Part 5

“Gawd grant it,” he answered. And laughing merrily, they walked on towards the glimmering light from the bar-room door, a welcome beacon at the head of the street.

They soon reached the place, and as Lizzie entered, followed by Chester, she called out gaily:

“Two big cups o’ limmon-gin, Mr. Cholly. An’ po’ ’um out heavy; ’cause me an’ Chester feelin’ kind o’ weak an’ puny dis evenin’.”

Across the room several men were playing cards. Recognizing Lizzie, one of them said to her:

“How come you don’ stop play’n wid Chester, an’ git you a sho-nuf man w’at kin give you a good time, an’ show you somh’n natchal befo’ ole age come creepin’ up on you?” Lizzie stopped drinking, and glaring at him angrily, she answered with clinched teeth:

“Good thing Mr. Cholly stannin’ hyuh, ole nigger. ’Cause I sho would tell you somh’n mo’ besides ‘damn yo’ nasty soul an’ go to Hell.’” After which, she gulped the remainder of her lemon-gin and stalked out of the room, leaving Chester to take care of the payment.

She waited for him outside, and when he came to her, they started off together. As they walked along, the awkward silence was broken now and then by Chester’s subdued humming. Lizzie appeared to be occupied with some burdening thought.

At last they reached the church door. The place was quite crowded and the members were singing lustily. Lizzie recognized the funeral hymn, which caused her some surprise. As they entered, a young woman named Lethe greeted them, and Lizzie asked her:

“Who dead, Lethe? I ain’ know dey had any wake to-night.”

“One ole lady dey calls Aun’ Milly,” Lethe informed her. “Sis’ Amy Hollan’ Ma. Come fum Peach Awchud, yonder to Bayou Bah-tah-yuh.”

“W’en de ole lady died?” Lizzie asked.

“Gawd knows, Lizzie,” she went on, “I ain’ never got de straight ’bout de thing. You know, Aun’ Amy bin drunk for mos’ a week, an’ nobody ain’ bin able to git de right news fum ’uh.”

“An’ dey bring de ole lady all de way from Peach Awchud hyuh, to sing ove’ ’uh?” Lizzie asked, half-playfully.

“Lizzie, don’ ply me wid a whole lot o’ queshtun I ain’ able to answer. All I know, I’m goin’ tell you, if you wan’ lissen.”

“Come set hyuh an’ talk ’bout it,” Chester suggested, leading them to a bench in the corner and sitting down. “Now, go ’head.”

“Well, you know,” Lethe began again, “me an’ my brether Booguloo took a skiff soon dis mawnin’, an’ went down Harvey Cunnal to see my cousin Dootsy, cookin’ yonder at de camp for dem mens pickin’ moss to Li’l Coquille bayou.”

“How much a pound dey gits for black moss, Lethe?” inquired Chester, interrupting her story.

“Boy, shet yo’ mouf!” Lizzie commanded sharply. “Lethe ain’ talkin’ ’bout sellin’ no moss. She talkin’ ’bout de ole lady call Aun’ Milly,—layin’ yonder ’ceasded. (Deceased.) Don’t you hyeah ’um singin’ ove’ ’uh? Shet up, an’ lissen.”

Seeing Chester offer no argument to Lizzie’s rebuke, Lethe resumed her story.

“Well, like I was goin’ say: me an’ Booguloo was helpin’ my cousin Dootsy spread de green moss in de sun to dry on de bushes growin’ on de side de cunnal bank; w’en w’at we seen comin’ roun’ de ben’ up de cunnal, but a skiff cov’ud over wid a muskeeter-bar up on cane reed poles, lookin’ like a natchal bed floatin’ on de water; an’ wavin’ up an’ down,—shinin’ in de sun like a cream-color flag.

“Booguloo say: ‘But w’at dis thing is?... Somebody ain’ use’ to muskeeters, an’ gotta ride in big daylight, settin’ up und’ a muskeeter net?... Dis ain’ no cheap people. Dis mus’ be qual’ty folks.’

“I say: Maybe somebody sick, an’ dey bin took ’um to de doctor, yonder to Gritny. You know muskeeter-bite bad for de fever; so maybe da’s w’at make dey put up de muskeeter net.

“Bime-by de skiff come a li’l closer, an’ we seen dey had a ole cullud man pullin’; an’ a big fat dark-skin ooman settin’ on de back seat.

“I say: Booguloo, ain’ da’s Aun’ Amy Hollan settin’ up in de skiff?

“Booguloo give a good look, an’ he say: ‘Sho is, Lethe. Da’s Aun’ Amy own-self. An’ I bet she drunk as a policeman on Mahdi Gras day!’

“An’ Booguloo was right, too. ’Cause w’en de skiff come close enough for us to call to Aun’ Amy, she look like somebody simple; an’ she could hardly talk.

“I say: Aun’ Amy, you mus’ bin heard de muskeeters was bad out hyuh soon in de mawnin’, ain’t you?

“She look at me like somebody jus’ woke up, an’ she say: ‘Da’s w’at de tell me.’ Talkin’ slow, like her tongue mos’ pah’lize.

“Booguloo say. ‘Aun’ Amy, whah you goin’ so soon in de mawnin’?’

“She say: ‘To fetch my Ma; yonder to Peach Awchud.’

“I say: Aun’ Amy, she ain’ sick, is she?

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“Booguloo say: ‘She ain’ dead, is she?’

“Aun’ Amy say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“I say: W’en she died, yistiddy?

“She say: Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“I say: An’ dey goin’ take ’uh all de way to Gritny to wake ’uh, an’ have de berrin’?

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“Booguloo say: ‘Look Mister; go ’head wid yo’ skiff. Hurry up an’ pull Aun’ Amy yonder to Peach Awchud, an’ leave ’uh learn somh’n mo’ concernin’ w’at dey goin’ do wid ’uh Ma. ’Cause she ain’ look like she know _nothin’_ ’bout de po’ ole soul.’

“So dah whah de skiff went on down de bayou. An’ I ain’ know nothin’ futher, till I got hyuh to de church dis evenin’, an’ foun’ all de members singin’ ove’ Aun’ Milly.”

The amusing recital furnished Lizzie with keen enjoyment and she was laughing heartily. When Lethe had finished, Chester asked her:

“But how dey got de ole lady way from Peach Awchud so quick? Peach Awchud mo’n eighteen miles down the bayou. How dey brought ’uh up?”

“Dey fetched ’uh up in de skiff, rolled up in a blanket; wid Aun’ Amy settin’ on de back seat und’ de muskeeter net, speechless drunk, like she was w’en me an’ Booguloo seen ’uh dis mawnin’. An’ ’uh oldes’ daughter, Frozine, was waitin’ at de head o’ de cunnal wid Mr. Antoine groc’ry wagon; an’ dey brung ’uh straight hyuh to de church ’bout two hours ago.”

“Whah dey lef’ Aim’ Amy?” Lizzie asked.

“She settin’ up yonder on de front row, pah’lize drunk, try’n to sing. An’ nobody can’ get de po’ soul to budge.”

“Aun’ Amy mus’ be got a flas’ hide somewhah in ’uh pocket,” ventured Chester. “She still drunk from soon dis mawnin’ till now.”

“Mus’ be,” agreed Lethe. “Sis’ Fanny an’ Frozine bin try’n to git Aun’ Amy home to ’uh house, to drink some strong coffee, but she keep on say’n, talkin’ like somebody goin’ sing:

“Go ’way, Sis’ Fanny, An’ lemme be. I’m de onles daughter my ole Ma had, An’ I’m jew to stay hyuh wid ’uh an’ sing.”

“Den w’en Frozine try to coax ’uh home, she say, jes’ like she singin’:

“Go ’way, chile, an’ lemme be. I’m po’ Aun’ Milly onles daughter, An’ she call me to come, But I went too late. She call me to hurry, But de boat was slow; An’ w’en I got to de bed-side, Aun’ Milly was gone.”

“Sis’ Fanny keep on say’n to ’uh: ‘Da’s alright, Sis’ Amy; yo’ Ma ain’ goin’ be lef’ alone. Come go home wid me, an’ drink some strong coffee to bring yo’ strank back, an’ you goin’ feel better.’”

“But Aun’ Amy say:

“Who goin’ sing ove’ po’ Aun’ Milly W’en Amy gone away?

Lemme be, Sis’ Fanny; I’m de onles daughter, An’ I gotta stay hyuh An’ watch dis evenin’, An’ sing Aun’ Milly A long farewell.”

“It soun’ like it oughta be pitiful,” said Lizzie, with a light laugh. “But it sho goin’ start me gig’lin’, if I go in yonder whah Aun’ Amy settin’, an’ lissen at w’at she say’n. So set hyuh wid me, Lethe, an’ leave us talk till we feels like joinin’ wid de singin’.”

Chester got up to go. “Well, y’all kin set hyuh long as you please,” he said, “but I’m goin’ up yonder in front to view Aun’ Amy an’ watch w’at goin’ on. Look for me, Lizzie, w’en you git ready to go.”

Left to themselves, now came the time for comment and confidences. Lethe was a notorious gossip, and Lizzie, being an omnivorous listener, there was little need to fear a moment of monotony during the time they were together. Not a member present escaped criticism or ridicule; Lizzie’s keen enjoyment helping to encourage Lethe’s loquacious humor. And when her knowledge of the doings and sayings of her colored friends was exhausted, she was able to recount any number of ludicrous stories about “de w’ite-folks”; irrespective of their station; whether they were “nothin’ but parties an’ parties wid no fam’ly o’ people,” or “p’yo w’ite-folks wid high-up connection.”

Desiring a share of the honor of entertaining, Lizzie told some of her amusing adventures on the steamboat when along with Chester; of her visit to Susan’s cook shop that evening, and her unpleasant encounter with Felo; which account she embroidered elaborately for the better satisfaction of the amazed Lethe, whom she soon discovered to be Felo’s particular friend.

“An’ you say you lef’ Felo yonder to Susan cook shop?” Lethe asked with curious interest.

“Lef’ him yonder eatin’ an’ drinkin’, wid Scilla an’ Soongy an’ Carm’lite an’ Nookie, an’ Unc’ Nat an’ some yuther mens,” Lizzie informed her. “An’ maybe dey got a heap mo’ wimmins by now, ’cause you know I’m bin gone from yonder a good w’ile.”

This was unwelcome news to Lethe. Her forehead settled into a deep frown, and gazing into space, she thought aloud:

“An’ de ole smooth-tongue hypocrite goin’ come home long aft’ hours tonight, w’en I be in bed, an’ goin’ say he jus’ come from Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.... But wait;—I’m goin’ fix him dis blessed night o’ my Lawd, sho as I’m bawn.”

Looking at her in wonderment, Lizzie asked:

“W’at you mean, Lethe? You goin’ to Sis’ Fanny house an’ wait till Felo come home?”

“Wa’t you think goin’ take me to Sis’ Fanny house, w’en I got a good house o’ my own?” she returned, with a show of impatience.

“Den how you goin’ see Felo aft’ you done gone to bed?”

“Lizzie, ain’t you know Felo bin stay’n wid me to my house evvy Sunday night for a long time? You ain’ think Felo come all de way clean ’cross de river jes’ to go to de New Hope church, is you?”

“I know he all time braggin’ ’bout bein’ a good Chrishtun,” Lizize said, with cautious innocence. “But I ain’ never heayh’d ’im bring yo’ name in de queshtun no time.”

Lethe’s mind was busy chasing after her wandering thoughts. “So da’s w’at make him come late all de time,” she ruminated. “Goin’ yonder to Susan cook shop. Den comin’ hyuh wid a lie in ’is mouf, ’bout Mr. Amos keepin’ ’im late.”

“Mens is mens, Lethe,” Lizzie consoled her. “An’ you think Felo gotta be diffunt from de res’ dese niggers, jes’ because he bin livin’ to Mr. Amos house so long an’ know somh’n ’bout w’ite-folks ways?.... Who? It sho goin’ take a better man den ole ’ceitful Felo to keep me from havin’ my pleasure, w’en de worl’ so big an’ handy to play ’roun’ in.... Git up from hyuh, Lethe; an’ rub dem wrinkles out yo’ face, an’ leave us go up yonder an’ sing ove’ Aun’ Milly.... Come on. Dey done start “Po’ Li’l Jesus,” an’ ’twon’ be long befo’ de whole buildin’ be rockin’.... Come on, lessus go.”

Lethe looked at her dejectedly. “Go ’head, an’ sing much as you please,” she said, “I’m goin’ home.”

And as Lizzie left her, she walked out.

However inconsistent Felo’s ideas of theology might appear, there were three important purposes he endeavored to live up to with a sincerity that became him nobly. Three purposes he took great pleasure in making known at all times: “To hol’ a high head an’ keep a good name ’munks de cullud folks”; “to stick close to Mr. Amos, and look aft’ his welfare long’s he staid single”; and, “to hol’ cov’nan wid Gawd an’ serve Jesus long as I got my good sense.”

The first of these, interpreted by many of his unsympathetic friends as a sort of unseemly arrogance, which they called his “biggidy ways,” won for him the name of “w’ite-folks nigger.” While the second brought him the assurance of a permanent home, and fixed his standing as a member of the household, a sort of heir by annexation;—“joint arran’ de fam’ly,” as he called it. As he and Mr. Amos had been playmates from early childhood, his connection in reality was more like that of a faithful friend, than the position of a common servant without rights and privileges. And to keep faith with Mr. Amos and hold his confidence and lasting respect, was next to keeping his covenant with God.

When he came back to work the day after his visit to Susan’s cook shop, he was conscious of something having happened which might shake this feeling of trust; and the burdening thought troubled him sorely. Try as he would, he was unable to free himself of the haunting fact or invent a reasonable excuse to explain his somber mood, which he was certain would not escape Mr. Amos’s attention. Song, at all times an easy means for expressing the gladness or turbulence of his emotional soul, now deserted him completely. And when he tried to pray, his mind went groping about in a wilderness of mist and fog, unable to find a word or thought that would bring him any spiritual relief.

To elude Mr. Amos was out of the question; because it was an understood custom, that Felo must sit across the room and talk while Mr. Amos ate; giving a detailed account of his week-end trip across the river, with the doings and sayings of his colored friends, most of whom Mr. Amos knew from early childhood. It was always a delightful conference, and Mr. Amos encouraged it with genuine interest.

A quiet evening spent at home alone with Felo, he declared, was sure to be an evening of picturesque thought and spontaneous, refreshing entertainment. Because humble Felo had more to offer in the way of colorful, living literature, than one could ever expect to find at the colorless teas and elaborate dinner parties of many pseudo-literary white friends.

As Mr. Amos sat down to eat, Felo took his accustomed chair on the opposite side of the room near the door leading to the kitchen, where he would be in readiness during the progress of the meal. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor rug, staring into infinitude; his arms hanging aimlessly by the sides of his chair.

In the center of the table was a shallow dark green bowl filled with dainty, pink wild mimosa blossoms; the unusual color combination together with the acquisition of the rare little flowers, causing Mr. Amos to wonder in silent admiration. After a while he said to Felo:

“Were did you get the lovely ‘touch-me-nots,’ so late in the season?”

“Yonder in Gritny,” came the reply; slow and apathetic.

“From your mother’s garden?”

“Ma ain’ got no time to play wid no garden; wid all dem chillun an’ dat hog she got to look to.”

“Then I suppose you bought them?” Mr. Amos persisted.

“Who goin’ buy tetch-me-not flow’rs, w’en dey got ’um growin’ wil’ like grass, all up an’ down de railroad track?”

“Well,” said Mr. Amos, “wherever they came from, they’re very lovely; and I suppose I must thank you for bringing them to me.”

Felo made no reply, but sat looking at the floor vacantly. His silence was unusual and Mr. Amos wondered at it. Felo was always ready for conversation. Was there anything the matter, Mr. Amos asked him.

After a slight hesitation, he answered in a subdued tone:

“Man, eat yo’ li’l foods, an’ don’ worry ’bout me.”

Wondering at the polite indifference, Mr. Amos asked:

“What ails you, Felo, are you ill?”

Folding his arms slowly, he leaned forward on his knees and looked away from Mr. Amos as he spoke:

“Man, eat yo’ foods, for Gawd sake; an’ don’ ask so many inquis’tun queshtun. Git thoo so I kin wash dese dishes an’ go yonder to my room.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” Mr. Amos asked with a show of impatience. “Are you sick? Are you tired? Anything the matter at home?”

“Man, don’ plague me,” he answered appealingly. “Be still an’ don’ worry me. Do I look like anybody sick?”

“You look about as healthy as somebody dead and buried,” Mr. Amos answered, smiling playfully. “What happened to you that you look so forlorn and friendless?”

Attempting a bravado manner, he said:

“Nobody but de devil sont you hyuh to plague me tonight. My feelin’s is my feelin’s; an’ nothin’ ain’ goin’ change ’um. So ’tain no use talkin’ an’ try’n tell w’at make ’um so.”

“Alright, deacon,” Mr. Amos answered, with an air of feigned indifference. “If you think there’s nothing I can do to help you smooth out the kinks, whatever they are, so be it.”

Felo remained silent until Mr. Amos was about to leave the room. Seeing him start towards the stairway, he asked:

“You ain’ goin’ out tonight, is you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, y’oughta stay home some time an’ git yo’ night-res’.... All time runnin’ out in de night air an’ fros’, exposin’ yo’self like you does; wid de win’ searchin’ ’roun yo’ ankles an’ things, an’ blowin’ ’cross yo’ body an’ keep you lookin’ so puny.”

“How about yourself?” Mr. Amos asked him. “You don’t seem to be concerned about the night air and the wind when you go rambling about? I suppose being a deacon of the church, you have some special arrangement with God to temper the elements to your convenience?”

“Look. Leave dat be jes’ like it is,” he said abruptly, “I’m thinkin’ ’bout who got to look aft’ you w’en you git flat o’ yo’ back an’ can’ help yo’self no mo’. ’Tain nobody but Felo got to be plague’ wid you. Da’s de one thing make me cuncern yonder wid de future.... But de main thing I ax you,—befo’ you commence all dis heavy comasation,—is you goin’ out tonight?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, w’en I git thoo in de kitchen, I wan’ talk wid you confidenshun.”

Mr. Amos laughed good-naturedly, saying to him:

“I’ll be upstairs, ready to listen to your tale of rape or robbery, whichever it might be. But come with a different face than the one you wear now. I don’t want to have bad dreams tonight.”

With a heroic attempt to smile, he answered, as Mr. Amos walked away:

“Go ’head upstairs, for Gawd sake. You all time ready to play too much.”

After finishing all his chores in the kitchen, Felo went through the house, seeing that all the windows and doors were fastened, before he went upstairs. Going into the room where Mr. Amos was, he found him lying on the bed reading, with the cat asleep on his chest. The cat, like Mr. Amos, was one of Felo’s constant worries. He didn’t know which one of them was “de wusser.” It was a splendid excuse for him to expostulate.

“Y’awter put dat ole cat out-doahs. All two of you keep dis place lookin’ like a fatal rabbit-nes’, de way yo’ hair be fallin’ ove’ evvything. I kin shake dem blankets till my two arms be stiff, an’ de hair yet hanging’ to ’um. An’ de onles way to git y’all hair off des flo’-rugs,—I gotta git down on my knees an’ brush ’um wid a swiss-broom.”

Mr. Amos put his book aside and laughed heartily.

“Keep on!” Felo began again. “One dese nights you goin’ see dat same cat cut yo’ breath fum you; lay’n ’cross yo’ buzzum like dat.... An’ some dese w’ite-folks only goin’ be too glad to say ’twan nobody but nigger Felo did ’way wid you. An’ who you reckon goin’ be hyuh in de house to put it on de cat, aft’ dey done spread de news?... Nobody. Da’s who.”

Mr. Amos looked at him and asked quietly:

“Did you come up here to give a lecture on the cat? Or did you say you had something worrying you, and you wanted to talk about it?”

“I come up hyuh to look aft’ yo’ comfut,” he replied, taking a pillow from the opposite side of the bed and making ready to arrange it under Mr. Amos’s head.

“Hyuh; lemme slip dis pilluh und’ yo’ head; an’ leave dat ole cat slide down further on yo’ stummic, whah ’tain so dang’us.”

This little attention performed, Felo sat down in the rocking chair and began looking about the room, uncertain how to start his communication. After an awkward silence, he asked:

“You goin’ keep on readin’?”

“What have you got to say?” Mr. Amos questioned, without looking away from his book.

“Man, put yo’ book down, an’ be soshable,” he commanded. “You ain’ sattafy peepin’ up in books all day long, you gotta come hyuh at night-time strainin’ yo’ eyesight over agin?... W’a’s de matter, you don’ wan’ talk?”

“No; I want to listen,” said Mr. Amos, closing the book and putting it aside. “What have you to tell me?”

“I wan’ tell you ’bout a upsetment me an’ Lethe had las’ night,” he began apologetically. “I know Lethe done blabbed it all over Gritny by now; an’ I know she goin’ tell Miss Tilly; an’ Miss Tilly sho ain’ goin’ miss tell you soon’s she see you; so I wan’ tell you de whole thing so you know de straight tale w’en you hyeah it fum somebody else.”

Whereupon he gave a careful account of his visit to Aunt Susan’s cook shop; the members he met and talked with there; his misunderstanding with Lizzie, and his late visit to the church; where he learned that Lethe had gone home in a sullen frame of mind over some wilful misinformation communicated to her by the vengeful Lizzie. Leaving the church with the wake in full swing, he told how he went to Lethe’s house, to find that she had gone to bed. He knocked on the door and she got up and let him in; finding fault with him for coming so late; and asking why he hadn’t spent the night with the women he began the evening with so pleasantly at Susan’s.

“I say to ’uh: For Gawd sake, Lethe, don’ try an’ raise no humbug late in de night like dis. I ain’ come hyuh to make no squawble over any lie Lizzie Cole done hatched up jes’ for spite.

“I say: I come hyuh like I do evvy Sunday night; ’cause I wan’ see you, an’ ’cause I thinks somh’n ’bout you.... So dah whah I commence to undress myself, an’ went to bed, ’cause I was sleepy.”

“Went to bed!” Mr. Amos exclaimed in playful amazement. “In Lethe’s house?... I didn’t know that was part of the religious obligation of a deacon of the church on Sunday night?”