The rooster stood eying Daddy Cudjoe from a safe distance. When he flopped his wings and stretched his neck and gave a bold crow, Daddy laughed, “I hear you, son. I hear how you sass me. But you better mind, or you’ll be a-stewin in a pot befo you know it.” His words were threatening but his eyes were twinkling; he said people and fowls were much alike. That same rooster was just like a man.
A man may have the finest wife in the world, but just let a strange woman come around and smile at him a little, and he turns to a fool right away. He will start lying and doing everything he can to fool the strange woman into loving him, but as soon as she does he will leave her and go trying to find some other new woman to fool. It is a hard thing to keep a man satisfied. A hard thing. If it wasn’t for love-charms and conjures to help women keep their lawful husbands at home and out of devilment, only God knows what would become of the world.
“Whe is you husband, today, daughter?”
Mary shook her head. July was gone on the excursion and Cinder was with him.
Daddy Cudjoe turned away and gazed at the rice-fields that lay sunlit and still under a circle of soft blue sky. “Po lil gal,” he pitied. “I’m too sorry to see you a-frettin. But remember dis: as much good fish is in de river as ever was caught out. July ain’ de onliest man in de world. No. Gawd made plenty just as good as him. Just as good. Don’ forget dat.”
A wild plum thicket full of reddening leaves stood close at the old man’s elbow, and when he put out a hand to pat Mary’s shoulder and emphasize what he was telling her, one of the slim thorny switches reached out and caught his sleeve. He jerked quickly away from it. “What you mean by pickin at me?” he asked it gruffly. “I know what I’m a-tellin dis gal.” Then he snapped the branch off with his short knotted fingers and twisted it between them until all its red leaves were gone, and its sharp thorns were left stark naked.
“I’m a-tellin you what Gawd loves, daughter; de truth, de pure truth. Gawd made plenty o’ men besides July. If dat charm don’ fetch you husband back to you, you use it on somebody else.”
“But I don’ want nobody else, Daddy. Not nobody but July.”
Then Daddy cackled out merrily again, “You’s young, honey. You ain’ got much sense, but you’ll learn better. Sho. I got good hopes o you. Good hopes. Some o dese days you’ll learn better.” Daddy Cudjoe laughed, then wiped the tears out of his eyes. “You can’ nebber blongst to nobody, honey, an’ nobody can’ blongst to you. But Ki! Dat ain’ reason fo cry! You breath come an’ go mighty sweet when e free, but you strive fo hold em. Den e bitter!”
XIII
Saturday passed, then Sunday. All the excursion people were back home except July and Cinder and nobody knew what had become of them or where they had gone. Mary was so miserable she scarcely knew what to do. She could not sleep all night for listening and hoping and praying to God for her July’s return. Maybe he got left and would get a boat from somebody and manage to row home up the river. Her eyes burned with gazing so hard and so long out of the window, scanning the road, the fields, the whole countryside, looking for him, for some message from him. But none came.
All day long she had fidgeted about the house, then outside in the yard; feeding the chickens, watering the cow and staking her in a fresh place to graze, carrying a pail of meal mixed with water to the hog in the pen, trying to make the dragging hours go by. The heart in her breast felt dead and cold, and she moved about with slow heavy steps. Her eyes would do nothing but drain out water, drop after drop.
Everybody else was stirring around talking about the trip to town yesterday, except herself and Budda Ben who sat out on the woodpile in the late afternoon sunshine, resting his chin in his hand, staring at the ground, thinking, and thinking. His face was so solemn it scared her away after she went close enough to speak to him. Budda Ben had begged her not to marry July. He said June or Andrew or anybody else would make her a better husband. He had ranted and raved when he heard how July danced with Cinder on the night of her wedding, but now, when she went near him, he paid no more attention to her than if she were a shadow. He behaved like a rank stranger who knew nothing of what was going on, and she needed him so. He let her cut her own wood, not offering her as much as a splinter. But he knew. He could not fool her about that. He knew that July had gone off with Cinder and left her and Unex all by themselves.
The fire on the hearth had almost gone out, the room was dim and she must get some wood to last for the night. Putting her apron over her head, she hurried across the yard to the woodpile.
“Budda,” she called him low, “Budda, please, cut me a lil wood for my fire. I ain’ got a stick yonder home.”
She turned her head away to hide the tears that gushed
