Part 9
“Gussie ’tenshun don’ run to’ads quilts, Aun’ Fisky. An’ da’s de reason I ain’ say nothin’ to ’im,” she apologized. “An’ innyway, de raffle ain’ goin’ las’ long. ’Cause you know, evvybody goin’ straight from my house, yonder to Tempe wake at de New Hope church.... An’ I ’spec Gussie goin’ too.”
“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her. “Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my own color.”
“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.
“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’ ’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des look at you _hard_, an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”
Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets” (illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.
But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention. Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.
Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her comfort.
“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.
Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.
“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no _nigger_, like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a _w’ite_ man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”
Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden vehemence.
“Gussie ain’ _good_ as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n to play proud wid _you_, an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’ owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”
Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t recognize him.
“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,” Carmelite declared with positive conviction.
“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky assured her with simple loyalty.
“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.
Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand; she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind; when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite would see. Just wait.
“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for ’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’ Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the doorway, looking pensively across the green.
Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes. And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”
Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it could be worn.
Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she hurried along.
When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. Nookie recognized the voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear. She would walk right in.
Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board, pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from getting soiled.
Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison, tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.
Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet entrance. At length she exclaimed:
“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh? Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so haphazzud,—big as you is!”
Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room, laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over the petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said casually:
“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’ call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”
“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”
With calm politeness, Soongy said:
“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’ ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”
Nookie looked puzzled.
“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im stay in-do’s?”
“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp, play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp, wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l A-rabs from down de street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’ ’tall good to eat.”
Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter, when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard. And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up with your hands, and throw out on the bank.
Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked:
“Soongy, you say you don’ eat shoe-pick?”
“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”
“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a string.
He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy looked at him crossly, and shouted:
“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you speechless!... You hyeah me?”
Dink looked at her appealingly and left the room.
“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”
“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. “Dink got plenny time to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight ain’ come yet.”
Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in Dink’s behalf.
“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’ col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’ over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”
Soongy looked up from her ironing, and answered impatiently:
“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”
“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no charcoal to my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is you?” She asked, falteringly.
“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”
Nookie laughed pleasantly, and said:
“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’ to me, you hyeah?”
The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:
“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ dress, an’ go home an’ lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head.... Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so, he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is name.”
Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress, she said:
“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you is.”
Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next room, like a broken response.
Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in the basket, making ready to go.
“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons. “An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I git to Carmelite house, in front all dem people say dey comin’,” she called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”
The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him commandingly:
“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”
All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.
Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.
Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”
This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft of sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.
Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.
Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.
Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.
For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.
But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and bored them full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.
The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.