Deep Summer

by Gwen Bristow

  “Tell you, fault of organization. Some folks got too much and others ain’t got enough. No justice in this here country. Government sits up there in Washington and don’t do nothing. Ain’t I right, now? Tell me, ain’t I right?”

  Mr. Gambrell bit on a banana he had taken from his pocket. “’Spect you is, Upjohn.”

  “Sho I’m right. And what do the rich care about? Tell you. Getting richer, that’s what. No heart and no pity. You ride out on the river road and see them people, living in luxury and sin. Ain’t never seed the inside of a Bible. ‘Woe unto you,’ said the Lord, but do they listen? Not them.”

  He spat tobacco juice in a smart curve. It landed on top of a decaying cabbage leaf being investigated by an alley cat. She mewed and turned away.

  “All fault of organization,” continued old man Upjohn. “No evenness of distribution in this here country. State of Louisiana organized wrong. Whole South organized wrong. You think I’m just shooting my mouth? You, Gambrell, looking so smug, that what you think?”

  “Not on your life, Upjohn,” said Mr. Gambrell hastily. “Lot of injustice, all right.”

  “Injustice? Sho’s you’re born there is. You know who owns the land you all live on? Not you. Not a bit of it. Them St. Clairs. And do they live down here? Not them. They got to have more land on the river road to live on. I been reading a book. I can read good, me. You know who owns all the land in the South? Well I’ll tell you. One per cent of the people owns eighty per cent of the land.”

  “Uh-huh. Ought to be some changes, that’s so,” mumbled Mr. Kelby, turning his head hopefully for signs of supper from his own stoop. Disappointed, he cut a quid of tobacco and let old man Upjohn ramble on.

  “You know how many nigger slaves they got in this country?” droned old man Upjohn. “Four million. Four million nigger slaves in the South. And is you got a nigger, Gambrell? Is you got a nigger, Kelby? You mighty right you ain’t. Not a nigger for y’all to bless yourselves with. You know who owns all them niggers? Three hundred thousand people. In the whole South, four million niggers and seven million white folks. And three hundred thousand people owning all them niggers. Ain’t right. Ain’t we all white as the next man? Ain’t we got business having niggers same as them swells out on the river road? Fault of—”

  “Oh pa, for God’s sake,” said Corrie May. She had stood listening as long as she could, but his ranting made her tired. Him all the time talking with work to be done. “Is you cut that wood ma said for you to cut?” she demanded.

  Old man Upjohn coughed behind his hand. “I ain’t been feeling so peart, Corrie May,” he mumbled. “Got a misery in my leg.” He kicked his leg forward to prove it, and winced. “Hurts back here.”

  “You’s a fine one,” said Corrie May disgustedly.

  “Where you been anyway?” her father inquired. “Gallivantin’ off with a young spark ’stead of helping your po’ old ma dish up some victuals.”

  Humph, thought Corrie May, if everybody was like him there wouldn’t be any victuals to dish up. She straightened her back defensively. “I been walking out with Budge Foster. He had to go down to the wharfs and said would I come along with him and cool off, it being so hot.”

  “Huh,” said her father. “You better be getting in and helping your po’ ma.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Corrie May. She glanced around at the Foster stoop. Budge came back out to the stoop and waved at her as he came down the steps. He joined Corrie May and they started indoors together.

  “What’s your pa ranting about now?” Budge asked her.

  “Oh, the regular,” said Corrie May as they went into the kitchen. “Politics and the government, and how nothing ain’t being run to suit him.”

  Budge shrugged tolerantly. “Well, I reckon them as uses their mouths most gets least to put in ’em.”

  Mrs. Upjohn looked up to greet them. She already had the supper on, and was bending over a washtub in a corner by the stove, wringing out some shirts for the boys and hanging them on a line stretched near the stove so they would dry by morning. The kitchen was hot and thick with steam. The smell of soapsuds fought with the smell of supper.

  “How’re you, Budge?” asked Mrs. Upjohn hospitably.

  “Can’t complain, ma’am,” he answered. Budge admired Corrie May’s ma. She was a good woman, though not much to look at. Her shoulders were humped and her abdomen stuck out in front, with the string of her apron cutting the protuberance in two. Her gray hair straggled damply over her ears and was sliding down from the pins that held it in back.

  “I reckon you better chop some stovewood, Corrie May,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “It ain’t no use waiting for your pa.”

  Corrie May shrugged and started toward where the hatchet hung on the wall.

  Budge detained her with a grin. “Say, honey, ain’t no point in a girl chopping stovewood. I’ll do it for you.”

  “Oh now Budge.” She blushed. “Ain’t you tired?”

  “No cause to be. I’m right tough, me. Gimme the hatchet.”

  She got it and went out with him to the back yard. “There’s the wood. There ain’t right much left. I sho hopes the boys picks up that job.”

  “No reason why they shouldn’t,” Budge said encouragingly.

  “Uh-huh,” said Corrie May. She stood by the woodpile, twisting the edge of a torn place in her sleeve. “Er—Budge?”

  “Yeah?” He smiled flatteringly at her as he got down on his knees and set a stick of wood on end for splitting.

  She felt herself blushing again. “How’d you feel about having supper with us? I could mix up some spoonbread.”

  “Sounds mighty fine,” said Budge. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Corrie May hurried back into the kitchen. “Budge is staying for supper,” she announced.

  Mrs. Upjohn gave a gratified smile. “He’s a fine boy, that Budge.”

  Corrie May smiled too as she got out the cornmeal. “Ma,” she asked as she stirred the spoonbread, “how old was you when you got married?”

  “Fifteen going on sixteen,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “And I didn’t take the only chance I got, neither.”

  Corrie May did not answer. Seemed to her pa wasn’t so much of a chance if there’d been others. But it wasn’t her place to be saying so. And of course, ma never did get as put out as she did about all pa’s ranting. Ma was good-natured, said it came from learning to read. Poor folks didn’t have business reading. Just filled them up with notions too big for their heads.

  Ma was reminiscing. “I met your pa at a party we had down at the Sheramys’ gin-house one Saturday night. I knew a fellow helped run the gins. They always let the hands have a shindig after gin-time and bring ladies. I had a pink dress with great big sleeves and a straw bonnet with ribbons and my hair was curled up with quince-juice. We danced the Virginia reel, and they said I was lightest on my feet of any.”

  Corrie May was silent. She felt silence pressing on her ears. She had to say something so as not to let on how astonishing was the idea of ma dancing and being light on her feet. “What—what color was your hair then, ma?” she asked.

  “Kind of lightish, like yourn,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “You favor me, the way I looked in those days. Your pa said I was the prettiest girl he ever seed.”

  Corrie May thrust the spoon into the dish and turned around. Mrs. Upjohn was still humped over the washtub. Her face had the lined, weathered look of a piece of cloth left out in the rain. She breathed with a little hiss, for she had lost four of her upper teeth. The hot water had reddened and wrinkled her hands till they looked like pieces of raw meat.

  Corrie May walked over to a cracked piece of mirror hanging on the kitchen wall. It brightened things up, her mother said, the mirror and the strings of red peppers she hung about. Corrie May looked at herself, the strong young column of her neck, her high firm breasts, the ruddy clarity of her skin. “M
a,” she asked in a faint, frightened voice, “when was that? When you went to the party and met pa?”

  “Huh? That would be—about thirty-nine, I reckon.”

  Thirty-nine, forty-nine, fifty-nine. Twenty years ago. Then ma must be thirty-five years old.

  Something cold and dreadful came into Corrie May’s bosom and moved up to her throat. From the back yard she could hear the chop-chop of the hatchet as Budge cut wood, and his clear young voice singing.

  “I went to see Jinny when my work was done,

  And Jinny put the hoe-cake on,

  And Jinny put the hoe-cake on, my love …”

  Corrie May’s fists clenched involuntarily, in helpless fear. She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, seeing herself marrying Budge, and then pretty soon getting to look like ma. Her mind moved back to the afternoon, and she remembered Ann Sheramy holding her gloves in one of her exquisite hands and with the other tossing bits of cake to the swans. She thought of Denis Larne standing with her by the carriage, and she thought of Ann Sheramy twenty years from now, with her hands still exquisite.

  Then, all of a sudden, she heard some of the words pa had been shooting off as she came down the alley. She had hardly heard them then, she had only felt mad that pa talked all the time instead of doing a job of work. But they must have gone into her ears and stuck in her head, for now she heard them.

  In the whole South, seven million white people and four million slaves. Three hundred thousand white people owning all the slaves.

  So—if you counted out the slaveowners’ families—six million white people who owned no slaves. Six million white people who owned nothing at all. She was not so stupid as not to know that those who owned slaves owned everything else. The first sign of a man’s rise in the world was his buying himself a nigger.

  “Jesus,” said Corrie May aloud.

  “Corrie May Upjohn!” her mother exclaimed, horrified. “You quit that taking of the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “The Lord ain’t done so much for me,” said Corrie May.

  “How you talk!” Mrs. Upjohn hung out the last garment and wiped her hands on her apron. “Ain’t you got a good home? Ain’t you got a pair of fine brothers that brings their wages in? Don’t you get victuals to eat and clothes on your back? Ain’t you got a fine young man courting you already? You ought to be down on your knees thanking the good God Almighty. When I think of some—”

  “Oh, all right,” said Corrie May.

  She felt helpless, as though something infinitely stronger than herself were beating her back against a destiny planned for her ages ago. They were all forcing her to it, her mother and father and Budge as surely as the great folk who owned the slaves.

  “I seed that Miss Ann Sheramy in the park today,” she said abruptly.

  “Sho ’nough? Them Sheramys is all the time to be seed in the park. Only I don’t get up thataway much these times.” Mrs. Upjohn chuckled suddenly.

  “What you laughing at?” Corrie May demanded.

  “I was recalling your pa. He sho can think up the tallest tales. He told me once he was related to them Sheramys.”

  “Related?” Corrie May’s voice was thin with unbelief.

  Mrs. Upjohn laughed. “He sho can think up things to say, he can. He’s a one. Said his pa told him. His pa was named Gideon. Said Gideon’s ma was a lady from Cuba. Seems like she was married to one of them Sheramys and they had a fight or something and he throwed her out, and she came down to Rattletrap Square and picked up Gideon’s pa and married him. I declare, your pa sho can talk.”

  “You believe that?” Corrie May asked wistfully.

  “Lord no, honey. You got to go a long way if you believe half your pa says. You better put in that spoonbread.”

  Corrie May turned around. She poured the spoonbread into the pan and put it into the oven. A lady from Cuba. Hell and high water. There weren’t any ladies marrying men named Upjohn. But the story gave her a strange creepy feeling as she thought about Ann Sheramy, a feeling that if things had been started off a little bit different it might have been herself wearing hoopskirts and riding in a carriage. Queer to know there was even a legend that she and Ann Sheramy had a spoonful of the same blood.

  Budge came in with an armful of wood. “Here you is,” he announced, evidently hoping Mrs. Upjohn would observe he wasn’t too good to work for his girl. “That sho smells good on the fire. Mighty fine eating for a man, Mrs. Upjohn, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Upjohn wiped off a chair with her apron. “Now you set yourself down and rest your bones, Budge. Boys’ll be along any minute. Just make yourself at home.” She smiled upon him broadly, letting him know she was taking it proud her daughter had a fine one making up to her, and started dishing up the side-meat. “Now Corrie May, you set down too and visit with Budge. It ain’t no trouble for me, dishing up.”

  Corrie May obeyed silently.

  “I’m nearabout done putting up a shack on my piece of ground,” Budge said.

  “Sho ’nough?” Mrs. Upjohn prodded appreciatively.

  “Yes ma’am. Move out there for good pretty soon. It’s got two rooms and a good cistern in back. Me, I wouldn’t be content doing everything in one room like some.”

  “Mighty highclass,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “You got good ground?”

  “I sho is. Raise right smart cotton out there. Pay the rent and some over.” He cleared his throat and crossed his legs.

  She helped him along. “’Fore long you’ll be needing a wife to help you, I reckon. Man can’t keep things tidy all by himself.”

  “Yes ma’am, you’s mighty right. I’ll be needing a wife, that’s so.”

  He sidled a glance at Corrie May on the chair by him. He was good-looking, she owned reluctantly, him with his curly hair and wide healthy face. And honest he was, and hard-working. He’d be good to her. Not get drunk of a Saturday nor beat her up when the crop didn’t come in. But something in her had begun to writhe backward in rebellion.

  “Good home girl you’ll be needing to marry,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “Don’t you get caught by one of them too fancy to do nothing but frock up and make eyes at men on the wharfs. Good home girl, knows how to cook and clean and can help pick cotton in the fall.”

  “Yes ma’am,” agreed Budge, his eyes on Corrie May. “Nice home girl.”

  Corrie May felt as if something heavy and invisible were closing on her so she couldn’t fight. It was like the rising of the river in high-water years, creeping up and up against the levees.

  “Hey, ma!” said a voice from the door. “Got supper up?”

  Corrie May jumped as though struck. She felt rescued. For the present anyway this was over. Lemmy and George stamped into the room.

  “Just call your pa and pull up your chairs,” Mrs. Upjohn said heartily.

  Budge got redder, like a brick.

  “How’re you, Budge?” asked the two Upjohn brothers.

  “Oh, I’m making out fine, fine,” said Budge.

  “Did you get the job?” demanded Corrie May.

  “Sho did,” said Lemmy. “Tell you about it. Let’s eat.”

  Corrie May went to call her father from the stoop. They all pulled up their chairs. Everybody was talking. The boys were in high spirits. The kitchen was hot, but Mrs. Upjohn propped open the door to let in some air. They were hungry and it was a good supper, collard greens with side-meat, spoonbread and molasses and coffee. “Now you just try this here spoonbread, Budge,” Mrs. Upjohn urged. “Corrie May made it. I declare, that young un’s a fairer cook than me. Don’t help yourself so skimpy—we got plenty.”

  “Good thing you got plenty, ma,” said Lemmy, bringing up a scoop of collards on the blade of his knife. “Me and George, we’ll be needing a big supper tonight. Got to go to work first thing in the morning.”

  “Good job?” she asked eagerly.

  “Oh
fair, fair,” said the boys nonchalantly, their tone implying that such excellent workers as themselves were besieged with good jobs and had only to select the one most worthy their talents.

  “That’s fine,” said old man Upjohn.

  The boys grinned with their mouths full. They regarded their father tolerantly, grumbling about his laziness but secretly proud that he could spout all those big words and awe the neighbors.

  “Y’all’s good boys,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “I wish I’d been spared more like you, praise the Lord.” She sighed. She had had so many. But it was hard to raise babies down here below the docks. The little things just took on and died.

  Lemmy and George started talking together about the job, but George yielded to Lemmy, who was older. “We’s gonta cut cypress down in a swamp between here and New Orleans,” said Lemmy. “Seems like the swamp belongs to that Mr. Denis Larne that lives out at Ardeith Plantation. And we gets highclass wages.” He paused impressively. “Seventy-five cents a day.”

  “Seventy-five cents a day!” The echo went around the table.

  The boys nodded. “Right fair wages, huh?”

  “That Mr. Larne must be a fine fellow,” Budge observed. “Don’t work his men to bones like some.”

  “Y’all better look out,” said old man Upjohn. “Them swamps is full of fever this time of year.”

  “Shucks,” said George, annoyed that pa had tried to dampen their news. “Ain’t no swamp-fever ever touched me and Lemmy. I expect we’s built too tough for the fevers. Thank you for the ’lasses, Corrie May?”

  Corrie May passed the molasses silently. Somehow all she had been thinking of before supper had lessened her pleasure in having found a job for the boys.

  “Besides,” said Lemmy, “I’ll tell you somp’n, pa. Some of the men got ideas about the swamp-fever. And Mr. Larne said sho, he knowed they had some fever sometimes in the cypress. Said he wasn’t no hard one making men go where they might get sick. Said his swamp was healthy, but if any man took on with the fever and died he’d pay insurance to his folks—fifty dollars.” He spoke the last phrase slowly to let it sink in.