Part 5

While Breeze placed the fat knot carefully on the live coals, and blew on them with well-aimed puffs of his breath until a bright yellow flame sent smoke and sparks flying up the chimney, Big Sue groaned with trying to bend low enough to reach the strings in her shoes. She gave it up saying:

“Do unlace dese strings, son. My wind is too short fo’ me to strain a-tryin’ to bend down low.”

As his nimble fingers quickly undid the hard knots and the wide flat shoes were slipped off her fat feet, the firelight flamed past him and lit up the room. The walls were covered with newspapers, the floor was scoured almost white, and the wooden bed in the corner puffed up high with its feather mattress and many-colored quilt.

Taking her shoes off made Big Sue a different person. From being heavy and slow she became light on her feet and quick. She took a black iron spider off the hearth and put it over the clear hot blaze, then dropped slices of white bacon on it to cook. While the bacon hissed and curled up with frying, Big Sue pulled sweet potatoes out from under the pile of hot ashes in one corner. Those that a squeeze from her fingers showed soft and well done she put in a pan to be eaten, the others were put back in the ashes to cook longer. She stirred a pot full of white cornmeal mush; collard greens, cooked with chunks of bacon, half filled another. The smell of food went all through the cabin every time a pot-lid was lifted.

Big Sue gave Breeze a tin pan and a spoon, while she took another; but just as she leaned down to dip up the food she glanced toward the bed. Breeze had put his hat on it. She stopped still and glared at him.

“Great Gawd, boy! You put bad luck on my Joy’s bed. I got a good mind to lick you. Take dis pin. Go stick em in da hat. Don’ never put a hat on no bed. You ain’ had much raisin’, or you’d know better.”

Breeze took the pin and stuck it, as she said, in the hat’s crown. It must stay there until morning, then he must hang the hat on a nail in the newspapered wall.

“Lawd,” she sighed as she leaned over the pot again, “dat hat sho’ scared me. S’pose I didn’ had a pin! Come fill you’ pan now. Eat a-plenty. I want you to grow fast so you’ll git big enough to help me work. Put some pot liquor off de greens on you’ mush. Mush an’ pot liquor is good fo’ you. It’ll stick to you’ ribs. Sweet potatoes an’ fat meat’ll fatten you too. You’s too small. You’ ma says you’s gwine on twelve, but you can’ be dat old! I hope to Gawd you ain’ a runt!”

Breeze was ready to cry, and she changed her tone and told him that April had a goat for him to break and ride and drive, if he’d be a good boy and mind all she said. April would get a goat harness and a goat wagon, too. Breeze must get the goat tame before the little white boy who lived in the Big House came home. White people are so subject to fever, they can’t risk even one night on the river before killing frost. When the nights get warm, in the spring, they have to go away. White people have some mighty weak sickly ways.

Breeze had eaten too much. He was packed so full he felt tight and uneasy. He wanted to go home to his mother, but Big Sue kept talking fast to keep his mind from dwelling on his troubles. Over and over she said he was a lucky boy to be here with her at Blue Brook. While he washed his pan and spoon, she got a tin basin off the water-shelf by the door and poured it half full of hot water out of the big black kettle simmering on the hearth. She gave it to Breeze with a big new bar of turpentine soap. “Wash you’ feet good and get ready for bed, son.”

But he had no night-clothes, no day clothes either, except the few he brought tied up in a white cloth. He couldn’t sleep between her clean white sheets in those dirty breeches and that filthy shirt! No! His tears poured out when she got a great big garment out of the trunk in the corner, and putting it over his head drew the great sleeves up over his arms. As she buttoned it up at the neck, her laughing broke into such funny snorts Breeze had to stop crying to look at her. Her wind must be broken fo’ true!

He had to sleep in the big bed in the corner, Joy’s bed, to-night, to take off the bad luck his hat had put on it. To-morrow night he’d take the bed she fixed for him in the shed-room where Lijah used to sleep when he was a little boy.

When Breeze crawled into Joy’s fine bed, the soft feathers rose up gently, kindly, around his tired body, and Big Sue leaned over and gave him several light pats.

“Sleep good, son. Dream a nice dream.” She fixed the big pillow under his head, and drew up the quilts close over his shoulders. “All you dream to-night’ll come true, so don’t git on you’ back an’ dream a bad dream. Sleep on you’ side. So.”

VI

UNCLE BILL

Breeze roused from a doze when a man’s deep booming voice called from the outside, “How you feelin’ to-night, Miss Big Sue?”

And Big Sue called back heartily:

“Come in, Uncle Bill. I too glad fo’ see you! I’m lonesome as kin be.”

Cracking his eyes Breeze peeped at the tall raw-boned man who shambled in, bringing a tin bucket which he put on the shelf, saying he’d brought some sweet milk for the little boy and a few sticks of wood. Reaching up stiffly he pushed his hat farther back, then he scratched his head awkwardly, while his deep voice rolled out, “You sho’ looks fine, Miss Big Sue! I declare to Gawd, you could pass fo’ a flowers garden!”

“Do shut you’ mouth,” Big Sue returned playfully. “You talk too much sweet-mouth talk, Uncle Bill. Some day you gwine miss an bite you’ tongue in two. Better mind! You couldn’t preach no mo’.”

He declared he was not to blame. How could his mouth fail to talk sweet when he saw her? It was a wonder the bees didn’t eat her. He dropped the handful of sticks on the hearth, saying they were a few pieces of driftwood he’d brought to put on her fire for luck to-night while the old moon was in her bed.

“You must be feelin’ mighty peart to go all de way to de beach to pick up driftwood, Uncle Bill.”

“Sho’, I feel good. Like a lamb a-jumpin’. I could start now and travel till to-morrow’s sun shine, an’ I wouldn’t feel noways weary.”

“Lawd, you have luck,” Big Sue sighed. “But do lend me de loan o’ you’ pipe befo’ you fix de fire. I’m pure weak I want to smoke so bad. I’m scared to smoke my own. I believe it’s conjured. It ain’ smoked right since I lent em to Leah last Sunday a week gone, right yonder at Heaven’s Gate Church.” Her breath had been cut off shorter than ever to-day. She ate a ’possum leg last night for her supper and it was kinder spoiled from being kept too long. She hadn’t felt exactly well since. Spoiled food ever did make her sick. She didn’t know why.

“It’s because you’s such a delicate lady!” Uncle Bill declared. “You ought to learn to drink milk. Nice sweet milk. And eat honey. De angels lives on ’em. So de Book says.”

“I dunno,” Big Sue answered doubtfully. “I never could stand nothin’ ’bout a cow. Not de milk or de meat or de ways. Gi’ me a hog all de time.”

Uncle Bill got his pipe out of his side coat pocket, twisted its rough wooden stem tight into its bowl and handed it to her, his lean face brightening with a smile.

“E ain’ gwine smoke good by its new. I went to de fig trees no longer’n yestiddy an’ cut dis stem, by my old stem was wore out altogether. E’s gwine bite you’ tongue. I’m too sorry. I wanted you to talk some sweet talk to me to-night!”

“Lawd, Uncle Bill, you ought to know my tongue better’n dat. I got a strong tongue in my mouth. E’s trained. I done got em used to tastin’ all kinds o’ red pepper an’ seasonin’. E kin make friends wid any pipe stem ever was. But you go look at my li’l’ boy.”

Breeze shut his eyes tight as Uncle Bill leaned down to look at his face.

“E’s a good-size boy, but you’d be better off wid a husband, Miss Big Sue. You see dese sticks? I went all de way to de beach to git em. Dey’s driftwood, an’ I’m gwine burn ’em on you’ fire to-night, an’ make a wish whilst dey’s green.”

“Wha’ dat you gwine to wish to-night?”

“I’m gwine wish fo’ you to marry me.”

“Great Gawd, Uncle Bill!” Laughter almost choked her. “I can’ marry you! I got a livin’ husband right now! You must be forgot Silas ain’ dead!”

“Silas is been gone seven years, Miss Big Sue. Gawd don’ expect no lady to live single longer’n seven years. No, ma’am. You kin marry me if you want to.”

“I dunno,” Big Sue tittered. “Sometimes my mind do tell me to marry again. But didn’t you promise Aun’ Katy you wouldn’ marry nobody? What ’ud she say?”

Uncle Bill heaved a deep sigh. “I can’ help dat. I miss Katy so bad, I mighty nigh goes crazy yonder to my house by himself. If you would marry me Katy wouldn’t mind. Not a bit. Katy had sense like a man. Lawd, how I miss dat ’oman! I done made up my mind to marry again an’ I’m gwine wish a weddin’ dress on you whilst I burn dese same sticks on you’ fire to-night.”

He spoke solemnly, and kneeling on the hearth he laid the driftwood sticks carefully crossed on the coals. Then he blew deep breaths until a slow green flame curled up. “Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Uncle Bill! Quit you’ crazy doin’s! You might miss an’ conjure me fo’ true.” Big Sue giggled until her fat sides shook.

“Hush you’ laughin’ till I makes my wish, Miss Big Sue! You got me all eye-sighted!”

“Mind how you wish in de face o’ dat fire!”

A woman’s voice flung the drawled words into the room so unexpectedly that Big Sue jumped to her feet, calling, “Who dat?” and Uncle Bill gave such a start that his wish was knocked clean out of his head.

“Don’ git scared. I ain’ nobody but Zeda. How yunnuh do dis evenin’?”

“Lawd, Zeda, you ought not to slip up on people dat way!” Big Sue scolded, but Zeda broke into a laugh. She stood in the door where the white cloth on her head made a clear spot against the darkness, but her face and hands were one with the night.

“Don’ le’ me stop you’ wishin’, Uncle Bill. Go on. I might give you luck.” Zeda’s teeth flashed as she sauntered in with noiseless barefoot steps. She couldn’t sit down; she was on her way to Bina’s birth-night supper at the Quarters. She just came by to see the boy-child Big Sue had brought from Sandy Island.

“E’s sleep right yonder in Joy’s bed.”

“Lawd, you got a sizable boy, enty? E looks mighty long. Long as Leah’s Brudge to me. I wouldn’ gi’ way a boy big as dat. E’s done raised.”

Again Breeze shut his eyes and pretended to sleep while Zeda leaned so low over him searching his face that he could feel her breath on his cheek.

“Don’ gaze at de child so hard, Zeda. You’ll wake em up.”

Big Sue was plainly out of temper, her tone was sour, pettish.

“I ain’ gwine wake em. I just want to see who e looks like. Leah says his mammy had em for April, but e don’ favor April to me.”

“Do, for Gawd’s sake, shut you’ mouth, Zeda! To hear Leah tell it, half de chillen on Blue Brook belongs to April, well as dem on Sandy Island. Leah don’ count nobody when e gits to talkin’ ’bout April.”

Zeda laughed. “I dunno, Big Sue. I told April to-day, if he don’ mind, he’s gwine catch up wid Uncle Isaac. De people say Uncle Isaac has fifty-two chillen livin’ right now.”

Breeze peeped up in time to see the grin that lit her face as she turned on her heel, saying she must go, and let Uncle Bill finish his wishing. But he’d wish a long time before he got a wife as good as Aunt Katy.

Uncle Bill sat up straight in his chair. “Now you talkin’ what Gawd loves, Zeda; de truth. Katy was one in a t’ousand. I miss em so bad, I can’ stan’ it no longer by myself. If Miss Big Sue would marry me, I’d treat em white. I sho’ would.”

Zeda took her pipe out of her apron pocket and leaned for a coal to light it. After one or two stout pulls she let the smoke trail slowly out between her smiling lips. “I hear-say Big Sue an’ Leah all two is a seekin’ de second blessin’ since de new Bury League preacher was here last Sunday was a week gone. Is dat so, Big Sue?”

“I know I ain’ seekin’ em. I don’ know nothin’ ’bout Leah, an’ I don’ want to know nothin’ ’bout em.” She snapped the words out fiercely; but Zeda set her arms akimbo and puffed at the pipe between her teeth, her eyes flashing bright in the firelight that flared past her to the framed pictures of faces looking down from the walls.

Big Sue sat grum, silent, until Uncle Bill heaved a great sigh and said he was mighty sorry for Leah. She’d been sick three days. Salivated. Her mouth was raw. Her teeth were loose, ready to drop out. Leah was in a bad way.

Big Sue’s fat body straightened up. She was full of interest. How did Leah get salivated?

Uncle Bill shook his head. He didn’t know what had done it. Leah hadn’t been well since this moon came in. He couldn’t say if seeking a second blessing had made her sick or if some medicine she’d bought from the store had done it. He caught her wallowing on the ground and praying and crying off in the woods by herself one day last week. Now she was salivated. Zeda looked at Uncle Bill’s sorrowful face and her own became serious.

“Dat’s what Leah gits fo’ prankin’ wid white folks’ medicine. I told em so too.”

“I bet Leah’s conjured,” Big Sue put in cheerfully.

“Who in Gawd’s world would bother to conjure Leah?” Zeda asked. “Any ’oman dat wants April bad enough kin git em. April’s weak as water over anyt’ing wid a dress on.”

“You ought to know,” Big Sue snapped out tartly.

A smile curled Zeda’s lips. “I does know. If anybody knows April, I ought to. April’s de same as a bee at blossoms. You wait. You’ll see. Leah’s a fool to fret ’bout April. I done been to see em an’ told em so. No man livin’ is worth one drop o’ water dat dreans out a ’oman’s eye. It’s de Gawd’s truth. If April buys em rations an’ clothes, Leah ought to be sati’fy, ’stead o’ frettin’ an’ cryin’.”

Zeda’s bright hoop earrings glittered, her teeth flashed, then she turned and spat in the fire. “Leah ought to be used to April’s ways by now. E ought to learn how to meet trouble better. Trouble comes to everybody. If e ain’ salivation or sin or men, e’s somet’ing.” Zeda stretched her arms, then her body to its full height. She must go. She’d promised Bina to help cook the birth-night supper.

Big Sue didn’t turn her head to say good night, but Uncle Bill got up and went to the door and bowed low as she stepped out into the still black night, which came right up to the open door.

In the silence that followed, the muffled roar of the sea rose and fell. Big Sue said Zeda had ruined many a man. She was a bold sinful woman.

“Zeda’s a fine field-hand, dough, an’ de clothes Zeda washes is white as snow,” Uncle Bill defended warmly.

“It’s a wonder some ’oman ain’ cut Zeda wide open befo’ now,” Big Sue came back sharply.

“But if anybody is sick or in trouble, nobody is better to em dan Zeda. If Zeda had been my Katy’s own sister, e couldn’ ’a’ been better to em whilst e was down sick. Gawd ain’ gwine be too hard on Zeda. You’ll see it too.”

“Shucks! Zeda kin grin at you, an’ you fo’git all dat deviltry Zeda’s done; but Gawd’s got it wrote down in a book. Zeda kin fool de breeches off o’ you, but ’e can’ fool Gawd. Zeda’s got ten head o’ livin’ chillen an’ no two is got de same daddy. You b’lieve Gawd is gwine ex-cuse Zeda? You must be crazy. Zeda’s as sho’ fo’ hell as a martin fo’ his gourd. You’ll see, too. Gawd ain’ gwine let people off light as you t’ink. No, suh. Zeda don’ like to see no other ’oman hab no man. Zeda wants ’em all. All!”

VII

A BIRTH-NIGHT SUPPER

The birth-night supper had begun, and the big drum, answering licks that somebody laid on its head, called the people to come on. Louder and louder it boomed until the air itself was humming. Now and then when a rackety thump sounded in an unlooked for place Big Sue laughed. When the measure shortened beat by beat her fat toes made pats on the floor.

“Lawd, de drum’s got de people steppin’ light to-night. Is dey marchin’ or dancin’?”

“Marchin’. Dat’s Sherry a-beatin’ de drum, now. When de dancin’ starts Uncle Isaac beats de drum an’ Sherry squeezes de accordion.”

Big Sue got up and went to the door to hear better, and her thick stumpy body rocked softly from side to side. “Po’ ol’ Uncle! Most ready fo’ de grave an’ de biggest sinner roun’ here.” But the thought of Uncle’s sin made her laugh, as she swayed this way and that. “I feel light as a feather, Uncle Bill. Ain’ Sherry got dat drum talkin’ funny talk! E don’ sound noways sinful to me. You t’ink marchin’ is a sin?”

“No. It ain’ sinful to march. How ’bout walkin’ out an’ lookin’ at ’em a while.”

Breeze sat up. “Please lemme go too, Cousin Big Sue. I ain’ sleep. I too scared to stay by myself.” The corners of the room were full of darkness, the shed-room at the back was black, and the sea’s roar unsmothered by the drum-beats.

“How come you had you’ eyes shut, so? You been playin’ possum, enty? I caught you. I don’ like dat. No. Don’ you never make like you sleep if you ain’ sleep. No. But git up an’ dress. Me an’ Uncle Bill would walk on. You dress fast an’ catch up wid us.”

When Breeze overtook them, Uncle Bill, who walked in front, called back, “How you do, stranger? I glad to see you. Come shake han’s wid me.” Then he added, “A cowardly heart makes swift-runnin’ feet, enty?”

When Breeze answered promptly, “Yes suh,” Uncle Bill chuckled.

“You’s got manners, boy! Nice manners! I’m glad to see dat.”

“Sho’ e is!” Big Sue agreed. “All dat breed is mannersable people. Dat’s how come I took so much pains to git em.”

“Dat is nice,” Uncle Bill approved. “I ever did like people to hab manners.”

“Me too! I can’ stan’ no-manners people, specially a no-manners boy-chile. I’m all de time tellin’ Leah, Brudge’ll git hung if e lives. Brudge is too no-manners. I’d skin em if e was my own.”

The noise from the birth-night supper grew thicker and stronger as they got nearer the Quarters. Every beat of the drum throbbed unbroken by the laughter and singing and loud-ringing talk. Breeze’s feet stepped with the time it marked, and so did Uncle Bill’s and Big Sue’s.

The Quarter houses were all solid darkness but one, and its doorway was choked with people pushing in and out; its front yard hidden by a great ring of marching couples, that wheeled slowly around a high-reaching fire. These were holding hands, laughing into one another’s faces, their feet plumping down with flat-footed steps that raised the dust, or cutting little extra fancy hops besides the steady tramping bidden by the drum.

Two big iron washpots sat side by side with the fire leaping high between them. Zeda stirred one with a long wooden paddle, and a short thick-set woman stirred the other. They added seasoning, stirred, tasted, added more seasoning, until a tall fellow, black as the night, and strong-looking as one of the oaks around them, broke through the ring and stepped up to the pots, and put his hand on Zeda’s shoulder. What he said was lost in the noise, but his teeth and eyes flashed in the red light as Zeda put a hand on each of his broad shoulders and quickly pushed him outside the ring again. The short woman took the steaming paddle out of the pot and shook it gaily at him, shouting to him to get a partner and march until the victuals were done and ready to sell instead of setting such a bad example for the young people.

The marchers laughed, and the drummer, a long-legged young man, dropped his sticks and yelled out, “How long befo’ supper, Ma! I’m done perished. I’m pure weak, I’m so hongry!”

Zeda stopped short in her tracks and yelled back to him, “Shut you’ mouth, Sherry! You ain’ perished, nothin’! You beat dat drum or Bina’ll put all two feets on you’ neck!”

The other woman pointed her paddle at him threateningly, shouting as she did it, “You’ ma is sho’ right, son! I wouldn’ pay you, not one cent to-night, if you don’ beat dat drum sweet as you kin! Keep de people marchin’ a while yet. I got a whole hog an’ a bushel o’ rice a-cookin’! Right in dese pots. I wouldn’ sell half if you don’ git ev’ybody good an’ hongry! Rattle dem sticks, Sherry! Rattle ’em like you was beatin’ a tune fo’ Joy to step by!”

This brought a shower of laughter and funny sayings and jokes as the crowd bantered Sherry about the way he beat the drum when Joy was here to march. But instead of answering a word, Sherry rolled the sticks softly on the drum’s head, making a low sobbing sound that held on and on, swelling, mounting until a battering roar made the air throb and hum, then he stopped off short with a sudden sharp drub.

For a second there was a dead silence, then somebody cried out, “Lawd, if you much as call Joy’s name, Sherry kin make dat drum talk some pitiful talk! Joy ought to heared em to-night!”

“I got goose bumps big as hickory nuts all over me!”