“You must be forgot how July done me, Auntie; how July suffered me. I done well to live.”
“Is July de first man ever suffered a ’oman?”
“No, Auntie, I don’ mean dat.”
Maum Hannah grunted. Before she left she wanted Mary to tell her one thing. What had she ever done to make God bless her with a husband that would not suffer her?
Mary shook her head. She had done nothing to win such a blessing. Maum Hannah sighed and said good night.
The dusk dropped deeper. The light was almost gone. The air in the house was hot, and thick with the smell of cooking food. The children crowded around the hearth, laughing, happy, greedy, their black faces glistening in the red firelight. Their mouths chattered with talk, all at one time, nobody listening to anybody else. Bright faces, white teeth, slim bodies, quick-moving hands and feet filled Mary’s eyes. These were all her children, the fruit of her body. Healthy, strong younglings, all growing fast.
But her heart had that heavy dull aching, the same old aching of those first years when July left her. Her whole breast hurt, it was hard to catch air enough when she breathed.
She stepped out into the yard and looked toward the evening star. Such a hot bright star, standing in the path of the slim new moon.
“How-come you duh stargaze, gal?”
Budda Ben was on his woodpile, so still and black she had not noticed him until he spoke. With the night blotting out his poor body his voice had a different sound. It was a man’s voice and his words had warmth and tenderness.
“Budda Ben—” She stumbled over a piece of wood as she went toward him, and sat down beside him heavily.
“Mind, gal,” he warned her, “don’ fall down an’ broke you leg. I ain’ able to cook for no house o chillen.”
She knew he was trying to boost her, to make her laugh, but she couldn’t do it. Not yet.
“Budda Ben, July come—”
“I know, I seen him.”
“Now he’s gone—I wouldn’t let him come inside my door.”
“Enty?”
Silence fell between them. The night closed around them. Budda Ben’s stick fell from his hands, as they both reached slowly out and took one of Mary’s. What strong sinewy hands they were, although they trembled now.
“Please don’ be sorry for me, Budda. I can’ stand dat. I made July go. I sent him off. He been want to stay, but I wouldn’ let him.”
“I know, gal. I know how proudful you ever was. Too proudful.”
XXVIII
The day had been lowering and gray, and before the first dark fell, rain began. Nobody could go out in such weather, so the children ate supper early and went to bed, the three babies in Mary’s bed in the big room and Seraphine with the other children in the shed room. They were all sleeping soundly when the boat on the river, due since early in the afternoon, made a hoarse blowing for the landing. Its voice must have reached to the clouds, for a fresh downpour of rain beat on the roof and against the side of the house; great gusts of wind swelled and crackled the newspapers pasted over the cracks on the walls; those cut into fringes and decorating the high mantel-shelf shivered and shook with the draft, and the ones tied to barrel hoops and hung on the rafters swung slowly back and forth like bells tolling.
The red rooster, out with his flock of hens in the fig tree, flapped his wings three times and tried to give the boat a brave answer, but the rain and wind cut off the words in his throat. A shiver suddenly ran down Mary’s back, and she straightened up and drew her frayed shawl a bit closer around her shoulders. That shiver meant that a rabbit was running over her grave. Jesus have mercy, how she hated to think of a grave on a lonesome black night like this.
The fire spat sharply when raindrops fell down the chimney and dulled its flame. Mary put down her needle and with the long iron poker punched the sticks of wood sharply together to make them brighter.
The top of the pot which hung on a pot hook in the back of the fireplace began clicking and clattering as steam from the stew inside it rose and filled the room with pleasant smell of goatmeat and herbs cooking together. Outside, in the rain, a goat bleated pitifully. Poor little Nan. She must smell the stew which was made out of her own son, a weanling born only last spring. She ought not to take his death so hard. She would have two more kids as soon as next spring came. Fretting would dry up her good sweet milk, make it bitter, and the babies would suffer.
Mary got up and, taking down the door-bar, cracked the door open wide enough to peer out into the thick wet darkness. “Nan—Nan,” she called gently, “don’ fret so hard, gal.”
Nan’s quivering answer guided Mary’s eyes to a dim white spot where the little goat was tethered to the fig tree.
“I see you, Nan. Don’ be lonesome. I’m here wid my mind a-runnin on a child o my own too. I know how you feel wid you son gone. I know good.”
The wind whistled and lashed at the trees. Mary’s long skirt whipped at her legs and pulled her back inside the room.
She closed the door tight, put the bar into place and, filling her pipe, sat down to smoke one last pipeful before she went to bed. It
