Part 10

Carmelite came back with the Jacob-ladder quilt and spread it over a chair for examination. The women commented on the bright colors, and admired the beauty of the pattern, and praised Carmelite for the fine work she had done. Carmelite thanked them for coming, and told them she wanted everybody to have a good time.

“How long y’all expec’in to stay hyuh?” Duckery asked with playful impatience. “You goin’ stay hyuh all night an’ cackle like a passul o’ guinea-hens?... Done forgot ’bout Tempe waitin’ for y’all to do some singin’ ove’ ’uh, yonder to de church?... Y’all better git started an’ do w’at you wan’ do; if you wan’ git finish an’ go to inny wake tonight.”

“Das jus’ w’at I say, Duckery. You sho right,” Soongy agreed. “W’at Carmelite waitin’ for, innyway? Maybe de bad weather keepin’ de members from comin’.... Look to me like dey got enough hyuh already to go ’head wid de intuhprize.... Evvybody w’at done took a chance on de quilt ain’ got to be hyuh to see de thing go thoo, is dey?”

No. They didn’t have to wait any longer; Carmelite answered. She would start things going right away. Calling to Dink, she told him to make music on the comb so all would be lively. He began playing a merry time, and the spirit of cheer and good fellowship went floating about the room.

Carmelite took from the table a cardboard shoe box containing the blanks and numbered slips for the raffle, and asked Duckery if he would call out the numbers. He put the numbered slips in his hat and the blanks in Bennee’s hat; and after clapping his hands for attention, he said:

“If dey got innybody hyuh ain’t picked a number for dis raffle, dey better come on now an’ choose; so we kin put ’um all in de hat together, an’ leave Bennee commence shakin’ ’um up. ’Cause you know dis thing gotta go thoo straight like a lotry.... Square deal to evvybody, ’dout inny prefyun.” (Preference.)

Each member present had a number; and Carmelite had the list with their names “marked-up on de paper.” They were all sure that the drawing would be fair and square. Duckery would call the numbers and Bennee would handle the blanks.

Dink’s harmonious comb was playing a pleasant obligato as the drawing began, and all eyes were looking on with eager expectation.

“Number foteen!” Duckery called out, taking the slip from the hat with a flourish.

“Nothin’ ain’ wrote on dis’n,” Bennee informed him, unfolding the blank and examining it on both sides.

Duckery looked at him with an ominous scowl, exclaiming:

“Ole country nigger, ain’t you never took part in a raffle befo’?... Dat ain’ de way you gotta call back to me w’en I calls out de number.... If dey ain’ got nothin’ on de paper, all you gotta say to me is _Blank_.... ’Till you picks out de paper got _Prize_ marked-up on it.... Now go ’head, an’ do de thing right.... An’ lissen good so you kin un’stan’ de numbers w’en I calls ’um.”

“Da’s right, Duckery,” came Carmelite’s earnest approval. “You make dis thing go thoo straight. ’Cause I don’ wan’ have none y’all niggers say I had dese numbers fixed-up befo’ han’. An’ say I robbed ’um out a dime, ’cause dey ain’ had de luck to win de quilt.”

“I know you ain’ talkin’ to me,” she heard Scilla’s sharp staccato call out. “I know I ain’ goin’ bother my good self ’bout raisin’ no trouble over one li’l ole dry dime I done paid out on any quilt.”

“Number nine,” Duckery called in a loud voice.

“Dis’n blank, too,” Bennee answered innocently.

Duckery rolled his eyes and glared at him intently, while everybody laughed at Bennee’s forgetfulness.

“Number fifty-two,” Duckery called, fixing his gaze sternly on Bennee.

“Blank,” Bennee answered with a pleased grin; satisfied that he was learning the intricacies of the game.

“Number nineteen,” Duckery called gaily; seeing Mozella looking at him with keen anticipation.

“Blank,” came Bennee’s announcement.

“Law ...d!” reverberated Mozella’s exclamation of disappointment. “I sho thought my number nineteen was goin’ bring me good luck.... Da’s de number o’ de day my sister baby was bawn.... An’ bawn wid one teeth in de front ’is mouth, too.”

“O g’way from hyuh, gal,” scoffed Keziah, giving Mozella a playful push. “Ugly an’ ill-formed as yo’ sister baby is,—’tain no wonder yo’ li’l dime done went astray.”

Much displeased at being interrupted by the laughter that followed Keziah’s comment, Duckery looked at the women and shouted crossly:

“Quit y’all wranglin’, for Gawd sake! An’ lemme git thoo playin’ wid dis hat-full o’ papers.... You think I wan’ stay hyuh all night?”

The commanding tone of his voice and the spectacular batting of his eyelids brought immediate silence. Whereupon he called out vehemently:

“Number twenny-two!”

“Twenny-two blank like de yuther one,” Bennee answered with a tone of apparent surprise.

“You already done forgot w’at I tol’ you?” Duckery grumbled, fixing him with a menacing stare, before taking another slip from the hat.

“Number ninety-nine,” he boomed, looking at Bennee steadily.

“Dis’n ain’ blank!” Bennee called out joyfully. “Dis’n got somh’n wrote ’cross it, diffunt from all de yuther ones.”

“Number ninety-nine de prize!” Broke forth the excited chorus of soprano voices.... “Who number ninety-nine is, Carmelite?” they questioned. “Ninety-nine done win de quilt.... Innybody hyuh got ninety-nine for dey number?” They babbled. “Who ever ’tis picked ninety-nine for dey number, sho is lucky. Ain’t dey?” The comment went on; until Carmelite brought the list of names and looked to see whose name was written after the winning number.

“Lawd, people!” She exclaimed with delight. “Aun’ Fisky de one done win de quilt.... An’ I ain’ sorry, either. Bad as she needin’ cov’rins w’en de col’ weather come up on ’uh.”

“Some people sho is lucky,” declared Lethe.

“Not me,” Frozine informed her. “I ain’ never win nothin’ in my whole life.... An’ hyuh I comed thoo all dis mud an’ rain to witness Carmelite fine Jacob-ladder quilt go ’way from hyuh to lay ’cross somebody else bed.... Umph!”

“Who?” commented Pinkey, sympathetically. “You ain’ need to grumble.... De onles’ thing I ever win, was a li’l can o’ cundense milk one time.... Sho’ ’nough. No playin’,” she went on, trying to convince them in spite of their laughter “’Twus to a singin’ cawntes’ at de Red Bean Row, yonder in Freetown.... An’ w’en I got home an’ went to open de cundense milk; de thing had done turn so sour, I was compel to th’ow it away.”

Becoming impatient over the long delay and the amusing gossip of the women, Duckery asked them:

“Y’all goin’ stay hyuh an’ talk all night ’bout bad luck; an’ tell each-another ’bout all de things you done los’?... If evvything done finish, I’m goin’ th’ow dese papers out my hat an’ go ’way from hyuh.”

Carmelite took his hat and told him to wait. She had a little surprise for everybody. She had a nice cake she made for the occasion, and she wanted each one to have a piece of cake and some coffee “to console dey feelin’s for not winnin’ de quilt.” Then afterwards, they could all go to the wake together.

The announcement brought a smile to every face. Dink began playing on the comb with renewed animation; and the room buzzed with merry laughter and friendly chatter as Carmelite went back to get the refreshments.

Going into the kitchen in a happy frame of mind, she called to Gussie cheerfully:

“Who you reckon had de lucky number to win de quilt, Gussie?”

There was no response to her question. Gussie was sound asleep in his chair beside the stove. She decided that it was best not to wake him until after the refreshments were served. Then when everybody was ready to leave, she would call him and give him the quilt to take home to Aunt Fisky.

Carmelite took a knife from the safe drawer and tiptoed over to the table to cut the cake. The plate was empty. Nothing on it but a few scattered crumbs to tell that just a short while before it held a splendid duck-egg cake.

Could she believe her eyes? There was only one person to suspect, she told herself. And that person was Gussie. Nobody else had been in the kitchen since the cake was put on the table to cool.... To think he would do a mean, deceitful trick like that, after she was kind enough to let him come in out of the rain and sit by her stove to get dry.... And not a single piece left to offer her friends, after she just got through telling them about her good, rich duck-egg cake!... What would they think of her?

With a sudden resolve, she hurried over to Gussie and grabbed him by the shoulders with both hands.

“Wake up hyuh! You nasty, low-down rogue.... Befo’ I pound you ’bout de head wid a billet o’ wood!” She muttered with restrained passion, shaking him roughly. “W’at you mean, prowlin’ ’round my kitchen an’ puttin’ yo’ filt’y han’s on things w’at ain’ b’lonks to you?... Wake up an’ git out o’ hyuh, I tell you!”

Gussie opened his eyes and looked at her half dazed; wondering who she was, and what the rough treatment meant. His mind was not clear and he seemed uncertain of his whereabouts.

“Don’t you hyeah w’at I say?” Carmelite shouted, trying to pull him off the chair.

“Don’ play so rough,” Gussie pleaded, struggling to free himself. “I ain’ goin’ bother nobody, settin’ hyuh by de stove till I git dry.”

“You mus’ be a drunken fool!” Carmelite answered hotly. “After you done et up all my good cake,—thinkin’ I’m goin’ leave you stay hyuh comfatubble; an’ I gotta go younder befo’ all dem people in de room, wid a empty plate?... No’n deed, Lawd!” She vociferated, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching. “So you better come on an’ git off dis chair befo’ I make dem mens drag yo’ nasty body thoo dis house an’ th’ow you in de street unmerciful!... You hyeah?”

Soongy and Pinkey stood in the door looking on in blank amazement, wondering what the difficulty was, and asking how Gussie happened to come in without anybody seeing him.

Carmelite gave a dramatic recital of Gussie’s early arrival, his wretched condition, and her willingness to give him shelter on account of her pity for Aunt Fisky. She told how he promised to stay out of the room until after the raffle was over; how she came out to tell him that his number had won the quilt; how she went to cut the cake and made the startling discovery that Gussie had eaten all of it, leaving her nothing to offer her friends except “a pot full o’ black coffee an’ plain cistun water to drink widout nothin’ to eat.”

There was only one thing to do, Soongy declared emphatically. Carmelite was too foolish, wasting time multiplying words over ole no-count Gussie.... Nobody could do her a dirty trick like that and sit to his ease in front of her stove.... Who?... Talkin’ about it wouldn’t do no good.... “_Hands_ was de inst’uments to start things movin’.” ... If one woman’s pair of hands couldn’t manage ole drunken Gussie, she bet three “wimmin’s six black hands wouldn’ miss takin’ charge of him to land him out-doors in de high road whah he could scuffle wid his cawnshunce aft’ he done come thoo.”

Gussie looked from one to the other, uneasily; as though he were trying to assure himself what the commotion was about.

“Ain’t no need to look so pityful, an’ try an’ say you ain’ did nothin,” Pinkey told him, going over to his chair and seeming to adjust herself for the coming exertion. “Yo’ time done come to vacate dis kitchen,” she went on with assumed authority. “An’ Pinkey Clay right hyuh to tussle wid you.... Come on, Soongy,” she commanded. “You grab hold ’is laigs to keep ’im from kickin’.... An’ you git to de middle, Carm’lite, to keep ’im from bendin’-in.... An’ I know w’en Pinkey Clay two han’s git fasten ’round ’is th’oat, he sho goin’ keep still.... An’ I _dare_ ’im to w’imper!... Come on, ole slow niggers,—git yo position!” She called with impatience, determined to carry out her strategy without further delay.

After a few seconds of strenuous tugging and lifting, the unresisting, half-bewildered Gussie was being hurried towards the front door in haughty triumph. As they passed through the front room, the surprised members, thinking the unique spectacle was a feature of amusement provided for their entertainment, greeted the procession with peals of laughter and great excitement.

Who could it be?... The thing looked too heavy to be a stuffed man, because all the women were bending.... Maybe it was a robber, Carmelite found in her house.... What made them want to carry the man out-doors?... Suppose somebody dropped dead in Carmelite’s kitchen?...

So the riot of question and comment continued until the three women came back, after having abruptly deposited their obnoxious burden on the muddy road, a short distance from the house, “to go hunt sattafaction whah-ever he wan’ look for it.”

“W’at you goin’ do if Gussie come back?” Bennee inquired, when Carmelite had finished giving a graphic account of the mysterious proceeding; every minor detail stressed with elocutionary fervor for their sympathetic understanding.

Gussie knew better than to come back, she informed them. ’Specially after the way all their three pair of hands had worked on him.... Gussie wasn’t goin’ consider comin’ back, now that the rain done stopped, and he was out-doors where he could realize that he wasn’t cripple complete, to hinder him from keepin’ on goin’.

“But leave ole Gussie in Gawd han’s,” Carmelite concluded with willing resignation. “An’ all y’all members come wid me to de kitchen an’ drink some coffee; so we kin hurry ’way from hyuh an’ go yonder to Tempe wake.”

Eager to dispense with any mention of Gussie for the time being, and wanting her friends to enjoy what remained of the hospitality planned for them, Carmelite hurried them to the kitchen and began serving coffee; laughing good-naturedly as she made amusing apologies for the “skimpy li’l refreshnin’ foods;” thanking them for “helpin’ her out so nice”; and drinking with everyone to the “big success” of the raffle.

When Gussie recovered from his dull bewilderment and found himself out on the street, alone in the mud and darkness; he tried to collect his wits and see if he could explain what everything was about. He remembered his long walk in the storm down to the old man Hooblitz’s place at the edge of the woods; recalling more vividly than anything else, the unfriendly greeting of the old man, his cross ugly humor, and the mean way that old Hooblitz hurried him out into the driving rain.

He also had a faint remembrance of a welcome drink with Chicken-Volsin, somewhere along the road. But it was somewhat hazy. Not near as clear as the recollection of himself hurrying on through the rain to see about winning the quilt at Carmelite’s raffle, so he could take it home to Aunt Fisky and make the old lady feel pleased.

Then he remembered Carmelite’s kitchen, and the nice warm fire in the stove; and how good he felt when his clothes began to get dry; and the good cup of hot coffee Carmelite gave him just before he fell asleep. But after that, he could recall nothing more until the time he woke up and found Carmelite shaking him and calling him names, and talking so loud that Pinkey and Soongy came out and pitched into him, before he could get his right presence of mind and keep them from over-coming him, the same as if he was chillun.

Why they carried him out-doors and dumped him in the street, he couldn’t understand to save his soul. Carmelite must have some grudge against him, and was mad because he came to the raffle. She didn’t want him to win the quilt; and that’s the way she fixed it up to git rid of him. But didn’t he have as much right to be there as anybody else? Wasn’t his dime just as good as anybody else’s money?... But maybe it was a good thing. He had no business going. It served him right,—running with niggers all the time and expecting them to treat him like their own kind.... But old man Hooblitz was _white_. Look how _he_ treated him?... What difference did it make after all? White or colored,—nobody gave a damn for him. All Gritny knew who Gussie Fisky was; but that didn’t make them act no kinder, and try to show him how to better his poor condition....

Suddenly realizing that his troubled meditation was growing into a feeling of stupid self-pity and morbid resentment, he looked up nervously at the few faint glimmering stars in the murky sky, wondering where he would go to rid himself of his unhappy mood and forget his utter loneliness.

Remembering Tempe’s wake, he started off down the quiet street to the New Hope church. He went stumbling along aimlessly over the muddy street-crossings and puddles of water on the low uneven banquettes, not caring whether the road was wet or dry, or how splashed and bedraggled his clothes became.

When he reached the church corner he was greeted by the blinking lights from the church windows and the wistful singing of the members inside; and the thought of human contact, however casual or momentary it might be, caused him to smile and hurry on; knowing how glad he would be to hear the sound of some friendly voice and feel the warm touch of a sympathetic hand.

As he started up the rickety steps of the church, he stopped half way to listen to the wave of melancholy song that came flowing out into the darkness. It made him shiver with a strange feeling of sadness as he caught a few words of the mournful wail and thought of their portentous meaning....

“Death’s goin’-a lay his cold, icy han’ on me....”

He heard their full rich voices repeat the somber message over and over. The slow, majestic movement of the chant rising and surging over them like a flood of melody, lifting their emotional souls to heights of poignant ecstasy.

But what made them keep on telling Tempe about what Death was going to do? Gussie asked himself; deliberating whether he would go in or wait until the song was finished.

Tempe didn’t need to know anything more about Death.... Tempe was sitting up in the house of death now. And she could tell a heap more about what was going on yonder than anybody sitting up in the church, singing about it.... But maybe they were trying to tell their own self something about Death.... The way Death was going to come up on them when their time came for crossing over....

“Hell! I don’ feel like goin’ up in yonder an’ lissen at dat kind o’ thing,” he suddenly concluded. “I’m goin’ set hyuh on de step till dey raise some yuther ballet mo’ sattafyin’ to de feelin’s,” he went on, looking about for a dry spot to sit down. “Dey oughta try an’ sing somh’n mo’ pleasin’ over Tempe. ’Stead o’ keep tellin’ ’uh w’at Death goin’ do; after Gawd done seen fit to snatch ’uh away from hyuh so haphazzud.”

After a while the melodious flowing wave began to recede; growing fainter and fainter, until the subdued lament faded away into a low murmuring hum. It was soothing and pleasant, Gussie thought; and he sat listening indolently.

Very soon he heard the velvety sound of a woman’s vibrant contralto voice intone a line of another ballet. One by one the members took up the somber burden, proclaiming the simple words with full-voiced exultation.

Getting up to go in, Gussie stopped suddenly, as the last lines came to him....

“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass, An’ die an’ go to Hell at las’....”

The singing irritated him. It made him uncomfortable to think of the unwelcome message. Why did it disturb him, he asked himself. Was it the slow, sad minor tune? Or the cold, direct words of the song?

“Great Gawd A’mighty!” He said to himself, starting to go down the steps. “If da’s de onles’ kind o’ singin’ dey goin’ do hyuh tonight; ’tain no pleasure for me to linger hyuh.... Shucks! I’m goin’ yonder ’cross de Green an’ lay down an’ sleep.”

Trying to forget his disappointment, he began to whistle a cheerful tune and started down the street in the direction of the East Green. The rain was over, but the air was damp and chilly; and long fringes of clouds were passing across the moon in slow-moving rifts. The houses along the road were all closed, and everything was dark and still.

What would he tell Aunt Fisky about the quilt, he asked himself. Poor old soul;—he sho counted on bringing it home to her for a nice surprise.... Look like out of five chances, one number sho oughta made him win the thing.... Maybe Carmelite didn’t pick him five numbers for the four-bits he gave her.... And Aunt Fisky needed a good warm quilt, too.... And needed it more than anybody they had sittin’ up in Carmelite’s house....

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bell floating across the Green, not very far away. Looking up, he saw the reflection of a head-light on the switch engine coming towards him.

“Mus’ be close on to twelve o’clock,” he remarked casually. “Da’s ’bout de time dat switchin’ engine come up hyuh evvy night to pull freight off Morgan W’arf.... Lemme hurry up; an’ I kin see my way thoo de mud, clean home, w’ile dat light shinin’ ’cross de Green. ’Cause dat ole crawfish pon’ sho is a nasty place for mud an’ slush, aft’ a hard rain like we bin had tonight.... Ole switch engine, you sho struck it right for Gussie dis time....” He went on talking aloud; quickening his pace in order to get over the track before the engine reached him.

Hurrying on, he looked again to see how far away the engine was.... He could make it across the track easy enough.... The engine wasn’t moving very fast.... A few steps more, and he would be over the switch before the engine reached the corner.

The reflection from the head-light showed nearly half-way across the Green. He could see the water from the duck pond all over the road, clean up to the front gate of his house. He recognized the old house by the thin little piece of light he saw blinking through the leaves of the castor oil bushes growing by the window.... Aunt Fisky must be up yet.... She didn’t leave no candle burning when she went to bed.... She couldn’t be sick?... Maybe she was waiting to see if he had the quilt.... Poor ole soul,—she sho would be sorry to know he didn’t win the thing....

Seeing the engine still a few feet away, he started to run; impatient to get over the track before the long line of box cars blocked the way and kept him waiting in the mud and dark. He felt confident that he would be able to clear the track with perfect safety, just as he had done it many a night.

But a sinister, opposing fate decreed that Gussie’s final hour had come. A secret snare lay in his path, half-buried in the hard, unyielding mud.

There it lay hidden in the dark, sticking up like a waiting noose to catch his hurrying foot: a treacherous loop of rusty wire discarded from a bale of hay, dropped on the road by a passing wagon; or thrown there by some careless hand,—how long ago, no one could tell.

A running jump, and he’d clear the track!... But tripping on the wire, he was thrown headlong across the rail; his unloved, unregarded body falling an instant victim to the murderous wheels of the heedless engine.

The morning after the raffle at Carmelite’s house, the East Green was in a veritable fever of excitement. Such a number of things had happened, it seemed that all the neighbors of the Green were out-of-doors discussing the strange events. Some amused, others genuinely distressed; all amazed and amazingly voluble.

Nobody appeared to be concerned about work. Women on their way to market stopped at front gates to laugh about the “upsetment” Gussie caused at the raffle. Some stood on street corners rehearsing the account of Tempe’s mysterious drowning in the well, and the new pleasure that awaited them at her approaching funeral. While others spoke in awed tones of the disorderly conduct of Gussie at Carmelite’s house, and the disastrous fate that followed him on his way home.