“Jackson don’t have no interest in me.”
“Then what?” Charlotte demanded.
Mary Louise looked at the old woman, and for the first time in her life she felt afraid of her. She had been around Charlotte ever since she could remember, and Charlotte had never spoken to her so roughly before.
“I guess it ain’ no business o’ mine,” she said. “Just like nothing else ’round here don’t seem to be no business o’ mine.”
She turned away, and Mary Louise saw her raise her hand up to her face. Mary Louise wanted to ask if anything was the matter, but remained silent. Charlotte passed her hand over her forehead and over her temples. When she brought her hand down to her lap, Mary Louise noticed her frowning as though she had a headache.
“Miss Charlotte?”
“I’m all right,” Charlotte said, and looked down the quarters. “Well, I better get ready for church.” She turned to Mary Louise again. “You going?” she asked.
“Yes’m,” Mary Louise said.
Charlotte got up to go inside. Mary Louise sat in the swing a few minutes longer, thinking that Jackson might come back out there. When he did not, she left the house.
She stopped just before going into her yard. Someone stood on Raoul Carmier’s front porch looking at her. At first she thought it was only a white dress hanging on the line, but after moving closer to the gate, she saw that it was Catherine.
I feel sorry for you, you fool, Mary Louise thought. He going back, and even if he wasn’t, it’d be just like the other one you had. He ain’t go’n never let you have nobody.
She went into the yard, leaving Catherine standing on the porch watching her. A few minutes later she returned with a flashlight. Charlotte met her at the gate, and they went down the quarters together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jackson and Madame Bayonne were sitting on the porch when Catherine and Lillian went past the house with the boy walking between them. Catherine spoke to Madame Bayonne and Madame Bayonne waved back at her. Both she and Jackson watched them go down the quarters.
It was a nice afternoon with flakes of cloud hiding the sun. A little wind had tried to stir a couple of times, but each time it lasted only a moment, then passed away again. Jackson sat on the floor with his back against a post, watching Madame Bayonne shell a pan of dry beans. Two sacks were on the floor next to her chair—one with unshelled beans, the other with beans that had already been shelled. Jackson liked watching the smooth, easy movements of Madame Bayonne’s fingers as they split open and ran through each pod.
“Why didn’t she speak to you?” Madame Bayonne asked. “I’m sure she saw you there.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?” she asked, looking down at him.
“I don’t.”
“What happened, Jackson?”
“No idea.”
“She spoke to you the first day you came—you all talked the first day you came. You said so yourself.”
“We did.”
“Then why not today?”
“Maybe she didn’t see me,” he said, smiling.
“Sure,” Madame Bayonne said.
She looked at him long enough to shred two pods of beans and drop the empty shells on the floor; then she looked in the direction that Catherine had gone.
“She doesn’t usually walk down the quarters like this—especially with that child,” Madame Bayonne said. She turned to Jackson again. “I wonder who she’s interested in showing that child to.”
“Search me,” Jackson said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at Madame Bayonne. Each was playing cat and mouse with the other and both knew it. “Whose child is it?” he asked. Already he was afraid what the answer might be.
“Hers,” Madame Bayonne said, looking down at him and wondering what it was between him and Catherine. No, not what it was; she knew what it was. It had always been there. Catherine had a red coat then and a long braid of black hair that hung down her back like a twisted rope. And he had a leather coat then and one of those little caps with the flaps on either side to cover his ears when it was cold. So she knew what it was all the time. Now she wondered when and how they had gotten the chance to be alone.
Jackson glanced in the direction that Catherine had gone, but he could not see her for the flowers and trees in the yard. He looked at Madame Bayonne again—casually; he did not want her to see what was in his face. But she knew what would be there even before he looked at her.
“She’s not married,” she said. “No; he ran the boy away before he had a chance to marry her.”
She watched his face, waiting to see what, if any, change it would take. He became angry, tried to check himself, but was unable to do so. I see, she thought. I see. So that’s it, huh?
He lowered his head and Madame Bayonne looked away.
“From the day he found out that Della’s second child was not his, Catherine has been the only person in the world to mean anything to him,” Madame Bayonne said. “Della is no more than a servant around that house, and that other one doesn’t mean anything to him at all. I suppose it was wrong from the beginning. Della had no more business marrying Raoul than I would have marrying him. She’s nothing like Raoul, and she’s nothing like his people. Their color? Yes, their color. But color is only skin deep, and below that Della is as much Negro as you or I. Raoul is not. No, he’s not white either. He hates one as much as he does the other. But his idea—his idea of what things are about as opposed to her idea—is what I mean. Do you see?”
He was looking at her now. He did not answer, but he thought he understood what she was getting at.
“They are an antithesis—at opposite poles. No, not color. Wipe color out of your mind. Color will be forgotten—eventually. The idea, the idea …”
He nodded—not really a nod, but a motion almost infinitesimal, to assure her he understood.
“Della was happy when she first came up to that house. She was happy in the way that only a few people can be happy. There was no fear of anything; she had a decent word to say to anyone who went by that house. Not only a few people, but many, many have stood in front of that gate talking to her. She could lean on that gate talking for hours on end.
“Then it all stopped. It stopped without warning. One day she was talking to you, the other day she was not. Everyone knew what had caused the change—Raoul; and everyone accepted it. Only she could not. For a while—yes; then it started again. Only this time it was with one person, and this time it was at night.”
She looked at him.
“I know what you’re thinking. She was wrong. Yes, she was wrong. But it was not then that she was wrong. She was wrong when she came to that house. It was wrong when she said ‘I do,’ when all the time she should have been saying ‘I don’t.’
“So she went to him—the other one. And if God knows what she saw in that nigger, I don’t know. I’m sure if she had picked up a chunk of wood and thrown it over her shoulder at random, anything she would have hit would have been a hundred times better than Bayou Water. If he wasn’t the most trifling thing that God ever put on earth, he was next to it. And he proved it as soon as he found out she was pregnant. I doubt if she was through getting the words out of her mouth before he was packing the handbag and getting away from here.
“Della did not want Bayou Water. She did not love Bayou Water. But she needed Bayou Water. Not necessarily Bayou Water, but someone. Though Raoul had made her stop leaning on that gate, he did not think one moment about staying there and being with her himself.”
Madame Bayonne was silent a moment before continuing.
“Raoul has been Della’s husband only by law. Other than that, it’s been the land. Not Della he loved when he married her—the land. Della was brought there to cook his food, to bear his children, to see that his clothes were kept half clean.… Why the land, you ask? Why the land? It happened long before Raoul was born. Probably his great-grandfather was the first one to find out that though he was as white as any wh
ite man, he still had a drop of Negro blood in him, and because of that single drop of blood, it would be impossible to ever compete side by side with the white man. So he went to the land—away from the white man, away from the black man as well. The white man refused to let him compete with him, and he in turn refused to lower himself to the black man’s level. So it was to the land where he would not have to compete—at least side by side—with either. He was taught to get everything from the land, which he did, and which he, through necessity, was taught to love and to depend upon. His love for his land, his hatred for the white man, the contempt with which he looks upon the black man has passed from one generation to the other. Robert brought it here, and you see it in Raoul.
“Raoul did not choose his position. He did not choose that house up there behind those oak and pecan trees. He is only carrying out something that was cut out for him in the beginning. He has no control over it. He was not put there by Robert, nor his grandfather. He was put there by the white and the black man alike. The white man will not let Raoul compete with him because of that drop of Negro blood, and at the same time he has put the Negro in such a position that Raoul would rather die than compete with him. So it is Raoul alone—Raoul and his land, his field. Pass me that sack, will you?”
He held the sack open for her. She poured the shelled beans into the sack. Then he refilled the pan with beans from the other sack, and moved back against the post again.
“No; Della was for convenience sake. To look after the house, to bear his children, and other than that—nothing. But that was not enough for Della. She could not shut herself away from the world. She had that single drop of blood in her just as he had, but she was taught from the beginning the direction that she would have to take. By the time she came here, she had accepted that direction—fate, if you’d rather call it fate.
“The first child, as you know, was Catherine—his. But he and everyone else knew that the second one was not. And from the moment he found this out, Catherine has been the only person in the world to mean anything to him. There’s no one else. There can’t ever be anyone else.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“His people took that other gal away from there when she was small, and when they were sure she was his. But he would not let Catherine out of his sight. She went to school in that church up there until she finished the eighth grade, and that was all the schooling she got. Every now and then he would let her go to New Orleans, Baton Rouge, or visit some of her people in Bayonne; but other than that—nothing. And no one comes there to visit him. No relatives—and a boy is plumb out of the question. He feels that the boy might get her to leave, and when and if this happens, that will be the end of him.
“If that boy had been his, it would have made all the difference in the world. With people like Raoul, more so than with others, a son is the most important thing in his life. He’s a loner from the beginning—but that son would be there to stand beside him. That son would be there to lessen this load of loneliness. He would be there to continue whatever he had started and was unable to finish. But this was not his son—this boy was black. And instead of lessening this load, the presence of the boy increased the burden.
“So he went to Catherine. She was to be victim now, cross-carrier now, as long as he was alive. If she goes for a visit, she must hurry back or he goes after her. When he’s sick, it must be her hand which puts the medicine in his mouth. You know this already, because he was sick once when you were here. He stayed on his back a whole month, and he kept her from school every day until he was up again. Sure, Della could have brought him the cough syrup or made the tea or broth—whatever was necessary. But, no, the boy was black. If he were white, it would have been the same. They have put her in this position—behind those trees—and nothing, hear me clearly, Jackson, nothing outside those trees is allowed in that yard.” She stopped, looked at him a moment, and went on. “Not too long ago—three years, I’d say—he hired a bunch of Creoles to help him get in his crop. Catherine fell in love with one of them and became pregnant. When the boy found out he came there for her. If that boy ever made a bigger mistake in his life, I’m sure he hasn’t made two. The only thing that kept Raoul from killing him was Della and Catherine getting in the way long enough for him to get out of that yard. He went back to Baton Rouge and wrote for Catherine to follow him. He wrote and wrote and wrote, but she would not go.”
Madame Bayonne stopped, and looked at Jackson a long moment. “Do you know why?”
He did not answer her. He was unable to answer her. She continued to look at him.
“She cannot leave that house, Jackson. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you? She cannot leave that house.”
It did not make any sense to him at all. Neither what she was saying, nor the way he was feeling. He did not care about antithesis at the house, but he did care about his feeling. He did not like the way he was feeling. He was feeling in a way that he had told himself he had no right to feel. To fall in love—not to fall in love—but to be in love with Catherine was impossible. He had other things to do. Love was for those who were ready to settle down, to accept what was handed out. He was not. And yet he had been feeling this way ever since he saw her. Something like an electric current had hit him the moment he laid eyes on Catherine. It was impossible to hide it, and at the same time he knew to feel this was insane.
“And you’re sure nothing happened?” Madame Bayonne asked, looking down at him.
“Nothing.”
“Think,” she said, continuing to look down at him. She knew all the time that something had happened. “Think hard. Maybe you all brushed against each other at the store. Maybe you touched her arm—accidentally. Maybe she just slightly stepped on your foot. Are you sure none of these things happened? It doesn’t take much, you know, to arouse an old flame. Did she see you and that other gal holding hands somewhere?”
He knew she was making fun of him now, and he neither looked at her, nor would he answer her.
“Pass me that sack,” she said.
He held the sack open for her and refilled the pan, but he did not raise his head. Farther up the quarters the first bell rang for church.
“A day, a day,” Madame Bayonne said. “They come and go faster now.”
“And I think I’ll be going,” Jackson said.
Madame Bayonne looked at him. “Leaving?” she said.
“Yes, I think so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When he came into the road, he saw Catherine, Lillian, and the child coming back up the quarters. He would have turned away without speaking, but they had already seen him.
He did not want to walk up the quarters with Catherine. He would not have minded going up there with Lillian—Lillian did not matter—but not with Catherine. But now what could he do? Turn his back and walk away? And what would they think of him? Maybe they would figure out his motive; maybe they would think he was afraid of what the people would say if they saw them together.
He watched them come closer. Catherine held onto one of the child’s hands; Lillian held onto the other. Nelson walked with his head down, dragging his foot in the dust. Just before they came up to the gate where he was, he heard Madame Bayonne calling his name. He went back into the yard.
Madame Bayonne looked down at him from her chair. Her hands continued to shred the beans, but her eyes were fixed on him. The eyes were telling him something, but he pretended not to understand.
“You have to go up there now?”
“They’re waiting for me.”
The eyes—those eyes which could look through you—were still fixed on him. They could say much more than the mouth ever could. He still pretended not to understand.
“A word to the wise—” she started, then stopped. “Don’t go behind those trees, Jackson. It won’t come to any good.”
But now he would go. Nothing would keep him from going now.
“You must prove you’re not afraid of him, huh?” Madame Ba
yonne said. “What about her? What about your aunt?”
He remained silent—standing there as though he was waiting to be dismissed. She understood.
“They’re waiting,” she said, jerking her head toward the gate.
He turned away. When he came into the road, he found them standing in front of the gate. He saw Catherine waving at Madame Bayonne; by the look in her face, he could tell that Madame Bayonne waved back at her. They started walking. He walked beside Lillian. He was closer to Lillian when he came out of the yard, but even if he had not been, he probably would have moved over to where she was.
“How did it go?” he said to Lillian.
“All right.”
“How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you since the first day you came.”
“Can’t complain,” Lillian said. “And yourself?”
“About the same.”
This was all they could think of to say. For the next few minutes, there was nothing but silence. Though Catherine and Lillian did not seem to mind the silence, he hated it very much. It made him feel foolish and uncomfortable.
To make matters worse, he saw that the people were watching them as they went farther up the quarters. From doors, from windows, from their porches, the people stared at them. Some of those who had been sitting in chairs and on the floor stood up to watch them go by.
“What have you been reading?” he asked Lillian. He did not care about Lillian’s reading, he wanted to break the silence.
Lillian started with Victor Hugo, whom she was reading at present, then she went to Dumas, whom she had read only recently. Dumas, like Pushkin, her favorite poet, was part Negro. Did Jackson know about that?
Yes, he did.
He had said yes as though he was waking out of a sleep. Maybe he was, because he had not heard half of what Lillian had said. All the time that Lillian was talking, he was thinking about Catherine on the other side of her. He was walking near the ditch with his head down, but each time he looked up, he had to look over to where she was. Once when he did so, she happened to be looking at him at the same time. His heart seemed to jump in his throat, and he turned his head away quickly.
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