To Make My Bread

by Grace Lumpkin

  Bonnie, who was sitting near the boy who had caused the interruption, could not hear what the preacher continued to say, because of the whispering and laughter which did not quiet down very soon.

  However, at the end of the sermon many people went up to profess Jesus. They shook hands with the preacher and with Cyclone Carter and kneeled before the rostrum.

  At the end of the meeting Bonnie went out of the church alone and found John waiting for her. They walked along the streets toward the house where they lived.

  As they neared the mill Bonnie asked, “Was Ora still with her when you left?”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “Then let’s go down and talk to Granpap. He gets lonely by himself at night—he’s so new staying there.”

  “If you want,” John said quietly.

  They walked down a side street in the dark toward the back of the mill where Granpap guarded one of the gates.

  “I’m thinking of going to fight in this war,” John said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I want t’ see more than I see here.”

  “With Jim and Young Frank gone hit’s enough.”

  “Now we know they get money, hit would be all right. I could send money back.”

  “Don’t talk of hit now. There’s Granpap.”

  The electric light from the gate shone down on the old man. He sat on a stool bent over, and they could not see his face which was in the shadow, but the light picked out the thick gray hairs on the top of his head.

  There was darkness around, except for the dim electric light and the yellow squares up above that were the mill windows. The heavens were open and immense: even the mill that was so huge in the daytime looked flat and insignificant.

  Granpap got to his feet hastily when he heard them. As they stood before him and he saw who they were his face brightened and he sat down again on the stool.

  “So you went to church?” he asked looking at Bonnie, then at John.

  “I didn’t,” John said. “Bonnie went.”

  “Ain’t ye never going t’ get right with God?” Granpap asked John. “Hit’s better, Son, to do hit in your youth. Give your best years to God, and he will re-pay. ‘The night cometh.’ I’m an old man and I know.” He gave a great sigh.

  “Granpap,” Bonnie said, “you know you’re going to live to be a hundred.”

  “Now, hit’s a queer thing, Bonnie. Hit’s the same exactly that Mr. Wentworth said to me. He was here from Washington tonight on business for the Government,” Granpap whispered to them, and before going on peered into the darkness on each side. “They took him all around the mill and he stopped and spoke to me just as common as any one of us. He’s not a bit stuck up, rich as he is. He asked how I was, and I said just tolerable and getting old. And he told me, Bonnie, just the words you said. ‘You’ll live t’ be a hundred.’ He’s a fine man, one I’m proud to work for.”

  As they went from the mill along the street toward home John said abruptly,

  “I don’t think much of the way Granpap’s turning out.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. He’s lost something—pride or something I valued in him. I miss hit.”

  “Why, he’s just getting old I reckon.”

  “No. He’s lost something—something I hate him t’ lose.” “You sound unhappy, John. What’s the matter? Granpap’s all right—just old.”

  “I reckon so. I’m restless, I reckon—and can’t find anything to satisfy.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EMMA did not grow any better. Both her hands and forearms became a bright pink, and were covered with a fine scaling. When Bonnie had her baby there were two invalids in the room. There was Emma, depressed by her illness but cheerful about her grandchild, named for her, Emma Calhoun—and Bonnie, happy with her baby so that nothing could make a cloud for her. She was soon up and waiting on the baby and Emma together, and then back in the mills at her frames.

  When Jim came back from the army it was like another marriage for them at first. Later Bonnie found her husband restless, wishing for the army, and hating to go back into the mills. There was no place for him in the beginning and he was secretly glad, though many of the men were angry that women who were paid lower wages had been given their places.

  One day Bonnie went to Mr. Burnett and asked him a favor. She was so sure that what she wanted was a good and natural thing, there was no thought in her of being denied. Was she not one of the best and steadiest workers they had? She was very confident of her right, yet it was not so easy to ask her favor when she came face to face with Mr. Burnett in the office.

  “Could I go home,” she asked him, “at about nine in the morning and three in the afternoon, to nurse the baby?”

  From behind his desk Mr. Burnett looked at her in surprise.

  “Why, Bonnie!” he said, and smiled at her as if she was a foolish child.

  “I’m willing t’ lose the money while the machines are idle, Mr. Burnett,” she told him earnestly.

  “No,” he said, “no, Bonnie. I can’t do it.”

  When she urged her request he became very irritable. “If I let you,” he said, “I’d have to let every other woman who’s got a young baby do the same. And there are plenty of babies in this village, Bonnie.”

  “And plenty of them dies,” Bonnie said to him. It was the first time she had said such a thing to anyone in a long time, and the first time she had spoken in that way to one of the higher-ups. She was frightened by her own words, and waited for days afterwards, watching for someone to come up, while she worked at the machines, lay his hand on her shoulder and say, “You can’t work here any more.”

  Bonnie got a clothes basket from a store in town, and in this she left the baby on a chair by the side of Emma’s bed. On the days when Emma could not get up Bonnie left the bottle on another chair.

  A few weeks after Bonnie went to Mr. Burnett Jim got a place on the night shift, with a curtailed schedule of three nights a week. This was not much, but it helped, and they were confident that he would be taken on full time soon. With the work, Jim became more contented and Bonnie was happy in her baby and her husband.

  In the mill one day Ora caught her at lunch time. “I’ve just heard,” she said. “Everybody from Swain’s Crossing is coming down to the mill.”

  “To work here? To stay?”

  “Yes. To stay. Sally’s coming with Jesse and their young ones. You tell Emma. The Martins and the McDonalds and the rest are coming. I don’t know how many. Hit will do her good t’ hear.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Bonnie promised.

  Later Frank came over and told the news as he had heard it. The lumber mill had closed down at the Crossing, when the best trees were used up. A rich man had bought all the land from the lumber company, because he wanted Laurel Creek and its branch creeks as places where he could bring his friends to fish. All who couldn’t pay their rent were given notice to get out of the houses by Hal Swain who had become the rich man’s manager. Electricity was cut off, except in the large house which Hal and Sally kept open so it would be ready at any time for the owner and his friends.

  Since most people had depended on the wages from the lumber company for paying rent, there was nothing for them to do but leave the mountains and go where they could find ready money.

  On Sunday afternoon all the old neighbors from the Crossing visited Emma. Sally came with Ora, having left her three young ones at home with Esther for fear they might worry the invalid. Jim Martin was there with Jennie, and they brought Zinie, who was grown up, and Lillie her younger sister, who was twelve.

  They all gathered in the front room around Emma’s bed, and Bonnie showed off her baby and was very proud that it did not cry. Granpap was in there with Frank. Presently they would take Jim Martin and Jesse McDonald out into the kitchen for further talk. Now it was Emma’s turn to have all the company.

  “Why, Zinie,” Emma said, “you’ve grown real pretty. Who w
ould have thought that little freckle faced, red haired Zinie would grow up so pretty!”

  Zinie, trying to avoid all the eyes that were turned to her, looked into the doorway where John was standing. Emma saw the way her eyes had gone. “John,” she said, “this is Zinie. You remember you used to play with her up in the mountains, don’t ye?”

  John did not answer. He vanished from the doorway, but Emma saw him before he went out of their sight turn and give a look at Zinie, and she saw that the girl returned his look.

  “Hit’s not the best time to come down,” Frank said to Jim Martin. “Wages are getting low again, and never were very high.”

  “And they’re making us work overtime in some departments, and curtailing in others,” Bonnie added. She knew they might think it queer for her to work, when she had a husband. They did not realize the money it took to pay for a doctor for Emma. And Granpap made so little—and Jim was on half time only. The others would soon learn for themselves how hard it was to get on. When she got down to it, Sally would see that with three young ones it would be necessary for her to work as well as Jesse.

  “Hit’s a wonder we’ve stuck,” Ora said to the others. “But Frank’s a McClure and they will stick till the devil gets behind them with his tail. Others, here, when they get so behind with instalments and their books at the store pick up and leave.”

  “Hit’s one way of paying the grocer,” Frank said, quoting a saying that was popular among the people of the village.

  “And if you move in the middle of the week, hit means two days of ceasing work in the mills. Hit’s like having two Sundays right together.”

  “You can see people every day with furniture piled high on a wagon—a-paying the grocer,” Frank said.

  “Well, now,” Jennie spoke up in her high little voice, “we’ve just come . . . we ain’t a-thinking of moving. Not to-morrow, anyway.”

  “Please come back,” Emma said to them all, after Bonnie had served black coffee to the women in the bedroom and the men in the kitchen. “Hit’s done me lots of good to see you all. I feel as if I was right back in the hills, near old Thunderhead—by the fresh, cool spring.”

  When they had gone, Bonnie, who was looking after them out of the window, spoke to Emma. “Why, John was waiting outside all the time. And now he’s walking off with Zinie.”

  “I saw him give her a look,” Emma said. “And if Zinie’s as good as Jennie, I’ll be glad if he takes to her.”

  After that Sunday, for several weeks John and Zinie walked together on Sunday afternoons, or sat over the fire at the Martins. But during the week John did not go near the Martin’s house. And there was a reason for this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  HE was not sure that he wanted Zinie. At this time he was not very sure about anything.

  He had envied those who went off to the war. But when the war was over and the men came back they spoke of it without much enthusiasm. Some of those who had been in France came back saying, “It was a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.” John remembered that sentence, and pondered on it as he pondered on many things. Later he was to understand what it meant. Now he could only take it apart without having the knowledge with which to put it together again.

  It was necessary for him to know, and after knowing he could do what was necessary without hesitation. But during the time of working out what he wished to understand, he was hesitant and upset. Drink gave him some temporary confidence, and he spent much time in the town. One evening as he was coming up a side street, a woman stopped him. She hesitated at first, looked up into his face, went on, then came back and looked into his face again.

  “Are you John McClure?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered and looked at her closely. Her dress was of bright blue silk and around her neck was a string of bright beads that looked like diamonds. She was familiar to him, as she stood looking up smiling into his face. She put her little finger into her mouth, and with the gesture something old and familiar took hold of John. He was back in a cabin in the mountains, and Minnie was sitting before the fire, and she said, “John, will you get Minnie some water from the spring?” And he had gone with willingness to get it. Before she spoke again he knew she was Minnie Hawkins.

  “I’m Minnie,” she said. “Minnie Hawkins. Don’t you remember me, John? But you were such a little fellow, then.”

  “I remember you.”

  “How’s Emma?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. And the others? Oh, John, I’d like to hear about them all. I’ve got a room down the street. Will you come up and tell me about everybody?”

  He had nothing else to do.

  “I knew you right away,” Minnie said, as they walked down the side street and into another one. “I knew you because of your resemblance to Kirk. He was a fine boy.”

  Her room was in a two-story frame house on the edge of town. She opened the door with a latch key. In the hall she stopped a moment to turn on the light. A woman called out from the half open door, “Got a friend with you, Minnie?”

  “Yes,” she answered and looked at John apologetically, or he imagined that her look was apologetic.

  They walked silently up the stairs. In the room which contained a bureau, a washstand and bed she spoke to him.

  “Are you cold? If you are I’ll build you a fire.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not cold.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a drink, and that will warm you up, if you happen to get cold. You drink, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” John said from the middle of the room where he was standing.

  “Sit down,” Minnie told him. “I haven’t any chair. You’ll have to sit on the bed.” She rummaged in the bottom of the wash-stand. “I would guess that you like drink. All your folks do, and Kirk did. You’re so much like Kirk,” she repeated

  She took a drink from the bottle she had found in the wash-stand. “Get that glass,” she said, and he took it from the stand. “Now hold it while I pour you some.”

  The drink was warm in his throat. “Do you want some water?” she asked, and he shook his head.

  “Now sit on the bed, John. You mustn’t be bashful with Minnie.”

  She sat near him, and after another drink she saw that his eyes watered, and the little finger went up to her mouth. She was looking at him with big eyes.

  “You’re a fine looking boy,” she said.

  “Are you angry with me, John?” she asked when he did not speak. “Surely you don’t hold it against me that I ran off with Sam McEachern. I’ve told you, haven’t I, that I’m sorry about Kirk. He was a man that was good to his woman. If he hadn’t been jealous, I might have stayed. But I am punished enough with Sam McEachern. John, he’s a man that goes after any girl that takes his fancy—then he comes back to me. He’s a bad one, yet I can’t get away from him. Maybe you think I’m bad, too: and maybe I am. I don’t know. Basil says I’m bad . . . .”

  “Basil?”

  “Maybe I oughtn’t t’ have told you. He comes sometimes late at night. He thinks I’m bad, but he comes, sometimes.”

  Minnie was trying to make friends with him, and she was nervous in doing it. John could feel that she was interesting to him, because of her blue eyes, that looked at him innocently, and because of her body that was still shapely, though it bulged from her corset in places. There was a sweetness to her body that he felt. Perhaps it was too sweet and had an odor like molasses that has gone sour, but the sweetness was there.

  Though she urged him to talk, she seemed to be glad of a chance to speak herself, as if there had been few people to listen.

  “Basil came on a trip to the city,” she said. “Hasn’t he told you? Didn’t you know I was here?”

  “I don’t see much of him.”

  Minnie leaned back against the pillow. “Hand me your glass,” she told John, and without sitting up she filled the glass half full from her bottle, then with her head flung back she swallowed a drink
and looked at John triumphantly over the bottle which she held next to her breasts.

  “Basil says I still attract him. He said so that first time I saw him in the city. That’s why I’m here, because he wanted me. He did not see me at Mrs. Phillips’. It was after she left. You know I was with Mrs. Phillips. I used to ask her about you all, and about you especially.

  “Why don’t you say something, John? You’re mighty good-looking, you know. I believe you’re better looking than any of the McClures. Turn your face around.”

  She raised herself and took his chin in her hand. “There now . . . . Now I can see you. You’re very sweet, John. Did you know that?”

  “Well,” John said, and laughed into her face that was very near his. “Lots of girls have told me so.” He did not pull his chin away from her hand.

  “All along I’ve thought of you as a child, for that was what you were—then. Now—now I feel that you are a man.”

  He was startled when a knock came at the door. Minnie went there and whispered with the woman who had spoken downstairs. Then she said out loud, “Tell him to come back in ten minutes.”

  John stood up. “Had I better go?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Well, maybe you’d better.” She lay back on the pillow.

  “I want you to come back, John. Please tell me you’ll come back.”

  “Yes,” John said and went out of the door.

  On the front steps of the house he met a man. Looking into his face he saw in the dim light from the corner street lamp that the man was Robert Phillips. They had not met since Robert had come back from the war.

  “So you know Minnie?” Robert asked, and smiled at John with meaning.