Black moon shadows were dancing in Mary’s yard, and their strange antics made her halt. She hated to step on moon shadows.
“Honey—” Maum Hannah stopped too. “You git some clothes fo Unex and come sleep to my house tonight. I ain’ satisfy fo you to stay home here all by yousef.”
Mary shook her head and thanked the kind old soul. She had better stay home tonight. July might get a boat and paddle home up de river. She’d hate for him not to find her at home and the house locked up.
Maum Hannah caught in her breath. She started to say something, then changed her mind. “Do like you think best, honey. Stay home if you want to. Budda Ben’ll come sleep here to be company for you. July won’ mind him, I know, as cripple as po Budda is. You wouldn’ feel so awful lonesome wid somebody to call on if you git nervish in de night.”
Mary said she had no extra bed, but Maum Hannah declared that would not matter to Budda. Mary could make him a pallet out of some quilts right down on the floor and Budda would sleep as sweet on them as he could on a featherbed. Budda would do anything for Mary, and the poor creature had little chance to do much outside of cutting wood.
She waited until Mary had unlatched the door, and, after laying Unex on the bed, had blown the half-dead coals into a blaze for light. Then she called, “Good night, Si May-e, God bless you,” and limped away. Mary fixed the pallet and sat waiting on the doorstep for Budda Ben. The night became still, the dark fields spread out in front were silent. Cabins far across them showed bright spots of firelight where doors flung wide open to let out the heat matched in size a great star shining toward sunset side. But they were dark red while the star in the sky shone clear blue.
“Si May-e—” a deep voice called her. Her heart leaped into her throat, it sounded so much like July. “Dis is me, June. If you needs anyting, any time, please call on me. Budda Ben is so crippled, e can’ get around, not so fast dese days.”
“Tank you kindly, June,” she answered huskily.
“Is you got plenty o wood to keep you fire burnin?”
“Plenty. Budda Ben cut em fo me.”
June was a sinner and he seldom went to meeting or church, but his heart was soft and kind. “Is dey anyting I can do fo you? I’d be glad to stay.”
“No, Budda Ben is gwine to stay wid me, but sit down, till e comes.”
As he sat beside her the narrow step creaked with his weight. He rested his arms on his knees with his head hunched low between his big stooping shoulders. Mary couldn’t talk, and they sat silent until June cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly.
“I doubt if July is gwine to get away from Cinder anytime soon, Si May-e.”
Mary couldn’t answer that and presently he went on, “If I was you, I wouldn’ fret ’bout em. You don’ have to need fo nothin; you got plenty o friends here to help you long.”
“I know dat, June.”
“I draws wages and rations too, evy Sat’day Gawd sends, and I ain’ got a soul but myself. I been given dem rations to Doll, but I’d sooner give em to you if you’ll take em.”
“Tank you kindly, June.”
She wanted to cry, to tell June how her heart was pure sick. She wanted him to give her sympathy, but he was so steady, so clear-seeing she strove to be good-mannered. She slipped a hand through his big arm next to her and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, but June turned his face away and moved his body uneasily.
The clear moonlight showed Budda Ben coming down the street, half squatting as he walked, leaning on his stick. June got to his feet. “I’ll be gwine now.”
“Good night, June. Tank you fo comin.”
“You welcome, Si May-e.”
She could feel the powerful muscles in his arms bulging as they both went gently around her.
“Good night,” he whispered.
“Good night, June,” she whispered back.
When Budda Ben was fixed for the night on his pallet of quilts, Mary went to bed, but she lay awake and sobbed softly so Budda could not hear her and the baby would not waken. Sleep did not come until long after the cock crowed for midnight, and it left with the first crowing for dawn.
Budda got up early and had the fire burning, the kettle boiling, everything ready for Mary to cook breakfast. He moved softly, but when he took down the door bar to go she called to him, “Stay, Budda, eat breakfast wid me. I’ll cook em in no time.”
Her limbs were shaky, her hands trembled weakly, her feet were heavy weights, but she put on her garments as fast as she could; then she mixed meal and cold water together, added boiling water and stirred it carefully and let it cook gently into smooth white mush, while Budda fried slices of fat meat, and made sweetened water with molasses. Then they sat down to eat.
Unex was happy. He jumped and crowed and cooed and tried to hurry Mary who blew on each spoonful of food to cool it before she put it into his greedy little mouth. Budda stared at his pan of food or at the fire, saying almost nothing, and Mary didn’t utter a word. She kept at the mush and milk, feeding Unex but eating almost nothing herself. Then Budda Ben turned on her, and put a big slice of meat on her pan and in a gruff ugly voice began scolding her. She must eat, and not act like a foolish
