Budda’s eyes snapped, his words crackled, but Mary made no answer. When Budda had spoken gently to her last night, it made her cry. She could bear scolding better than pity and tenderness.
Budda lighted his pipe and hobbled away, promising to come back tonight after supper.
When he had gone, Mary scoured the pots and pans, and straightened up the cabin, but every little while she went to the window and gazed toward the road that lead from the landing—maybe July would come.
The days dragged slowly by, their mild sunshine pale to Mary’s eyes. The long nights falling out of starry skies were still and well-nigh endless. People were as kind as could be to her. There was scarcely any field work to be done, but she had a gracious plenty to live on, with milk from her cow, the eggs her hens laid, the greens from her garden. Haws, chinquapins and persimmons were ripe. Hickory nuts and walnuts were falling. She had laid in a supply of dry field peas and potatoes and rice and corn before July went off, and now she swapped her fattened pig in the pen with Andrew for a fresh piece of meat every week.
The Quarter people came and went, back and forth, to church, to meeting at Maum Hannah’s house, to Grab-All for rations, to dances and birthnight suppers, living their lives happily; but Mary stayed alone, sitting by her fire, staring at nothing, creeping like an old woman about the house, or out into the yard, down to the spring for water, then back again, dull, lonely, sorrowful. The cabin was tiresome but she lacked energy and desire to leave it for some more cheerful place.
Balked of what mattered most on earth to her, she grieved and pined until all her strength was drained and misery had her numbed. For a while she met with sympathy and pity. She could hear the other women discussing her trouble, pitying her, wondering what would become of her. Nobody ever came right out and asked her what she would do, but they all sighed with sympathy whenever they came near her. “I too sorry for you, Si May-e,” they’d say. “Dat July is a case. A heavy case to do you such a way.”
She was weighted down with sorrow. Day and night, even when July was not in her consciousness her heart lay hard in her breast. Sometimes her dull misery changed to showers of stinging black fury. She’d like to kill Cinder and July too. She’d like to cut their smooth black throats from ear to ear with a razor. She’d like to beat in their skulls with a hatchet. This world was not big enough to hold them and herself. She knew she was a fool, for they were far out of her reach. Maum Hannah and Budda Ben did all they could to help her to peace and yet in their manner, in everybody’s manner, in every word spoken to comfort her, she felt a tinge of reproach.
Day after day went by, night after night, all alike. The hot weather had cooled and the sun paled. Mary picked cotton in the field with the other women, but instead of keeping up with the best as she had always done, her cotton weights fell off, and the money she made was scarcely enough for rations, but every Saturday night, after giving her part of his rations, June got her extra things, such as a can of salmon or a loaf of white bread, from Grab-All.
Winter came with a bleak cold wind and a gray rain, then she made Unex a red flannel petticoat and put one on herself, for her blood was thin and her bones chilly. Budda could not keep warm on a pallet and Mary made him go home to his bed. She was not afraid, and she might as well get used to staying alone.
Ducks flocked into the rice-fields, quacking and splashing, feeding all night long. Now and then somebody brought Mary one to eat, or some oysters, or a fish. She had food, fire, clothes, shelter; she needed nothing, yet misery gnawed at her heart day and night. When she failed to take up her life again people lost patience with her and became indifferent. Her silence, her tottering walk, her haggard body were unheeded, and she was allowed to weep alone.
The winter was spotted with cold days and hot days, and Unex took a cough and shook his little body day and night. That vexed Maum Hannah. She said that Mary was to blame. Unex was poisoned with bad breast milk. Mary was wicked to fret while her baby was depending on her for food.
Day after day she sat gazing at nothing, her eyes on the blue hills over the river. There was nothing to see, nothing to hope. The tide came and went, noons followed mornings, night followed day. She was young in years, but her youth was gone. Her heart sobbed in her breast.
On New Year’s morning, Maum Hannah came in for a talk. Jesus was the onliest one who could help Mary now. Nobody else could. Nobody else.
“A devil spirit is got you, honey. It’s more’n likely Cinder put a conjure on you an’ July all two. But try prayin. It’ll do you all de good. Jedus’ll show you how to live wid you sorrow. Jedus is de main man, honey, de best one what ever lived. He had a heap more trouble’n you. Dem mean Jews hung em on a cross
