Part 8

“Tempe got life-in-sho-ince, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla informed him. “One de wimmins foun’ de paper in Tempe berow draw. An’ dey done sont word ’cross de river to de Met-luh-policy man, to come see ’bout it befo’ dey take Tempe to de church.”

“Dat ain’ got nothin to do wid me,” Nat answered abruptly. “Dis Tempe mule you see hitched to dis harrow I’m fol’rin behin’ dis mawnin’. An’ de secon’ payment ain’ made yet; an’ de money still owin’ to ’uh. So Nat gotta go yonder to Gritny an’ do de right thing; an’ see dat Tempe laid away like people. Not dumped in a hole like no-count cattle.”

“Dey say dey lookin’ for de Met-luh-policy man to git dah ’bout twelve o’clock,” Scilla told him. “So Unc’ Nat, if you goin’ take charge de in-sho-ince money, you better go yonder soon’s you kin.”

Nat looked at her with a scowl of annoyance.

“Gal, stop tellin’ me ’bout de Met-luh-policy man,” he told her, sharply. “I ain’ got no business wid none o’ Tempe in-sho-ince money. I’m goin’ yonder wid Nat’s money.... Money w’at b’lonks to Tempe, for dis mule you see stannin’ hyuh.... Money w’at goin’ puhvide de carriage for all dem niggers to ride in; an’ give Tempe a good-lookin’ funeyun like people.... Da’s w’at Nat goin’ for.”

“Well, I sho wan’ try be dah w’en you come, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “So come on, an’ gimme my vegetables, an’ lemme go yonder an’ sell ’um, an’ git thoo soon’s I kin.”

Scilla selected the vegetables she wanted, arranged them in her basket, gave Nat the money for them, and put the basket on her head and left. As soon as she had gone, Nat went back to his work.

“Come on hyuh, ole mule,” he called, taking up the reins from the harrow and giving the mule a light slap. “You gotta make quick tracks, an’ lemme git thoo dese las’ few rows. ’Cause I wan’ hurry yonder an’ take Tempe out de han’s o’ dem searchin’ niggers, befo’ night come.... Git up hyuh, now. An’ lemme see you move like you un’stan w’at you doin’; an’ got yo’ min’ on w’at Nat talkin’ ’bout.... You hyeah me?”

Carmelite had finished another patch-work master-piece,—a “Jacob ladder” pattern of many-colored gingham and calico scraps; and being in need of money, she was giving a “raffle meetin’” at her house. She said she was sure to “take up five dollars ’munks all de members w’at say dey was comin’.” Because cold weather was not very far off; and people never could have too many quilts. And ten cents a chance was so little, she knew none of the members would overlook the inducement. Besides, everybody was bound to have a good time at Carmelite’s raffle, “singin’ an’ jokin’ an’ drinkin’ coffee an’ eatin’ cake.” And rich cake, at that. The same kind Carmelite made for the white folks’ table.

Duck eggs always made a cake taste better, she declared with authority. They gave it such a fine yellow color; and kept it from looking like “cheap grocery-sto’ cake.” And Carmelite enjoyed hearing her friends talk about it; and liked to hear them “give ’uh de praise for ’uh cookin’.”

Nobody’s duck eggs were like Aunt Fisky’s. They were always so big and fresh. And Carmelite knew that she could get as many as she needed, in exchange for anything she had to offer. Aunt Fisky was too old to bend over and beat brick to sprinkle on her floor; and Gussie was so busy running around with the women, he never had time to stop and sit down and pound it for her. So a bucket full of brick dust was always a desirable article of barter. A bundle of fat pine splinters for lighting the fire was another thing to be desired; scarce as fat pine was most of the time. And a pan of Carmelite’s hot cornbread, almost as good as the cake she made, was a thing Aunt Fisky would accept gladly, in exchange for a half dozen duck eggs.

Having finished nearly all the preparations for the evening raffle, Carmelite wrapped a newspaper around a pan of hot cornbread just out of the oven, and started away, after the duck eggs for the cake she was going to make for her guests. She would hurry back, she told herself; and the cake would have time to get cool after she finished baking, and it would “cut nice” for the frolic.

Half way across the green she met Aunt Fisky, driving home her ducks from the pool of water near her house. It was a wide stretch of ground in the open green, where the earth had been dug away during high water time, and carried off and banked against a weak spot in the levee. Being near the river, the pool was always filled with water and crawfish; and it became a favorite resort of the ducks, geese and colored children of the neighborhood.

Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant smile, saying:

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.”

“Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered. “Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.”

“You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese days.... Dey sho is a fine flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?”

“Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer. You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um; dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um. An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.”

“You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically.

“I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’ my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since day-befo’-yistiddy.”

“Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired.

“No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’ miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether in hog lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet; so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.”

“Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked, laughing.

“No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to make.”

“But w’at good it ’tis, if you say it ain’ help you none?” Carmelite inquired.

“But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got come from de rheumatism.”

“Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested.

“Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks into the yard.

“Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,” said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.”

Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and guessing the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and told her to go in.

Carmelite laid the pan of cornbread on the table and sat down, looking about the room slowly. She was impressed with the clean, orderly poverty of its furnishing. Save for an old table and two chairs, the place was almost bare. Some iron pots on the hearth gave evidence that all the cooking was done in the open fireplace, on the level with the floor, and greatly in need of repairs.

Aunt Fisky drew a chair from the corner by the chimney and sat down. Carmelite looked at her without speaking, thinking of her tired old body and the weary expression on her kindly wrinkled old face. Her guinea-blue dress was patched in many places, but was clean and carefully ironed. Her head-handkerchief, once a bright piece of yellow-and-brown plaid gingham, now old and faded, was tied with care; the two tabs in front drooping over like a tired butterfly resting after a long flight.

“Daughter, I’m sho glad to set down,” Aunt Fisky sighed, after a brief silence. “I’m so played-out till I got de swimmin’ in de head.”

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ stummic mus’ be ain’ workin’ right,” Carmelite advised her again. “W’at make you don’ take a couple o’ dem pumma-crissul off de bush you got yonder, an’ eat ’um; an’ see if dey don’ help you? Dey sho is good w’en somh’n be wrong wid yo’ intwuds.” (Inwards.)

“Daughter, I know de things is good,” Aunt Fisky answered; fully mindful of Carmelite’s well-meant interest. “But I’m des natchally ’fraid to meddle wid ’um,” she continued. “Ever since ole Unc’ Jo Mingo died from eatin’ pumma-crissul seeds off de bush in ’is yard.... I don’ trus’ ’um. So I don’ wan’ tamper wid ’um.”

“But, Aun’ Fisky, ain’t you b’lieve greed’ness had a whole lot to do wid Unc’ Jo Mingo death?” Carmelite asked her. “It look to me like pumma-crissul kilt ’im ’cause he ain’ use no jedgment ’bout eatin’ ’um,” she went on. “Ain’ sattafy eating two or three seeds, w’en somebody tol’ ’im dey was good for certain sickness; had to keep on eatin’ ’um, aft’ he done found out he like de way dey tas’e; till he done et a _whole han’-full_.... ’Tain no wonder Unc’ Jo Mingo died. Wid all dat castor oil surgin’ up an’ down ’is body.”

But Aunt Fisky’s judgment was going to be her protection. She knew that palma Christi seeds were good medicine. She had heard the white folks talk about it, she told Carmelite. But she was afraid to meddle with them, and would rather use some remedy she knew better. Okra seed tea was just as good; and she would try a dose of that, if old Uncle Bendigo’s ointment didn’t bring relief after a few days more.

Carmelite advised her to be careful about what she ate; and seized the occasion to call her attention to the pan of corn-bread. Aunt Fisky got up and unwrapped the present; thanked Carmelite for her thoughtfulness, and asked her if she needed any eggs. Carmelite told her about the raffle she was giving; and said she wanted to bake a cake, and would take a half dozen duck eggs, if Aunt Fisky could spare them.

The old woman brought the eggs from the next room; and after turning the cornbread out on the table, she put the eggs in Carmelite’s pan, and sat down again for a chat.

“Do Gussie know anything ’bout de raffle at yo’ house to-night?” Aunt Fisky inquired.

Carmelite hesitated slightly, uncertain what to answer.

“Gussie ’tenshun don’ run to’ads quilts, Aun’ Fisky. An’ da’s de reason I ain’ say nothin’ to ’im,” she apologized. “An’ innyway, de raffle ain’ goin’ las’ long. ’Cause you know, evvybody goin’ straight from my house, yonder to Tempe wake at de New Hope church.... An’ I ’spec Gussie goin’ too.”

“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her. “Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my own color.”

“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.

“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’ ’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des look at you _hard_, an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”

Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets” (illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.

But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention. Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.

Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her comfort.

“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.

Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.

“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no _nigger_, like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a _w’ite_ man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”

Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden vehemence.

“Gussie ain’ _good_ as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n to play proud wid _you_, an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’ owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”

Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t recognize him.

“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,” Carmelite declared with positive conviction.

“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky assured her with simple loyalty.

“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.

Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand; she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind; when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite would see. Just wait.

“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for ’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’ Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the doorway, looking pensively across the green.

Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes. And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”

Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it could be worn.

Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she hurried along.

When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. Nookie recognized the voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear. She would walk right in.

Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board, pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from getting soiled.

Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison, tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.

Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet entrance. At length she exclaimed:

“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh? Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so haphazzud,—big as you is!”

Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room, laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over the petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said casually:

“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’ call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”

“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”

With calm politeness, Soongy said:

“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’ ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”

Nookie looked puzzled.

“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im stay in-do’s?”

“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp, play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp, wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l A-rabs from down de street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’ ’tall good to eat.”

Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter, when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard. And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up with your hands, and throw out on the bank.

Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked:

“Soongy, you say you don’ eat shoe-pick?”

“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”

“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a string.

He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy looked at him crossly, and shouted:

“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you speechless!... You hyeah me?”

Dink looked at her appealingly and left the room.

“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”

“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. “Dink got plenny time to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight ain’ come yet.”

Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in Dink’s behalf.

“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’ col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’ over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”

Soongy looked up from her ironing, and answered impatiently: