In the soft twilight Mary stood behind the door—waiting—ready for the shrieks of laughter that would come with the quick-shouted, “I got you!”
She smiled and drew in the cool air stealthily through her nostrils. A strange smell came with it. It was not one of the children who stood there in the door. No! Mary tried to lean a little and see without being seen.
It was a stranger. A man.
“Who dat?” Mary called out sternly, moving out from her hiding-place. For some reason the words shook in her throat as she stepped forward and stood boldly in front of the door.
The strange man stood looking at her, hesitating, half smiling. Then he held out both hands. Who was he? He took a step toward her and stopped, and a familiar voice spoke softly. “Si May-e? Is dis you, Si May-e?”
Mary’s heart leaped at the sound, and her astonished eyes stared at him.
“You ain’ know me—Si May-e? Is you forgot you July?” he asked gently. He stood waiting for her to speak, holding his hands out to her—almost like a child. She looked at his face. At his hands. They were shaking. July’s hands!
What must she do? What?
She could not think straight. She swallowed hard and put her hand up to her throat, and her heart thumped crazily as he spoke again.
“May-e—May-e, gal, I come back, honey. Please say you glad to see me. Don’ stand up a-gazin at me so hard. Dis is you July, Si May-e.”
He took her hands—both of them. She let him. She was paralyzed with joy and with misery. Her eyes dimmed and his face was blurred, but his voice had her heart quivering just as it used to do in the old days.
She drew her hands slowly out of his, and her voice sounded hollow and strange as she made it say, “No, you ain’ my July. I ain’ had no July in twenty years.”
Her lips stiffened over the words; her tongue felt frozen, but July’s old bold laugh answered her as he put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Yes you is, honey. I been gone a long time, fo-true, but I ain’ forgot you, an’ I ain’ never blongst to nobody but you since de day you marked me in de ear wid dat knife. You ’member, enty?”
She nodded her head. She remembered well. She was dizzy with old memories. The old love and the old hurt and the old bitterness had all come back and were making her weak and faint. July took her swiftly in his arms and held her close to him and pressed his hot lips on hers.
That woke her up, wide awake. With the strength of a cyclone, she gave him a backward push which sent him stumbling down the steps. But he laughed pleasantly.
“Great Gawd, you is strong still yet. You got de same old devil in you, too. I don’ blame you for pushin me off, honey. I wouldn’ say a word if you was to knock me down an’ stomp in my face, so long as you take me back.”
“Take who back? You. July Pinesett? Befo I’d let you come inside my door, I’d see you rotted in Hell.”
“Why, Si May-e! What you mean? You wouldn’ send me away, not after I come all dis way to see you. I been comin four days to git here. Stand still and lemme look at you good. I swear to Gawd, you ain’ hardly changed.” In the half-light, his black eyes peered at her. “You look better’n I ever see you. Yes, you is!”
His hand reached out and touched her shoulder, but Mary drew away and she felt her lips curling proudly, even if they did tremble.
“I might be ain’ changed on de outside, but I sho is changed on de inside. Yessuh! Dis ain’ de same silly gal you left, July. No. Don’ fool yousef.” She looked straight at him. Her weakness was passing, and the dim light was helping her hide it. July couldn’t see how she shook from head to foot.
“Ki,” she laughed. “I been duh talk ’bout you no longer’n last month. I told dem people right yonder at Heaven’s Gate Church if you was to come home cold an’ stiff in a box, I could look at you same as a stranger an’ not a water wouldn’ drean out my eye. I mean it, July.” She nodded her head for emphasis. Then she pointed to the street.
“You may as well go on. I got to cook supper. I’m hungry. I ain’ hardly eat good since breakfast.”
But July persisted. “May-e, you listen. You don’ know ’bout all dem things I fetched in my valise fo you. I got fine presents fo you an’ Unex, too. Don’ be so rash wid you talk. Wait! Lemme show you—”
He picked up the suitcase from the bottom step. It was heavy. Bulging. He laid it down on the ground to open it. His fingers fumbled with the straps. But Mary stopped him.
“Don’ open dat satchel, July! Don’ unbuckle a strap in my yard. No! You own sister is a-livin right yonder down de street. Take you foot in you hand an’ go to em. I don’t want you or anyting you got.”
July looked astonished. He took a purse out of his pocket. It was fat and full. He had brought money. Lots of money!
“Looka dis, Si May-e. I fetched all dis for you. All dis.” He opened it and smoothed out the bills. Selecting the top one, he held it up.
“Ten dollars fo Unex,” he said, then, taking the rest, he held it out to her. “Dis rest is fo you.”
The light flickered weak in the sky. The world was dim. It was hard to send July away. Her charm could hold him faithful to her as long as she lived. Her blood raced through her body. The twilight showed that he was the same old July
