Mary sat on the floor speechless. Here, on her wedding-morning, all the joy in the world was gone. She wanted to be good. She tried to be kind, never to hurt anything or anybody; yet she had become a sinner because she loved July so much. And the worst of it was that Maum Hannah had found it out.
The old woman leaned over the pots, stirring them, tasting them, talking mournfully to herself. “I ever did say—company in de dark don’ do for gals. No. Company in de dark don’ do. Company’s right wid light, but in de dark—company don’ do.”
The wavy looking-glass hanging in its square wooden frame beside the fireplace stared at the room, its wrinkled face making everything it reflected look more twisted than ever. The fire, rushing straight up the chimney full of sparks and light, looked wavy and foolish in the glass.
Maum Hannah’s eyes knew too much. They must be wise as God’s.
Everybody had been saying lately how fast she was growing. Her old clothes were too tight and too short, her skimpy skirts left her bare legs looking very long and lean, but her body was almost as slim as ever except that her breasts had budded up. But she was almost sixteen and a grown-up woman to be married to a husband today, thank God.
“Auntie, you wouldn’ tell nobody on me, would you?” she whispered, and Maum Hannah shook her head. She would not tell. People would find out soon enough. A sin like Mary’s tells on itself. A scarlet sin is a blab-mouth thing.
“Will dey turn me out de church, Auntie?” The thought of such deep disgrace made her shiver. Maum Hannah nodded sadly that they would. The deacons have to keep clean righteous people on the church roll. Not sinners.
Budda Ben was up, bumping around in the shed room. He would soon be coming out to get his breakfast. Mary wiped her eyes. She must go to the spring for water before he saw her.
“Eat some breakfast, befo you go, honey. De mush is done now, an’ de fry-meat is brown.”
“I rather eat when I come back, Auntie. Le me fetch de water first, I want to eat breakfast wid Budda dis last time.” At the door, she paused. “You wouldn’ tell Budda Ben, would you, Auntie?”
Maum Hannah threw up her hands. “Who? Me? Great Gawd, gal, Budda would choke July to deat’. E would wring July’s neck same like a chicken.”
As Mary hurried along with her three empty buckets, walking quickly between the long rows of houses on each side of the rain-rutted road, gay greetings were called to her from the open doors and windows.
“Hey, Si May-e, how you feel dis mornin?”
“You sho got a fine weddin-day!”
“Looka how de sun is a-shinin on you, gal!”
“July’s a lucky boy fo-true.”
Mary laughed and called back merry, good-mannered answers to them all, holding her small head high, and hoping that nobody saw that her eyes were red.
The fresh morning air was filled with delicious scents: ripe leaves, fragrant weeds, late cotton blossoms, and the breath of the dark red earth itself. Summer was over. The birds were singing restlessly; their nestlings were all full feathered and ready for mating.
Katydids and crickets creaked a few faint words over and over, speaking sadly to each other before frost came and silenced them for the winter. Morning-glory vines sprawled everywhere, on the hedge rows, on the old rail fence, around the stalks of corn in the field, holding up white-throated blossoms to the light, patiently striving to make all the seed they could before their time was out.
The path dwindled as it dropped down sidewise between the shoulders of two hills, running over gnarled tree roots and rocks that jutted up out of the clay on to a hollow where the clear little spring bubbled out.
Tall poplars and sweet-gums clutched at the dark earth with black crooked roots, but they flaunted purple and scarlet and yellow heads up in the face of the sky. With every stir of air a shower of gay leaves fell, some to lie still on the ground while others, alighting on the tiny stream, floated away, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the bright current hurried to reach the great yellow river.
Mary sat down on a rock and watched the water trickle out of the shining pool. She was so still the shy birds grew bold and came to drink where the water was new and sweet. A gray fox came stealing out through the broom sedge and frost-bleached grass and after stopping to size up Mary, he crept closer and began lapping the water daintily. He was heavy with food. This very morning Maum Hannah’s hens had cackled loud and cried for help. Budda Ben had got up and cursed the varmint that disturbed them, but Maum Hannah shamed him; she said God made foxes and hawks and owls so they had to eat flesh to live. They were not to blame. Ben must have patience with them and ask God to protect the hens.
Mary had always been afraid of God. He and Death were the two most fearsome things in the world. If she were to die, now, in her sin, God would put her in Hell and burn her forever and ever. But if God knew everything, then He knew that July was not mild and easygoing like June, and that she loved him so much she had lacked the strength to rule him.
“May—e—e! May—e—e!”
Lord, how Maum Hannah could call.
“Yes—Aunt—ee! I’m—a—com—in!” Mary sent back her answer as loud as she could, but it was weak beside Maum Hannah’s clear trumpeting. That old voice had grown strong with long years of use. Many a time Mary had stood beside Maum Hannah in the door while it announced the news of the plantation to the whole world: births, deaths, fires, accidents, each thing shaping its own wail.
