remaining to enjoy the luxury of the fine old house and carry on the splendid family tradition except Madame Guillaume and young Sylvain, her son; who was away availing himself of the benefits of one of the “big Yankee colleges”;—a fact both abhorrent and inexplicable to many of Madame’s unreconstructed Creole friends.

Picturesque and solitary, she lived on through the changing years, dreaming of the fateful past and looking forward with childish expectation to the home-coming of her accomplished son.

Her daily life was ordered with little change from the old-time dignity and convention: Aunt Choote and her numerous children looking after the household and kitchen; Uncle Foteen driving her to church on Sunday in the old creaking barouche, taking part in her sentimental reminiscences, and sharing the fitful dreams and wandering fancies of forgetfulness that became actualities to both their weary minds.

One morning old Choote announced to the astonished members of her family that Madame Guillaume was “ceasded.”

Going to the bedroom door with the customary cup of early morning black coffee, there was no response to her gentle knock. She approached the bed-side fearfully, and lifting the mosquito net, found her old Madame “stone-col’, her body hyuh an’ her soul yonder.”

Young Sylvain being abroad with a party of tourists, the funeral was held without his being present. Several weeks later, he was expected home, and the lonely old house was undergoing elaborate preparations befitting his return. Uncle Foteen was going about, a pathetic figure, re-living the seeming reality of his past importance; mistaking young Sylvain for his old master, and telling everyone he met, that “ole Marse Sylvain done come home, an’ de fam’ly goin’ have big jubilation.”

When Sylvain arrived, Uncle Foteen embraced him with unrestrained emotion; calling him master; giving him lively accounts of the imaginary doings of the departed family; and rejoicing in the prospect of driving him to church on Sunday, “to show him off to all Gritny, settin’ up proud in de barouche, ’long wid Ma’am Guillaume, Mamzelle Olympe, an’ all dem chillun.”

Sylvain soon discovered that the old man’s memory was uncertain, and he humored his infirmity. “He bin childish for a good w’ile,” Choote told him. “An’ he mistake evvbody for somebody else bin dead a long time.”

Knowing her husband’s vagaries would be overlooked with understanding sympathy, Choote permitted Uncle Foteen to take his old post in the diningroom and preside in the usual, formal way. When evening came and Sylvain was called to dinner, he arose to go, a reluctant, solitary guest. On entering the diningroom, he was amazed to find the table arranged for six persons. No detail was overlooked. The guest linen and fine china had been brought out; cape jasmines, his mother’s favorite flowers, were in the old rock crystal bowl as a center piece; and the quaint old silver candlesticks, lugubrious with towering white candles, lighted the silent room with an eerie glow he remembered as a little child. Uncle Foteen, in his faded uniform, was standing behind his chair, ready to see him comfortably seated in the master’s place at the head of the table.

Leaving Sylvain’s chair, he visited the vacant chairs each in turn, sliding them in place gently, until each imaginary member of his respected family was seated in the accustomed manner. Each in turn, throughout the various courses of the meal, he visited the spectral guests, watching attentively as he saw them in fancy helping themselves to the tempting food; and smiling with grateful pleasure on beholding his honored family gathered once more in convivial assembly.

It was a well-known tale in the village; a tale Uncle Foteen loved to repeat. The facts were real to him; the occasion, a memorable one; and the actors, living personalities. No one thought of arguing with him the verity of his story, or regarding his vision as a worthless, fleeting dream. It was a fancy that brought him comfort and solace to brighten the hours of his waning years. He knew that his beloved white folks lived again, and he walked and talked with their gentle spirits wherever he happened to be.

Uncle Foteen sat before the pleasant fire enjoying his plate of gumbo with childish satisfaction, apparently oblivious of the rumble of conversation in the room.

“Po’ ole soul sho havin’ a party by his own self wid dat plate o’ gumbo.” Scilla remarked softly.

“An’ he ain’ to be blame for it, either.” replied Nookie. “’Cause Sis’ Susan gumbo des natchally make you _leche li doigts_,—like my ole man use to say, ’fo he went away.”

“Whah old ugly Plunkum gone, Nookie?” asked Felo. “Nobody ain’ seen him for Gawd knows how long.”

“An’ nobody ain’ carin’ to see him, either; if dey feels like I feel ’bout ole Plunkum,” she answered disdainfully.

“Go ’long, gal, wid yo’ reckless talk,” said Susan. “Leave Plunkum come back home tomorrow, an’ nobody but _you_ goin’ turn out full fo’ce to give him welcome; an’ you know it good.”

“Who, me, Sis’ Susan? It be only one way you see me turn out to give Plunkum welcome. An’ dat’ll be to cut his head in fo’ diffunt ways,—shawt an’ long, an’ wide an’ deep. An’ cut de palms his feets in de bargain, so he can’t run no mo’. Yas Ma’am.”

“Gawd knows, Nookie,” said Tom, speaking slowly, “for a young ooman w’at bin well-raise’, you sho kin make a whole lot o’ nigger noise.”

“Anybody come to be a nigger, Mr. Tom, w’en dey git mixed up wid a nasty Pharisee like ole Plunkum ... layin’ up in my house for seven long mont’s aft’ he done marry me lawful; livin’ on my good bounty, an’ ain’ done a lick o’ work, an’ ain’ thinkin’ ’bout doin’ none; lookin’ for me to feed an’ suppoat him; an’ raisin’ a roocus w’en I refuse to leave him put on de w’ite folks clo’se I was washin’, so’s he could go ’long wid de Odd Fellows purrade an’ strut like Pompey!... Who?... You know yo’self, Mr. Tom, Gawd ain’ goin’ be patient wid a rogue like dat.”

“An’ it tuck you seven long mont’s to make up yo’ min’ ’bout Plunkum ways?” Scilla asked, quizzically.

“I was lookin’ ove’ my min’ for a long time ’bout w’at I was goin’ do,” she answered. “But my passion struck me all at once. So one evenin’, w’en Plunkum had plague’ me so till I des couldn’ stan’ it no longer; I up wid my potato-stomper was stannin’ on de pot shelf, an’ I played de thing all up an’ down de back his head, till he vomit.... Den w’en I seen him look so mizzabul an’ downcas’; I went an’ fix him some sedlitz powders to quiet him.

“I fix de blue paper one in a cup o’ water firs’, an’ made him drink it; den I fix de w’ite paper one in de cup, an’ made him drink dat.... An’ people, you ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you; ’twasn’ no time befo’ dey had to ride him to de hospital in de groc’ry wagon, de tawment inside him was carryin’ him such a road! Yas Lawd.... Dat nigger was fit to explode any minute. An’ he sho did holler an’ cry.

“W’at dey did to him yonder, I ain’ never hyeah’d tell. But he mus’ bin make up his min’ to go some yuther direction; ’cause Plunkum ain’ _never_ come back to my house.”

“An’ you call yo’self a Chrishtun, an’ practice devilment like dat?” Felo asked, reprovingly. “Is Plunkum any child o’ Gawd?” she asked, indignantly. “De Bible say: overcome yo’ enemy; don’t it?... Plunkum ain’ nothin’ but gutter water!”

The running laughter of the women at this juncture broke into a merry peal. Uncle Foteen awakened from a pleasant doze and looked around bewildered, just as the stentorian sound of a man’s voice was heard outside, exclaiming:

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! Who is you? Makin’ all dis racket up in hyuh so soon, an’ night ain’ begin to fall good yet.”

Coming into the room, he announced himself:

“Good evenin’ to evvbody; an’ peace to de hyuhafter.”

Pointing to a chair near Tom, Susan said to him:

“Take a chair, an’ set down, Nat; an’ take dat hat off yo’ head w’en you come befo’ comp’ny.”

Nat rolled his large, shining eyes at her in playful annoyance, and walked over to the chair and sat down; throwing his hat across the floor with a sweeping gesture.

Nat was a notable personality in the village, and was the exclusive pride and perennial delight of every one along the coast. He was a composite of farmer, philosopher and clown; with the face of a contemplative monk and the manner of a harmless mountebank. He was very black and very bow-legged; the latter being accepted by him as a fortunate asset rather than a calamity. It served him as an individual trade mark in his calling, which was that of truck gardening. His vegetables, he declared, were unlike the product of any other planters of seeds; they were distinctive, facsimiles of himself, and he took great pleasure in making it known. Everybody knew his “bow-legged punkins an’ bow-legged egg-plants”; and no other vendor could boast of the “bow-legged butterbeans and fat bow-legged squash” like Nat’s.

He peddled his seasonable wares through the village in a large, flat basket made of willow slats, placed on top of a clumsy sled built of rough-hewn cypress fence pickets, dragged by an unshorn, meditative old mule he called Maybe-so. Walking bare-footed Nat followed behind; his loose-fitting blue cottonade trousers flapping about his dusty ankles; a broad-brimmed Chinese-looking hat made of palmetto, tilted humorously on his round woolly head.

As he went along, he kept up a confidential conversation with the mule, about the weather; the condition of the road; the pest of bugs on the young potato plants; or any subject that occupied his mind when he was not vociferating the virtues of his bow-legged merchandise to attract the attention of chance customers.

He also had a company of two or three nondescript dogs following in his wake. They seemed to understand all his moods and movements; looking at him with rapt interest when he talked to them; and watching with appealing glances when he shouted some vehement command. They knew they were not to move another step when they heard him call to Maybe-so, and saw the old mule stop before the gate of one of his regular customers. They would sit down in the road precipitously and wait patiently while an argument ensued; and as soon as orders were given to march, they rose up with renewed anticipation; and with tails erect, they started off as soon as Maybe-so made the first step.

If at any time they disregarded the rule, Nat would call to the mule to halt; the dogs would be reprimanded for being “too much in a hurry,” and would be told to “wait till Nat’s ready to go. Nat ain’ fol’rin’ you; you fol’rin’ _Nat_.”

Whether they wanted to buy or not, the people came out to greet him as soon as they heard the sound of his superb voice. He would stand in the road and call out his rhythmic chant, announcing himself, his wares, his companionable mule and family of dogs:

“Hyuh bow-legged Nat, Early in de mawnin’. Maybe-so, Nat, an’ bow-legged onions; Bow-legged cawn, an’ bow-legged punkins; Leave-it-lay, Scawl, an’ one-eye Companyun. Come out an’ peep at Nat bow-legged cucumbers; Bow-legged Maybe-so fresh from de country. Bow-legged red peppers picked off de pepper bush; Come buy yo’ vegetables, Early in de mawnin’.”

After the bartering was finished, Nat would take up the reins again; and as soon as the mule heard him say, “Nat’s gone,” off he would start; the dogs following with wagging tails, apparently pleased with the thought of another pilgrimage.

Susan crossed the room and picked up the hat from the floor where Nat had thrown it, and as she hung it on the rack, said to him:

“You mus’ bin strollin’ out today. I see you got on yo’ shoes an’ a clean shirt, an’ done took off yo’ cottonade breeches; but you ain’ laid aside dis ole palmeeter hat. W’at Rose doin’, she can’t look after you no better, an’ make you dress yo’self ’cawdin’ to de season?”

“Rose too busy, Sis’ Susan.” he answered.

“W’at Rose got to do make her so busy?” she asked in surprise. “Nobody but Roxy an’ you in de house to bother ’bout, ain’t it?”

“Rose ’tenshun so taken up wid dat sweet Lucy wine she git yonder to Mr. Camille sto’, Sis’ Susan, she don’ know de diffunce twix’ July an’ Janawerry.”

“Ain’t Roxy ole enough to take charge an’ look aft’ yo’ clo’se an’ things for you?” asked Felo.

“Roxy ole enough,” Nat answered assuringly, “but she too occapied lookin’ aft’ dem boys, an’ makin’ matrimony wid evvy one comin’ ’long de road.”

“Unc’ Nat, ain’t you shame?” Scilla exclaimed. “Settin’ hyuh befo’ all dese people, scand’lizin’ yo’ own chile name like dat?”

“Roxy ain’ shame, is she?” he replied bluntly. “She ain’ talkin’ ’bout it, but dat ain’ keepin’ people from knowin’ she totin’ somh’n under her a-pun right now, is it?”

“Y’oughta chastise her if you feel sho you ain’ makin’ no mistake,” said Tom.

“Mistake or no mistake,” commented Nookie, “y’oughta quit yo’ blabbin’ ’bout it.”

“W’at y’all mean?” Nat asked with impatience. “Roxy ain’ commit no terr’ble crime, is she? She ain’t hurt nobody fatal. Roxy ain’ did nothin’ but follow de feelin’s of a natchal ooman, curuss to know somh’n convincin’ concernin’ de seecut workin’ of a ’ooman life. An’ all she done was de li’l thing some foolish ole misun’stannin’ people done classify in de bad lis’ und’ de headin’ o’ sinful ways.”

“Den you means to uphol’ Roxy ’long de brazen road she takin’?” asked Scilla, staring at him in amazement.

He deliberated a few seconds, then answered:

“I means to keep my min’ from gittin’ upset ’bout somh’n I ain’ got no cuntrol over. Roxy jus’ like she come hyuh to dis life; wid evvything jus’ like ’twus inten’ to be. An’ Roxy ain’ no diffunt from you an’ no yuther wimmins. An’ nature ways is Gawd ways; an’ I ain’ got no right to meddle. An’ you can’t say I ain’ correck, if you wan’ leave yo’self tell de true.”

“Dah, bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Unc’ Nat, you sho spoke somh’n dat time.”

“W’at you know ’bout wimmin ways, ole ugly Felo?” Nookie inquired indignantly. “Is you done come to be a big jedge, like all de yuther hypocrite niggers w’at spen’ all dey time livin’ ’munks de w’ite folks?... Lookin’ down scawnful on yo’ own color ways; tryin’ to make us nigger people pattun aft’ de w’ite folks?”

“Anybody heard me say a word ’bout w’ite folks bein’ diffunt?” Felo demanded, looking about from one to the other. “Far as I bin able to ’zern, dey ways resemble each-another. Only de w’ite folks ways mo’ seecut.... Dey thinks a heap ’bout w’at dey doin’. Dey does it on de sly. ’Tain’ nobody business.... But you never see ’um lose dey self-respec’. Dey puts on a front, an’ dey all gits by. Dey hides dey looseness, an’ you gotta give ’um praise. But look at de cullud folks. How dey do?... Dey ain’ stop to bother ’bout self-respec’; w’at people goin’ think. Dey jus’ cuts loose.... Dey natchal as de cattle an’ fowls’ an’ things. An’ _Gawd_ de only man to tell if dey doin’ somh’n wrong.”

Apprehensive that an unpleasant dispute was under way, Susan said to them:

“Y’all better stop talkin’ to one-’nother so plain. Firs’ thing you know, you goin’ be sorry.”

Almost immediately she became aware that her fears were needless; for she heard outside the sound of voices mingled with the drone of weird music played on a comb covered with tissue paper; and she knew that other members had arrived.