Maum Hannah couldn’t talk and the others seemed all excited, but no sooner had their astonished eyes turned on her than Mary felt herself suddenly strengthened. Face to face with that group of failing black women, some of them fat, some of them shriveled, she felt, young, firm-bodied, a part of the fresh outside day. The church was cold with a damp chilly smell, but the blood in her veins rippled warm now. Life burned bright within her, making her feel young, strong, and light on her feet in spite of the troublesome burden she carried.
“How yunnuh all do dis mornin?” she asked politely, and a shower of answers greeted her.
“Come in, honey. I too glad to see you.” Maum Hannah said over and over. “Too glad! Too glad.”
“I’m too sorry you didn’ got here sooner.”
“Sooner! Great Gawd, I’m glad e didn’,” Doll cried out. “If Si May-e had a walked in dis church befo dat fine lady from up-north, a-lookin like e looks, I would a been so shame I couldn’ a held up my head to hear what e was a-sayin.”
Maum Hannah made room on the bench and beckoned to Mary to come sit beside her.
“Come set down, Si May-e, I’m glad to see you. I need you to walk home wid me dis mawnin. I’m dat weakened down, I couldn’ go dat far by mysef.”
The old voice quivered pitifully and a lump came in Mary’s own throat as she saw how the drops trickled out from under the shriveled eyelids and rolled down the wrinkled old cheeks.
“What de matter ail you, Auntie? Who dat hurted you feelins so you got to cry? You don’ like de new way you got to catch chillen?”
As she sat down beside Maum Hannah the narrow bench creaked sharply with the added weight. Mary jumped with a startled laugh, in which all the others but Doll joined. “Do Jedus! Don’ let dis bench fall down wid me today!” she cried out.
“Fo Gawd’s sake, don’ make no mistake in dis church today, Si May-e. Dis is Gawd’s house,” Doll warned, but Mary declared there was no danger.
“Dat bench don’ like to hold up sich a heavy load o sin, Si May-e,” Doll suggested sourly, but Mary gave Doll a pleasant smile and told her that the bench would not have to hold its load very long. She had just happened to be passing by and when she saw that the church door was wide open, she stopped in to rest herself a minute.
“You sho look like you would need some rest. You better had go home an’ hide.”
“Dis child is a load fo-true, de heaviest one I ever carried yet.” Mary still kept her temper although Doll’s talk rasped her.
“You is gwine to have twins, enty,” Doll suggested, but even this met with a polite answer.
“If you say so, Sister Doll. You knows a awful lot. Nothing couldn’ please me better. I ever did wish my chillen could come in a litter. Havin’ em one at a time is awful slow; it takes so long to get a house full. I been at it gwine on mighty nigh twenty years now.”
Doll stared at her trying to shame her, but Mary talked on pleasantly.
Birthing children was not so bad. It was as easy for her as to pop her fingers, but she wanted to have some gal sleep once more. Good, sweet, quiet sleep. It had been many a long year since she had had one single night of it.
“When you gwine to stop a-sinnin, Si May-e?” Doll asked with a hiss on the edge of her words.
“When I get tired seein pleasure. A lot o mighty fine men round here ain’ so awful satisfied wid dey wives. I might try one more round befo I stop fo good.”
“Shut you mout’, May-e. You can’ talk such brazen talk in de house o Gawd. You must be forgot, enty?” Doll’s tubby body, her husky, breathy voice, her little sharp eyes all made Mary feel suddenly cross.
“When did Gawd appint you to run His house, Doll?” she snapped out before she knew it.
Doll answered that she would rather live without a drop of bacon grease for her bread or a speck of molasses for sweetened water than to be like Mary with a pack of men forever at her heels and bringing a poor little fatherless child into the world every other year God sent. Hatred for Doll scraped against Mary’s heart.
She felt like slapping her. “Don’ fret about me, Doll. You don’ have but one man when I has a plenty, but dat don’ make you so much better’n me. I couldn’ stand to have de same man a-snorin in my face evy night Gawd sends. No Lawd. I rather change. I like to shoot down de ducks as dey rise. But I don’ forget my manners like some women I know. I treats my men fine. When I sees em a-feelin downhearted I cheers em up and sends em off a-struttin wid dey hats pure cocked on one side. You don’ treat dat one man you got halfway decent. You got em all worried in his mind an’ fretted half to death right now. Is you call dat bein a Christian?”
“What you got to say ’bout dem poor nameless chillen you got?”
Mary leaned back and laughed.
“Do fo Gawd’s sake, Doll, don’ talk so fool. My chillen come into dis world by de same road as you own. You know dat good as me. You own don’ travel a bit easier road ’n my own either. Not a bit.”
“Well, I can say dis much, Si May-e, July done right when e left you. You is pure slippery as okra.”
“Ki, Doll,” Mary said scornfully, “you’s a fool.” She sucked
