The only people left in the Quarters were too sick, or too young, or too old, and these were seeking shade from the sun-hot which beat down strong, burning up the smells of pigpen and goats and cattle raised by the damp morning.
Mary sat alone by her cabin window, looking out across the fields where the cotton, only half gathered, hung dripping from the bolls. The long red road bordered with tall blooming weeds and seeded grass-heads was empty. The trees stood motionless, their dark green heads stretching upward toward the dry white sky, where the sun plowed a fiery furrow.
Today, instead of staying at home with her and the baby, July had gone on the excursion and left them behind, all by themselves. He could have taken them along and found them no trouble for the baby was as good as gold. But he said women and babies were better off at home, that they had no business gallivanting around on excursions.
The baby, Unex, was six months old today, yet he was able to creep across the floor and say things that sounded like words. He had more teeth than he was due to have and his head was covered with crinky little wool. A blessed baby. A joy. He had only one fault in the world. He put things in his mouth if Mary did not watch him, and wretched pain twisted his little middle if he swallowed nothing more than a straw or a stick. Food was the only thing his precious insides could stand.
Thank God, food agreed with him. Any kind of food. She had trained him from the very start to eat some of everything she ate. She took him right in her lap when she sat down with her victuals and held his mouth close to her pan. When she took a big bite she gave him a tiny taste. When she ate collard greens he had a sip of the pot licker. When she ate peas and rice he had a spoonful of the good blue gravy. When she all but bit her fingers over catfish stew, he smacked his baby lips over a thread of the tender white meat, or sucked at a knot of the salt bacon. He never had colic from her breast milk or her food, for his insides were taught and trained to deal with strong things, with good full-flavored man rations.
Maum Hannah had warned her at the very beginning of his life not to coddle and weaken him with sugar rags and sweetened water and hot milk tea, but to make him a real man and raise him hard, strong, tough, so he could grow up able and hot with life.
When he first began crawling and went near the doorstep, she did not say a word, but let him fall down the steps and bump his head hard. He remembered it and next time watched out and was careful. The first time he crawled near the hearth where the old fire burned day and night, sometimes slowly with a dull blue light, sometimes fast and bright, she left him alone and let him burn his hand. He learned for certain that fire is hot and wicked, a bad thing for babies to play with. People learn best by experience, whether they are babies or grownups, and Unex had sense like people already, although he was only half of a short year old. She could leave him at home, alone on the bed, or on the floor, and he could take care of himself.
He was raven about his daddy. His baby eyes fairly danced whenever July came near him, and July’s funny motions and talk made him shriek out with pleasure. Unex had manners too. At night, when he woke up in the dark, he cooed softly and patted Mary to wake her instead of bawling and disturbing July’s sleep.
But now, in spite of Unex’s nice ways, July had gone off on the excursion and left them behind, and Mary was downhearted and weary. She never had any pleasure. She did not mind work, for she was raised to work and she was never happier than when she was jerking a hoe, or cooking, or washing clothes. To sweat made her feel better; to swing an ax and cut wood limbered up her muscles; to spread black manure in the field cleared out her lungs and gave her breath a good clean feeling. She liked work when her mind was free and her heart light, but she needed some pleasure too.
Now, her heart lay like a rock in her breast and the same thoughts walked back and forth through her mind; her head well-nigh had a hole worn in it with studying about what was best to do. July did not love her, that was his trouble, and her love for him had become so bitter with jealousy it was a sickness, a weakening ailment.
When the preacher read out of the holy Book over them last fall, July promised to take her for better or worse, for richer or poorer. He swore to God he would love and cherish her until death parted them. He meant every word of the promise then. He spoke out so brave and loud that all the people laughed and even the preacher smiled. But he had forgotten the promises he made that day. He thought only of himself, now. He made money, but he spent it to pleasure himself, and expected her to be satisfied if she had food and clothes and shelter. He thought less and less of her, and more and more of other people. The
