Budda’s face looked drawn, his eyes were sorrowful, his breath was quick and short, but his words fell stern and firm.
“Why, gal, you done fretted so you is pure old an’ ugly.”
“I wish I was dead,” Mary faltered.
“No, you don’t, neither. You don’ wish no such a thing. It’s a sin to say so, too. Sposen you was to die, who’d raise Unex? Cinder? Is dat what you want?” Budda stuck his pipe between his teeth and his eyes glared fiercely at her.
“Le me tell you dis, Si May-e; you may as well not wish to die. Nobody can’ die not till de time comes. I know. One time when I was so mizzable I couldn’t stand to live no longer, I dressed mysef up in my Sunday clothes an’ went away down yonder in dem thickest pine woods. I stretched my length on de ground an’ I folded my hands across my breast an’ I tried to die. I held my breat’. I tried to hinder my heart from beatin. But I couldn’ die. I looked straight up at de sun an’ I begged Gawd to strike me dead. Den I wallowed all over de ground, an’ I prayed to Jedus to take me. I pure sweated, but it didn’ do me no good. I couldn’ die. I got up an’ come on back home, an’ I been here ever since. It ain’ no use to be a-tryin to die. We got to stay here till our time is out. An’ whilst we are a-stayin we may as well try to act mannersable, enty?”
Mary tried to nod her head. Budda Ben was right. She knew that.
“You hold up you head, gal, an’ quit a-draggin you feet. Fo Gawd’s sake wash you face an’ wrap you hair nice an’ put on a clean dress an’ apron. Yesterday’s sun is set, Si May-e. Last year’s rain is dry. It’s better to let old sorrows sleep an’ tink on what’s a-comin tomorrow. Plenty o tomorrows is ahead o you. Plenty o good tomorrows too, if you’ll listen at what I’m a-tellin you.”
Budda declared that nobody could help her but herself. Nobody. She was wasting her life, losing her friends and her health and everything else she had left. Even if July had tricked her and broken her heart, she was not the first woman to have her heart broken by a low-down man. She would not be the last, either. The best thing she could do was to put July clean out of her mind, to forget him. Yes, forget him.
Budda looked straight at her, without flinching, and when the tears flowed out of her eyes, he did not soften his voice one whit. When he had finished, he smiled a one-sided smile and said very kindly, “Now, Si May-e, I’m a done-talk man. I hope I ain’ wasted my breath.”
Mary tried to smile and to sound brave as she answered, “No, Budda you ain’ wasted em. I know good an’ well all you say is de Gawd’s truth. I know I ain’ doin right. I’m gwine to learn to smoke. Auntie left her pipe here for me to learn how to smoke on. E said smokin would help me to stop bein so nervish an’ downhearted.”
“Sho e will, if you learn how to smoke right an’ not careless an’ wrong,” Budda declared heartily. “Le me fill you pipe now, an’ show you how.”
A draft from the door took the smoke from Budda’s pipe and swept it up the chimney as he filled his mother’s for Mary, packing moist plug-cut tobacco into its small bowl, pinch by pinch. He laid a tiny coal on it and putting the stem in his mouth, pulled until the crumbs of tobacco glowed and he puffed out a mouthful of strong sweet smoke. He explained that most people burn up tobacco in a pipe and call it smoking. Smoking a pipe is not child’s play. There is a right way and a wrong way to do it. His old grandfather, Daddy Champagne, dead long years ago, taught him how to smoke. Young people used to listen at what the old people tried to teach them. He had listened and learned how to smoke. Puffing fast or drawing hard burns the tobacco and gives little comfort. Mary must pull with a steady slow breath and puff the smoke out gently. That’s the way. One good pipeful of plug-cut tobacco ought to last the best part of an hour. Maybe more.
Mary sat on the cabin doorstep to breathe some fresh air and steady her dizzy head long after Budda Ben had hobbled away. The sun had set and the dusk lay deep around her. The great, dark red field was blurred and the cabins far across it showed bright spots of firelight from doors flung wide open to let out the heat, for the night was warm and within them the big chimneys held hot-blazing fires that cooked supper.
The air was filled with the cool scent of the frosty earth. Most of the day sounds were stilled, and night voices took their places. A partridge lost from its covey whistled anxiously, and its mates called back swift heartening notes. Little Nan, the mother of two newborn kids, bleated low warning baas to her children who had skipped away from where she was tethered to the crape-myrtle tree for the night. A screech owl began a mournful song. A bad-luck sound. Mary got up quickly and put the shovel in the fire to stop it. People have to rule owls. She
