Part 7

Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.

“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.

“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger--somehow, a nigger don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I hope e is.”

Killdee was confident.

“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.

“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”

“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.

When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between short puffs she said:

“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid you wuz doin’ dat.”

“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’ Christmus.”

Maum Hannah said gayly:

“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep em een. It spiles too quick.”

“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,” Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”

He got up to go. It was getting late.

“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and went to bed.

Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of the river swamp?

There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?

She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.

She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn, swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were digging up the fish.--Fighting over them.--And the smell of those catfish! Poor Killdee!

There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the path to her cabin.

She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think. She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not stop until every fish was eaten.

Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.

Men take trouble harder.--Harder.

The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.

She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.

“Auntie----” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.--Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’ is ruin’!--Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem catfish.”

His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.

“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now--now--dem Gawd-damn dawgs----”

Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.

She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy shoulder.

“Son--son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.

“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby. But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty--fo’ eat.--Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”

It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there, bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when she added:

“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een Him. Haffer!”

Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He laughed boisterously.

“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”

He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.

_Son_

All night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,--and clawed and scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his rough, yellow hide.

Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to sleep again.

Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.

As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.

Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast. But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.

Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.

“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een. Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”

Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.

But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and whined and scratched to be let out.

Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went down the steps into the night.

First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.

Killdee looked out and listened, too. The dwindling old moon cast a gray light that made the frosty night chillier. There were very few sounds at all.

An owl whooed far away in the river swamp, but Son cared nothing for owls.

Something rustled and scurried in the fence corner, but Son’s light, patting feet went steadily on--without slacking.

Cocks near by crowed and got answers faint and far away.

Little chickens hovering under a mother hen gave a few uneasy, troubled peeps and were hushed with a drawling cluck. That was all.

Son had listened at none of these. Something else had called him. He sniffed the air and then went straight to where he wanted to go. Son had keen ears. His nose was hard to fool.

Killdee smiled to himself and closed the door and put up the bar to hold it. He went back to bed and eased himself down beside Rose. But he kept smiling to think how shrewd Son was. How wise.

Son’s faithful interest in love-making made him get up and break his night’s rest and go far in the cold and dark. More than likely, he’d be late getting to the lady’s house. He’d have to fight other dogs there for a chance to get the lady to even notice him. Fight dogs that were younger and bigger and stronger.

If the lady happened to choose him, he’d soon come away and leave her. He’d forget all about her. He would never even know his own children.

It was hard luck to be a dog when you had as much sense as Son. If Son were a man--a man----

Something Maum Hannah said long ago came into Killdee’s mind and mocked him: “It’s a wise man kin tell his own chillen.”

An unpleasant saying. And yet--even a man had to take somebody else’s word--about children.--Whose they really were.

Of course, Rose’s children were his. But Mary’s--since Bully left, children had come to Mary just the same.

How did any man know if they were his or not? Did Mary herself know for certain? She always laughed and said: “My chillen daddy ain’ nobody een pa-ticular.”

After all, maybe fathers don’t matter much. Son knew that. He went about his business and did what he thought was his duty, and then he bothered himself no more about it. Maybe Son’s way was good as any.

Killdee went to sleep and forgot about Son until the next day when dinner-time came. Even then he didn’t remember until his pan of peas and rice was almost empty.

It was Son’s custom to sit patiently by and watch Killdee eat and catch bits of food that his master tossed to him.

Where was Son to-day?

Killdee got up and whistled and called him. He wondered and whistled and called again before Son came creeping out from under the house where a dark corner hid his fresh wounds from meddlesome flies.

Poor Son. One limp ear was torn. His wishful eyes were bloodshot and battered. His thin legs tottered unsteadily. His coarse, yellow hair was reddened and wet. Above open cuts on his body, flies hummed and buzzed and frolicked.

Killdee knelt and took Son’s head ruefully in his big hands. He stroked the sensitive nose and patted a cheek and whispered sorrowful words.

“Po’ ol’ Son. Po’ ol’ man. Dey got you all cripple up, enty? It hu’t me clean to my heart fo’ see you all bung up like dis.--Po’ ol’ Son. Better lef ’oman lone, Son. Better lef em lone, ef you kin.”

Rose stood in the doorway watching. She didn’t love Son, and Killdee was not deceived by her show of sympathy when she suggested kindly:

“You wan’ me fo’ git you a clot’ so you kin tie em up, enty?”

No, he didn’t want a cloth. Son’s hurts were better left uncovered. Son’s tongue could lick them and keep them clean. Son could cure them himself. No other medicine would do as much good as the medicine within Son’s own mouth.

Men have to tie up their sores and grease them. Not dogs. Dogs have learned to cure themselves. Son knew how.

Killdee went to the haystack by the barn and got a bit of fine dried grass. He crawled away back under the house and fixed Son a bed in a dark warm corner.

Son followed and laid himself down with a sigh and wagged his tail weakly.

A lump came in Killdee’s throat to see him so downhearted. Son couldn’t help wanting to go courting last night. Something inside him compelled him. Drove him. Son wasn’t to blame.

Son wasn’t to blame that he wasn’t strong enough to fight other dogs away, without getting himself beat almost to death.

Who was to blame? What? Why couldn’t things be fair to dogs?--And to men--and women?

A face came before Killdee’s eyes--black--eager--young--with a bluish bloom on the cheeks--a pointed chin where a dimple came and went--dark red lips where white teeth gleamed with laughter--lips that quivered in such a pitiful way when things went wrong--little Missie--good little Missie.

She was so little--so tender--so trustful. Could he ruin her because she was what he loved best?

Love was a disease. It was wilting all the joy in her--in himself. It was a poison that would burn and shrivel--that would change her clean freshness to shame.

Son could go and love when he liked. Where he liked. If he came home bruised and torn, he could go off and hide and lick his bloody hurts and get well.--But a man--has to lie--and seem hard and mean----

If a man could only learn to cure his hurts too--that would be good. Maybe a man has to learn to do it. Maybe so.

Killdee crawled out from under the house with a gloomy, frowning face. Rose turned away when she saw him and he walked slowly down the path.

Gray clouds hung low and drops of cold rain were falling on the damp ground. Dull, reddish puddles of water shivered in the wind, as if they were hurt.

Killdee gave a bitter laugh.

“Me and Son ain’ de onlies’ one hab trouble. Mud-puddle hab ’em too! ’E can’ be still. ’E haffer stan’ pain. De wind trouble em. De sun-hot’ll dry em up. Po’ mud puddle! Do Jedus!”

What was the use to try? To want to do anything? Something got everything. Even mud-puddles!

* * * * *

Heavy clouds bunched over the wide river swamp. In the distance their rough, dark edges touched the tree-tops, and the hills on the other side were hidden. Down under the trees the rivers were swollen and muddy. They swirled and lapped and rushed along disregarding their rightful channels.

Killdee stood at the edge of the steep hill and looked down. The water was rising. Everything in the swamp would be flooded. Cattle and hogs left down there would be caught soon. Traps would be washed away unless they were fastened strong to trees.

Where was Son? He’d been gone since first daylight, and his hurts were hardly well.

Thinking about him made Killdee automatically give a long, shrill whistle. He missed Son when he went away like this. Son was getting along in years. Since rations were short, Son was weak.

He wouldn’t stop scratching at the fleas. Mange had him. His eyes were dimmer than when he was young. Fighting ruined them. He wouldn’t stay home at night and rest. He’d rather go running around and getting into trouble with other dogs. Son was foolish. He’d be better off asleep.

Killdee whistled again before he turned towards home. He had no hogs in the swamp to bother him to-day. Cholera got them all last year. He didn’t have to go hunt in the swamp for them now. That was something. Those rivers down below were men to-day. Good all his traps were chained to trees.

The solitude was disturbing. Killdee drew his rough shirt together at the neck and buttoned it across his throat. He peered into the colorless, blurred distance. There was something troubling about it. Bare tree-tops hid wicked streams that tore at things to destroy them.

Where was Son? Son knew that swamp too well to risk it now. Killdee wanted to shout and shake those dull clouds. To make those quiet tree-tops rustle. He drew in a full breath and forced it out with all the power of his lungs.

The clouds hung still. The tree-tops did not move. Only the heavy silence was stirred. A deep echo came back to meet his cry and two voices seemed to meet. Something within his breast moved with hope and courage. If Son was down there in trouble, he’d hear that call and take heart and fight his way back home.

Something more than an echo answered. What? A faint yelping. A weak whining. Could Son make a puny yapping like that? It was almost like a fox bark.

Killdee strained his ears to hear. Yes, it was a dog calling for help. Somebody’s dog. Maybe it was Son!

Killdee whistled and called and encouraged, then listened again. The sound was nearer, but still uncertain--then a sharp outcry came. And silence.

Killdee plunged down the hill in the direction of the cry. Through tangled vines and low-growing bushes he went following the bank of the foamy, trashy river, but there was nothing to be seen of Son.

He climbed slowly back up the hill and went home to Rose and the children.

It was night when a scratching at the door made him get up and take down the bar. Biting, cold rain rushed in and hurried Son with it. Wet, shivering, dirty with mud and blood, Son limped toward the fire on three legs. Red drops spattered on the floor, for the fourth leg, a front one, was gone, nipped off close to his body.

“My Gawd, Son,” Killdee whispered, “who dat done you so!”

Then he knew. A trap. Nothing but cold, hard steel could cut Son’s bones and meat like that. Son had gone looking for food. For meat. The trap treated all alike. Possums. Coons. Dogs. Son’s leg was too thin to stand the pinch of it. It came off. Poor Son! Down in the swamp hunting something to eat. To eat!

Son might be wrong to scratch fleas and get mange, and to go fighting dogs for a mate, but Son couldn’t help being hungry. He wasn’t to blame because he wanted a taste of meat.

Son’s hide was no good to anybody, but the trap didn’t care. It caught anything that came in reach of it. Anything.

“You gwine tie em up wid clot’, or le’ em stay so ’e kin lick em?” Rose asked.

Killdee did not answer. He took Son in his arms and held him close to the fire. The poor stub trembled and bled.

Light, flickering flames gave out little warmth. Their yellow fluttering mocked. With an impatient kick, Killdee shoved the logs further back into the chimney. A shower of sparks crackled and flared.

“Son--Son----” It was all Killdee could say. The pain in his breast hurt him through.

What was the use of anything? Something always gets you. Son never harmed anybody. Never! He did his duty the best he knew how.

Fleas wouldn’t let him rest. They made him scratch. His own claws tore holes in his hide and let mange get in.

Son would have stayed around home at night too, but some bitch was always calling him to come breed his kind. Son had to go. Something inside him drove him. Son had sense. He knew he would meet other dogs there. But he couldn’t help taking the risk of being beat.

Son needed meat. His appetite stung him. He was too old to catch rabbits. The bait in the traps was his best chance. Son thought so. Son didn’t know traps were jealous of dogs the same as of possums or coons. Son was too suspectless.

Now his front leg was gone. Cut off. Some possum had gnawed it by now.

It wasn’t good to trust anything. No. Not anything. There was no escape. Some day, Son, he too, would lie still with a mouth full of dirt. Yes, dirt.

_A Sunday_

Sunday morning was the one day in the week when everybody on the plantation could sleep as late as they liked.

The front room of Killdee’s cabin was dim and gray in the early dawn. Gray, like the oak ashes banked over last night’s fire in the wide, open fireplace. Gray, like the wisp of smoke that struggled feebly through them to rise out of the wide open chimney.

The corners of the room were still dark. The night seemed to linger, too deep-dyed to be overcome by the weak light of the fog-veiled morning. The wavy mirror in the new bureau made the one bright spot in the room.

Fresh newspapers, cut into fringes and hung on wires, stretched across the ceiling, fluttered uneasily in the damp breeze that slipped in through the two small, square, open windows.

The window blinds were made of rough boards. One was propped back and held against the side of the cabin by poles. It didn’t fit the window, for it was warped and crooked from the weather. On blustery nights it creaked on its rusty hinges. Teased them. Pestered them. Threatened to break them. It couldn’t. Those hinges were strong. Hand-wrought. The big nails that held them to the solid window facing were deep in the wood. Hard to break or pull out.

That window blind’s creaking often woke Killdee and made him restless, but it was easier to leave it on than to take it off. The head of the bed was opposite the windows. The gray light fell on its bright, turkey-red and white cover, and on the two black heads resting there on the white pillow.

One head lay still. Heavy, open-mouthed, snoring. The other moved tetchily whenever the window blind creaked.

Habit was too strong for Killdee. He could never sleep late on Sunday mornings. He woke at daylight, the same as on week days. He always tried hard to lie still, to go back to sleep, to stay in bed until Rose woke and got up to fix breakfast. But every Sunday it was the same old thing. He’d move his body and turn over and try to wait. He’d think over everything he ever knew in his life. Then finally, utterly worn out with trying, he’d get up, stir the coals in the fireplace, start the fire going, and dress. It was the same thing every Sunday.

This morning he tried hard to wait for Rose to wake. He settled his head on the pillow again and again and tried to lie still.

Then his long black arms just would stretch out from under the quilt. He gave a wide-mouthed yawn, a shiver, and a sudden snuggle back down under the covers. The early morning air was damp. Chilly.

He wished it was Monday morning. Then he’d be up getting to work. He liked his work better than anything else. Planning it. Watching things grow and bear and ripen under his hand. That was what he liked. Work.

Already the land was plowed and ready for planting. Everything was waiting for the weather to turn warmer, when he’d plant the cotton.

Sundays were a nuisance. He was always glad when they were over.

The other Negroes looked forward to them. Rose did. She liked to dress up and go to church. To sit high up in front and sing in the choir.

He looked at the back of her head, there close to his face. What a funny smell it had lately! Rose was using some sort of stuff to take the kink out of her hair. A funny thing to start doing at her age. Why did she want straight hair? She was married. He was satisfied with her hair as it was.

He really liked the natural hair better. Straightened hair had a stiff, queer look. He liked the older women with their heads tied in pretty, bright head-kerchiefs. Rose didn’t. She wanted to be stylish. Stylish. He smiled at the word, then frowned as he thought. Reverend Felder was stylish.

Women are funny things. All of them. Like children. Men have to humor them. He hadn’t always humored Rose, but since he had begun doing so, these last few years, things had gone better with them.

He rose up and sat on the side of the bed, making it creak. He rubbed his lean, black face all over with his hard hands. He scratched his woolly head and yawned again. Then got to his feet and walked slowly to the front door, and took down the wooden bar that held it shut.

He looked out at the big trees in the woods near by. Cedars, oaks, sycamores, were all strangely magnified by the mist. They seemed to be brought near to him. Even the crape-myrtle and china-berry trees in the yard seemed bigger and closer.

“It’ll clear off befo’ twelve to-day,” Killdee muttered to himself. He turned to the hearth and stooped and stirred in the ashes, uncovering the coals that still lived there.

A quick pattering of light feet sounded. A sniffling. A glad whine. Son. The little three-legged cur ran in through the open door. With a great wagging of his tail and wriggling of his lean body, and a licking at Killdee’s bare feet and hands and face and neck, the dog expressed the greetings of the morning.

Killdee patted the yellow body gently a few times, then said a gruff “Git on off wid you, now. Lemme mek up dis fire.”

The dog ran under the bed and lay down. He scratched and licked and snapped at fleas, while Killdee added kindling and pieces of wood to the coals.

Bright blazes flamed up. Killdee watched them leap through the wood. The draught moving steadily up the chimney drew the chill damp air in through the door. Killdee got up and closed it. He put the wooden bar in its place, and with a slight shudder, crawled back into bed beside Rose.

How warm she was! He got closer, but she moved away when he touched her.

Under the bed the little dog was snoring, snoring, and Rose breathed heavily too. Killdee, alone, was awake. Awake and restless. Hungry, too. Rose would be cross if he woke her.