Great Short Stories by American Women (Dover Thrift Editions)

by Candace Ward

  “Little fool!” he said, in a terrible rage, and walked off. She was quite sure that he was slowly losing his mind — a second childhood, she called it, still trying to make things as pleasant as possible.

  She had been ill a good deal that Spring, and in the Fall she had terrible headaches. In the Winter months she took to her bed, and early in May the doctor was summoned.

  Misha talked to the physician in the drawing-room before he sent him up to his wife.

  “You must be gentle with her; she is nervous and frail.” The doctor laughed outright. Misha’s sisters were weeping, of course, and perfectly happy.

  “It will be such a splendid thing for her,” they said. Meaning the beef, iron and wine that they expected the doctor to prescribe.

  Toward evening Little Lief closed her eyes.

  Her child was still-born.

  The physician came downstairs and entered the parlor where Misha’s sisters stood together, still shedding tears.

  He rubbed his hands.

  “Send Misha upstairs.”

  “He has gone.”

  “Isn’t it dreadful? I never could bear corpses, especially little ones.”

  “A baby isn’t a corpse,” answered the physician, smiling at his own impending humor. “It’s an interrupted plan.”

  He felt that the baby, not having drawn a breath in this world, could not feel hurt at such a remark, because it has gathered no feminine pride and, also, as it has passed out quicker than the time it took to make the observation, it really could be called nothing more than the background for medical jocularity.

  Misha came into the room with red eyes.

  “Out like a puff of smoke,” he said.

  One of his sisters remarked: “Well, the Fenkens lived themselves thin.”

  The next Summer Misha married into a healthy Swedish family. His second wife had a broad face, with eyes set wide apart, and with broad, flat, healthy, yellow teeth, and she played the piano surprisingly well, though she looked a little heavy as she sat upon the piano stool.

  Zora Neale Hurston

  (c. 1891—1960)

  ZORA NEALE HURSTON was the most famous woman writer of the Harlem Renaissance; when she died in poverty in 1960, her literary reputation was forgotten, and she was buried in an unmarked grave in Ft. Pierce, Florida. Today Hurston’s reputation is restored, thanks largely to the work of Alice Walker, whose 1979 anthology of Hurston’s writing, I Love Myself When I Am Laughing ... and Then Again When I Am Looking Mean and Impressive, introduced new generations to Hurston’s work.

  Hurston was born in Eatonville, Florida, the first incorporated all-black town in the United States, where she spent much of her childhood and which would figure prominently in her work. In 1925 Hurston arrived in New York City, where she quickly made a name for herself in the literary circles that flourished during the Harlem Renaissance. She graduated from Barnard College in 1928, after studying anthropology with Franz Boas. During this time, Hurston published articles, essays, stories and plays. She contributed a piece to Alain Locke’s landmark volume, The New Negro, and her work appeared in the leading periodicals of the day, such as Crisis, Opportunity and the controversial Fire! One of the most prolific writers of her period, Hurston wrote four novels (Jonah’s Vine Gourd, 1934; Their Eyes Were Watching God, 1937; Moses, Man of the Mountain, 1939; and Seraph on the Suwanee, 1948), two books of folklore (Mules and Men, 1935; and Tell My Horse, 1938) and an autobiography (Dust Tracks on the Road, 1942).

  “Sweat” is a showpiece of Hurston’s virtuosity as storyteller, anthropologist and stylist. The story features a heroine trying to achieve a sense of her own protagonism within the black community. As in many of Hurston’s stories and novels, the relationship between the sexes is fraught with tension. As Delia struggles to shake off the hold of her adulterous husband, the story ends with an ironic twist that sets her free.

  Sweat

  I

  IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock of a Spring night in Florida. It was Sunday. Any other night, Delia Jones would have been in bed for two hours by this time. But she was a washwoman, and Monday morning meant a great deal to her. So she collected the soiled clothes on Saturday when she returned the clean things. Sunday night after church, she sorted and put the white things to soak. It saved her almost a half-day’s start. A great hamper in the bedroom held the clothes that she brought home. It was so much neater than a number of bundles lying around.

  She squatted on the kitchen floor beside the great pile of clothes, sorting them into small heaps according to color, and humming a song in a mournful key, but wondering through it all where Sykes, her husband, had gone with her horse and buckboard.

  Just then something long, round, limp and black fell upon her shoulders and slithered to the floor beside her. A great terror took hold of her. It softened her knees and dried her mouth so that it was a full minute before she could cry out or move. Then she saw that it was the big bull whip her husband liked to carry when he drove.

  She lifted her eyes to the door and saw him standing there bent over with laughter at her fright. She screamed at him.

  “Sykes, what you throw dat whip on me like dat? You know it would skeer me — looks just like a snake, an’ you knows how skeered Ah is of snakes.”

  “Course Ah knowed it! That’s how come Ah done it.” He slapped his leg with his hand and almost rolled on the ground in his mirth. “If you such a big fool dat you got to have a fit over a earth worm or a string, Ah don’t keer how bad Ah skeer you.”

  “You ain’t got no business doing it. Gawd knows it’s a sin. Some day Ah’m gointuh drop dead from some of yo’ foolishness. ’Nother thing, where you been wid mah rig? Ah feeds dat pony. He ain’t fuh you to be drivin’ wid no bull whip.”

  “You sho’ is one aggravatin’ nigger woman!” he declared and stepped into the room. She resumed her work and did not answer him at once. “Ah done tole you time and again to keep them white folks’ clothes outa dis house.”

  He picked up the whip and glared at her. Delia went on with her work. She went out into the yard and returned with a galvanized tub and set it on the washbench. She saw that Sykes had kicked all of the clothes together again, and now stood in her way truculently, his whole manner hoping, praying, for an argument. But she walked calmly around him and commenced to re-sort the things.

  “Next time, Ah’m gointer kick ’em outdoors,” he threatened as he struck a match along the leg of his corduroy breeches.

  Delia never looked up from her work, and her thin, stooped shoulders sagged further.

  “Ah ain’t for no fuss t’night Sykes. Ah just come from taking sacrament at the church house.”

  He snorted scornfully. “Yeah, you just come from de church house on a Sunday night, but heah you is gone to work on them clothes. You ain’t nothing but a hypocrite. One of them amen-corner Christians — sing, whoop, and shout, then come home and wash white folks’ clothes on the Sabbath.”

  He stepped roughly upon the whitest pile of things, kicking them helter-skelter as he crossed the room. His wife gave a little scream of dismay, and quickly gathered them together again.

  “Sykes, you quit grindin’ dirt into these clothes! How can Ah git through by Sat’day if Ah don’t start on Sunday?”

  “Ah don’t keer if you never git through. Anyhow, Ah done promised Gawd and a couple of other men, Ah ain’t gointer have it in mah house. Don’t gimme no lip neither, else Ah’ll throw ‘em out and put mah fist up side yo’ head to boot.”

  Delia’s habitual meekness seemed to slip from her shoulders like a blown scarf. She was on her feet; her poor little body, her bare knuckly hands bravely defying the strapping hulk before her.

  “Looka heah, Sykes, you done gone too fur. Ah been married to you fur fifteen years, and Ah been takin’ in washin’ fur fifteen years. Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” he asked brutally.

  “What’s it got to
do with you, Sykes? Mah tub of suds is filled yo’ belly with vittles more times than yo’ hands is filled it. Mah sweat is done paid for this house and Ah reckon Ah kin keep on sweatin’ in it.”

  She seized the iron skillet from the stove and struck a defensive pose, which act surprised him greatly, coming from her. It cowed him and he did not strike her as he usually did.

  “Naw you won’t,” she panted, “that ole snaggle-toothed black woman you runnin’ with ain’t comin’ heah to pile up on mah sweat and blood. You ain’t paid for nothin’ on this place, and Ah’m gointer stay right heah till Ah’m toted out foot foremost.”

  “Well, you better quit gittin’ me riled up, else they’ll be totin’ you out sooner than you expect. Ah’m so tired of you Ah don’t know whut to do. Gawd! How Ah hates skinny wimmen!”

  A little awed by this new Delia, he sidled out of the door and slammed the back gate after him. He did not say where he had gone, but she knew too well. She knew very well that he would not return until nearly daybreak also. Her work over, she went on to bed but not to sleep at once. Things had come to a pretty pass!

  She lay awake, gazing upon the debris that cluttered their matrimonial trail. Not an image left standing along the way. Anything like flowers had long ago been drowned in the salty stream that had been pressed from her heart. Her tears, her sweat, her blood. She had brought love to the union and he had brought a longing after the flesh. Two months after the wedding, he had given her the first brutal beating. She had the memory of his numerous trips to Orlando with all of his wages when he had returned to her penniless, even before the first year had passed. She was young and soft then, but now she thought of her knotty, muscled limbs, her harsh knuckly hands, and drew herself up into an unhappy little ball in the middle of the big feather bed. Too late now to hope for love, even if it were not Bertha it would be someone else. This case differed from the others only in that she was bolder than the others. Too late for everything except her little home. She had built it for her old days, and planted one by one the trees and flowers there. It was lovely to her, lovely.

  Somehow, before sleep came, she found herself saying aloud: “Oh well, whatever goes over the Devil’s back, is got to come under his belly. Sometime or ruther, Sykes, like everybody else, is gointer reap his sowing.” After that she was able to build a spiritual earthworks against her husband. His shells could no longer reach her. AMEN. She went to sleep and slept until he announced his presence in bed by kicking her feet and rudely snatching the covers away.

  “Gimme some kivah heah, an’ git yo’ damn foots over on yo’ own side! Ah oughter mash you in yo’ mouf fuh drawing dat skillet on me.”

  Delia went clear to the rail without answering him. A triumphant indifference to all that he was or did.

  II

  The week was as full of work for Delia as all other weeks, and Saturday found her behind her little pony, collecting and delivering clothes.

  It was a hot, hot day near the end of July. The village men on Joe Clarke’s porch even chewed cane listlessly. They did not hurl the cane-knots as usual. They let them dribble over the edge of the porch. Even conversation had collapsed under the heat.

  “Heah come Delia Jones,” Jim Merchant said, as the shaggy pony came ’round the bend of the road toward them. The rusty buckboard was heaped with baskets of crisp, clean laundry.

  “Yep,” Joe Lindsay agreed. “Hot or col’, rain or shine, jes’ ez reg’lar ez de weeks roll roun’ Delia carries ’em an’ fetches ’em on Sat’day.”

  “She better if she wanter eat,” said Moss. “Syke Jones ain’t wuth de shot an’ powder hit would tek tuh kill ’em. Not to huh he ain’t.”

  “He sho’ ain’t,” Walter Thomas chimed in. “It’s too bad, too, cause she wuz a right pretty li’l trick when he got huh. Ah’d uh mah’ied huh mahself if he hadnter beat me to it.”

  Delia nodded briefly at the men as she drove past.

  “Too much knockin’ will ruin any ’oman. He done beat huh ‘nough tuh kill three women, let ’lone change they looks,” said Elijah Moseley. “How Syke kin stommuck dat big black greasy Mogul he’s layin’ roun’ wid, gits me. Ah swear dat eight-rock couldn’t kiss a sardine can Ah done thowed out de back do’ ’way las’ yeah.”

  “Aw, she’s fat, thass how come. He’s allus been crazy ‘bout fat women,” put in Merchant. “He’d a’ been tied up wid one long time ago if he could a’ found one tuh have him. Did Ah tell yuh ’bout him come sidlin’ roun’ mah wife — bringin’ her a basket uh peecans outa his yard fuh a present? Yessir, mah wife! She tol’ him tuh take ‘em right straight back home, ’cause Delia works so hard ovah dat washtub she reckon everything on de place taste lak sweat an’ soapsuds. Ah jus’ wisht Ah’d a’ caught ‘im ’roun’ dere! Ah’d a’ made his hips ketch on fiah down dat shell road.”

  “Ah know he done it, too. Ah sees ‘im grinnin’ at every ‘oman dat passes,” Walter Thomas said. “But even so, he useter eat some mighty big hunks uh humble pie tuh git dat li’l ‘oman he got. She wuz ez pritty ez a speckled pup! Dat wuz fifteen years ago. He useter be so skeered uh losin’ huh, she could make him do some parts of a husband’s duty. Dey never wuz de same in de mind.”

  “There oughter be a law about him,” said Lindsay. “He ain’t fit tuh carry guts tuh a bear.”

  Clarke spoke for the first time. “Tain’t no law on earth dat kin make a man be decent if it ain’t in ‘im. There’s plenty men dat takes a wife lak dey do a joint uh sugar-cane. It’s round, juicy an’ sweet when dey gits it. But dey squeeze an’ grind, squeeze an’ grind an’ wring tell dey wring every drop uh pleasure dat’s in ’em out. When dey’s satisfied dat dey is wrung dry, dey treats ‘em jes’ lak dey do a cane-chew. Dey thows ’em away. Dey knows whut dey is doin’ while dey is at it, an’ hates theirselves fuh it but they keeps on hangin’ after huh tell she’s empty. Den dey hates huh fuh bein’ a cane-chew an’ in de way.”

  “We oughter take Syke an’ dat stray ’oman uh his’n down in Lake Howell swamp an’ lay on de rawhide till they cain’t say Lawd a’ mussy. He allus wuz uh ovahbearin’ niggah, but since dat white ’oman from up north done teached ‘im how to run a automobile, he done got too beggety to live — an’ we oughter kill ’im,” Old Man Anderson advised.

  A grunt of approval went around the porch. But the heat was melting their civic virtue and Elijah Moseley began to bait Joe Clarke.

  “Come on, Joe, git a melon outa dere an’ slice it up for yo’ customers. We‘se all sufferin’ wid de heat. De bear’s done got me!”

  “Thass right, Joe, a watermelon is jes’ whut Ah needs tuh cure de eppizudicks,” Walter Thomas joined forces with Moseley. “Come on dere, Joe. We all is steady customers an’ you ain’t set us up in a long time. Ah chooses dat long, bowlegged Floridy favorite.”

  “A god, an’be dough. You all gimme twenty cents and slice away,” Clarke retorted. “Ah needs a col’ slice m‘self. Heah, everybody chip in. Ah’ll lend y’all mah meat knife.”

  The money was all quickly subscribed and the huge melon brought forth. At that moment, Sykes and Bertha arrived. A determined silence fell on the porch and the melon was put away again.

  Merchant snapped down the blade of his jackknife and moved toward the store door.

  “Come on in, Joe, an’ gimme a slab uh sow belly an’ uh pound uh coffee — almost fuhgot ‘twas Sat’day. Got to git on home.” Most of the men left also.

  Just then Delia drove past on her way home, as Sykes was ordering magnificently for Bertha. It pleased him for Delia to see.

  “Git whutsoever yo’ heart desires, Honey. Wait a minute, Joe. Give huh two bottles uh strawberry soda-water, uh quart parched ground-peas, an’ a block uh chewin’ gum.”

  With all this they left the store, with Sykes reminding Bertha that this was his town and she could have it if she wanted it.

  The men returned soon after they left, and held their watermelon feast.

  “Where did Syke Jones git da ’oman from noh
ow?” Lindsay asked.

  “Ovah Apopka. Guess dey musta been cleanin’ out de town when she lef’. She don’t look lak a thing but a hunk uh liver wid hair on it.”

  “Well, she sho’ kin squall,” Dave Carter contributed. “When she gits ready tuh laff, she jes’ opens huh mouf an’ latches it back tuh de las’ notch. No ole granpa alligator down in Lake Bell ain’t got nothin’ on huh.”

  III

  Bertha had been in town three months now. Sykes was still paying her room-rent at Delia Lewis’ — the only house in town that would have taken her in. Sykes took her frequently to Winter Park to ‘stomps’. He still assured her that he was the swellest man in the state.

  “Sho’ you kin have dat li’l ole house soon’s Ah git dat ‘oman outa dere. Everything b’longs tuh me an’ you sho’ kin have it. Ah sho’ ’bominates uh skinny ‘oman. Lawdy, you sho’ is got one portly shape on you! You kin git anything you wants. Dis is mah town an’ you sho’ kin have it.”

  Delia’s work-worn knees crawled over the earth in Gethsemane and up the rocks of Calvary many, many times during these months. She avoided the villagers and meeting places in her efforts to be blind and deaf. But Bertha nullified this to a degree, by coming to Delia’s house to call Sykes out to her at the gate.

  Delia and Sykes fought all the time now with no peaceful interludes. They slept and ate in silence. Two or three times Delia had attempted a timid friendliness, but she was repulsed each time. It was plain that the breaches must remain agape.

  The sun had burned July to August. The heat streamed down like a million hot arrows, smiting all things living upon the earth. Grass withered, leaves browned, snakes went blind in shedding and men and dogs went mad. Dog days!

  Delia came home one day and found Sykes there before her. She wondered, but started to go on into the house without speaking, even though he was standing in the kitchen door and she must either stoop under his arm or ask him to move. He made no room for her. She noticed a soap box beside the steps, but paid no particular attention to it, knowing that he must have brought it there. As she was stooping to pass under his outstretched arm, he suddenly pushed her backward, laughingly.