by Packer, Vin
She is a small, Roux-flaxen-haired woman with a good shape, slightly too prominent bust-wise, so that she appears a trifle top-heavy; but slim, with fine thin legs; pretty-faced, with jade almond-shaped eyes; and a rather startlingly sensual-looking mouth for one with small, narrow lips.
It is just after six, still light outdoors but growing dark, and in the living room it’s dim and shadowy. Restlessly she fumbles for a cigarette, scratches a match to light it, and lets the smoke out from her lungs in short, quick clouds. She waits until Major comes as far up the lawn as the cellar steps, where he is taking the trash can; then she raises the window and calls out to him.
“Yes, ma’am?” he says. “Oh, hello, ma’am. I didn’t know you were back.”
“When you get down in the cellar, stay there, Major,” she tells him. “I want to go over my jams in the fruit cellar. I’ll need help.” “Yes, ma’am.”
She stays at the window until he disappears down the steps, the aluminum clanking against the concrete walls as he goes into the cellar. Then she reaches into her pocketbook, digging for her lipstick and compact. Turning the lamp on, she studies her face as she repairs the makeup, then takes the little miniature atomizer from her change purse, and squirts some Arpege on her wrists….
The cellar is divided into three parts; the washroom, Fick’s carpenter shop, and her canning closet. Major is standing by the door of the latter when she comes down the steps, and he moves back slightly as she approaches him, her hand reaching out for the doorknob. She turns around suddenly without opening the door and looks up at him.
“Did you get the bedroom furniture moved all right, Major?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t mind working a little late, do you, Major?” “No, ma’am. I guess not.”
“If I hadn’t had to go to the Pirkles we could have done all this earlier today.” “Yes, ma’am.”
“Poor Colonel Pirkle … It was quite a shock to him,” she says, looking up at his eyes, which are lowered. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Cindy is working her fingers to the bone trying to get the house all in order for the funeral … Do you know Cindy, Major?”
“Cindy Bennett? Yes, ma’am. She lives near me.” “Do you ever take her — dancing, Major?” “I don’t dance much, ma’am.”
She gives a little laugh. “Oh, no? I thought you all danced. The colored have such a good sense of rhythm. I just thought you’d probably be a dancer too.”
“I guess we better get those jams taken care of, ma’am. My cousin from up North is visiting me, and I’d like to get home for supper.”
“Oh?” She’s slightly peeved. “Very well, Major. Come along.”
He follows her inside, where it is dark, and she says, “You want to reach up for that light, Major? I can’t reach it.”
He turns it on, but it gives only a slight illumination.
“Down there are the peach jams,” she says. “We’ll start down there. I’ll check them, and hand those up to you which I want to take to the kitchen with me.”
She is wearing a black cotton sheath dress; high spike heels, and fine-gauge nylon stockings. As she squats to reach for the jams, her skirt slips up past her knees, an inch of the black lace of her petticoat shows.
“Let’s see, this was January, last year … I didn’t know we had any of that left. Here, Major, take this.” She hands it to him. “Well, do you ever take her anywhere, Major?”
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“I said, do you ever take Cindy anywhere?” “No, ma’am.”
“Don’t you have a girl friend, Major?” “Yes, ma’am.”
“I thought you would. A big boy like you … Umm-hm, this is last year’s, too. We’ve got a lot more of it left than I thought. Here, Major, take this too … What do you and your girl friend do?”
“Same as anybody, I guess. Go on walks. To the pictures. Same as anybody.” Major sighs. “Oh? What’s the sigh for, Major?” “I don’t know, ma’am.” “You nervous about something?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t got anything to be nervous about.”
“Uh-huh, here’s more … Major, why don’t you kneel down here by me and help me look for them. Then we can just stack them, and take them out all at once.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the crowded area of the canning closet, Major stoops down beside her, straining his eyes to read the labels on the small Mason jars.
“Your cousin from New York arrived last night, Major?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you think of him?” “I don’t know him too well.”
“Oh? … Here’s a plum. What’s that doing with the peach? Here, Major, take it.” She hands it to him, turning her body a little toward his, her legs parting at the knees, so that she squats in an open, spread-legged way. Major takes the jar from her, notices her position, and looks quickly back down at the bottles in front of him.
“I suppose your cousin will tell you all about life in the big city.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you like to go to New York, Major?” “I don’t know, ma’am.”
“You’d probably like New York, Major … You know I’m a New Yorker.” “Yes, ma’am.”
“Up there things are different. More lenient, you know. Up there the colored can do just about as they please. I even went to school with colored.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Of course they’re trying to get that rule passed down here, but I wonder if they ever will. Don’t you?” “Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you like to go to school with white girls, Major?”
“I don’t know, Miz Pirkle. I guess I don’t care either way.”
“You can talk to me about it, Major. I’m not a Southerner. I went to school with colored, so you don’t have to watch yourself around me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is that all you’ll say?”
“What, ma’am?” Major picks up a bottle, sets it aside, not looking at her.
“Stop a minute, Major.” He stops. “Ma’am?” “Look at me.”
Major looks once, sees the open legs — open so that he can see to her thighs — and looking up to her eyes, they meet his directly.
“I’m not like the others down here. You can trust me, Major.”
“Ma’am?” he asks, turning his glance away from her; feeling the heat climb in him. He’s suddenly scared.
“No matter what you did, Major, you could trust me.”
“I didn’t do anything, ma’am,” Major mumbles.
“No, but if you wanted to … Lots of times when I was young I wanted to do things I wouldn’t do because I was afraid grown-ups would find out and punish me. It’s like the colored down here. They’re afraid to do things for what the whites will do to them … You can trust me, Major.”
“Yes, ma’am … There’s nothing I want to do, but — ” “But what, Major? Hmmm?” Her hand brushes his knee. “But get my work done, ma’am.”
“Major, you can trust me. I’m telling you! Major, look at me!”
Major turns his head slowly, and does not dare to look below her eyes. She is staring hard at him, and he is aware of her legs spread as she squats, of her hand then, pulling her dress (down or up? No, Gawd, boy, you know up; you’re not imagining this time, no, Gawd, boy!).
Suddenly, Major Post jerks himself to his feet, knocking over two jam jars as he does, bolting out of that room as she begins to scream at him, “Where are you going? You’re not through! Come back here!” But Major is already halfway up the stairs and out of that house, shaking all over, and swearing inside of him at everything. Shaking and sweating and swearing — running.
• • •
Outside the Post shack in The Toe, sitting in the car waiting for Thad, Vivian Hooper reviews the day’s incidents, and feels an immense shame for last night. The fact of Ada’s death contributes to her depression, and the quarrel she had had with Thad at the barbecue which evoked
such self-pity in her, and ultimately caused her to confess her thoughts to Storey, is no longer even clear in her mind.
Her mind is dominated now by one emotion — guilt. She is guilty at the fact she built the quarrel — what was it about? Simply that Thad wanted her to change her dress and she was stubborn — to such preposterous proportions, then exhibited her infantile anger by sulking, leaving her guests and sulking until Storey came along. How could she have ever reached such a nadir? Crying out to him like an alley cat in heat, offering herself to him like a lust-hungry bitch! How had she let that happen?
She muses that perhaps Thad is right about her “wiggling,” her clothes, her character — that part of her which she had always felt was simply a natural side to any woman, and which she had imagined Thad was just too damnably prudish about. Maybe Thad had been right all along. Storey never would have acted as he had last night if she hadn’t provoked it (What do
you think I want to do, hearing you talk this way? he had said); and afterward, when they had broken away from each other suddenly at the sound of Kate’s voice, Vivian Hooper had seen the sick look on Storey’s face and known he would never forgive her for the shame he felt. Storey, who always spoke of Kate’s goodness, was probably just as shocked as Thad at any sign in a female that she could enjoy the physical … God, maybe women really weren’t supposed to enjoy that.
Then this morning had begun particularly badly. First with Vivian’s awakening very early to realize her memory of all this; lying in her bed feeling the numb disbelief at what happened last night, followed by the agonized mumblings Thad had made in his sleep — the “No, please, Vivie! No, please!” which he had groaned out in such pitifully pained tones — and then the phone call from Doc Sell saying Ada had died — and the way Thad had responded with the strength and properness and appropriateness that characterized Thad Hooper.
He had said, “Whatever happened yesterday, honey, is pretty much outshadowed by this, isn’t it? We’ve got to do what we can for Colonel and young Dix … I guess we never realize how fortunate we are until something like this shows us … Do you want to go over there for the evening to help out?”
There had been nothing more said about the barbecue, and she and Thad were their old selves again save for how she felt. As they drive to The Toe tonight — typically, Thad had not forgotten his responsibility to the Posts regarding the accident; and typically, too, he had forgotten his anger at Bryan — their palaver had been easy and warm and friendly. They had even seemed somehow closer than they had been in a long time.
Vivian Hooper wishes she could forget the guilt stealing all through her; and shut out the suspicion that Thad has been right all along about that side of her which she had always adamantly insisted was a natural part of being a woman.
Well, thank God for Thad, Vivian Hooper thinks.
Thinks: From now on I’ll be what he wants me to be — all the way down the line.
• • •
The four boys wander down toward The Toe in an aimless, careless fashion; handing sass back and forth with studied nonchalance — Millard Post, Claus, Jack Rowan and Raleigh. They had met as they had arranged, at six, up in front of the feed store; and now they are scuffing their shoes along the dusty path, laughing and quarreling and teasing one another.
“Naw, I’m not lying either,” Millard Post snaps, more indignant now. “Why don’t you dig me, man? I got news about white girls.”
They had been dwelling on this subject more than on any other, Rowan and Raleigh riding Millard about it, and Millard responding vehemently, slightly put out at their incredulousness but finding a rather easy camaraderie with them now knowing that they admire him, even envy him, despite the ribbing and the quibbling.
“What you think, Pit? He a liar?”
“Jack, I don’t know, now. I don’t know. ‘Member, he Major Post’s cousin from up North.” Claus squeaks, “He mine too.”
“You squares ought to come up North and know what living is,” Millard says. “Up North you get a job, you get a real job, man. Not a cotton-picking job. I never even saw cotton before I got down here.”
“You saw white tail though,” Raleigh says, not letting Millard change the subject.
“I told you that! Man, you got a one-track mind!”
“And you ain’t?”
“I got more on my mind than that, man. I’m gonna go in this life. Go!” Millard socks the air with his fist and chuckles.
Rowan giggles, pulling his old battered hat down over his eyes. “Hear dat, Pit? Nothin’ but nothin’ faze this boy, he say.”
“Yeah, Jack. He most non-cha-lunt for a nigger.”
“I bet he scared to do anything,” Rowan says. “Bet he scared like a chicken.”
“You crazy?” Millard gives a debonair chortle. “I never chickened in my life. Beat up spics twice my size.”
“He not scared of nothin’,” Claus put in. “He flew all de way here in an air-o-plane.”
“Hey!” Jack Rowan comes to a halt in the road. “Lookit down in front of your house, Clausy. Dere’s dat Linoleum Hill quail sittin’ dere proud as you please in dat car. All by herself, hah?”
“Dat’s Miz Hooper,” Claus says.
“Yeah, we know who dat is. Prettiest piece around. Huh, Jack?”
“Sure.” Jack laughs. “Just like we tole you, Yankee. Dey come down to The Toe beggin’ us. See dat?” “Dat’s Miz Hooper,” Claus repeats.
“Hey,” Jack Rowan says, “you, Yankee! I bet I know something you’d chicken out on.” “Naw, you don’t.”
“Well, if up North dey just don’t bow and scrape around like you say, maybe you won’t chicken, but I bet you will.”
“Put your money where your mouth is.”
“Bet you don’t dare go up to dat car an poke yo head in de window and cluck yo tongue at her.”
“Huh? Cluck my tongue? Man, I’d dare go up to that car and do more than that.”
“Like what more?” Rowan looks at Millard. “Huh?”
Millard shrugs. “Ask her for a date.”
“You’d dare do that?” Raleigh says.
“Sure I’d dare.”
“Miz Hooper, she nice,” Claus says. “Don’t scare her.”
“He ain’t gonna scare her. He just gonna ask her for a date. Oh, dat wouldn’t scare her,” Raleigh says.
“Uh-uh,” Rowan says. “She be thrilled to her white bones.”
“Sure,” Raleigh says. “Dat happens all de time round here.”
Millard Post says, “Now who’s a chicken?”
“I ain’t saying I’d ask her for a date; you saying it, boy. Not me!” Rowan answers. “You making the big talk; not me.”
“I would, too.”
“I got a quarter says you wouldn’t,” Raleigh says.
Millard looks at him, looks down at the car, figures he could do it and run like hell. What the hell? Show these damn squares something. Woman wouldn’t know him anyhow. He says: “You want to pay me now or after?”
“Hey, don’t scare Miz Hooper, Miller. She nice.”
“I’m not going to scare her, f’Chrissake!”
“I’ll pay you after,” Raleigh says, his eyes waiting for Post’s to relent.
Rowan nudges him. Rowan says: “We don’t want no trouble, Pit.”
“He ain’t gonna do nothin’,” Raleigh tells Rowan. “He just talk!”
“You watch talk,” Millard Post says. “You just watch talk.” He looks again at the car, at the fields to the left, where he could run. He calculates and says again, “You just watch talk,” and then starts to move.
“You damn fool nigger!” Rowan barks curtly. “You damn nervy nigger. You want to hang?” But Millard doesn’t listen; Millard feels big now, bigger than anyone. He feels them watching him; he’ll show them. Christ, he can run like hell after.
“Hey, I ain’t giving you no quarter!” Raleigh blurts out. “Hey, nigger, bet’s off, you hear?”
“Cousin Miller!” Claus
squeals. “He ain’t givin’ you a quarter.”
“Gawd, Pit, he gonna do it!”
“Bet’s off!” Raleigh yells, watching Millard Post’s back, watching him amble down slowly in the direction of the car.
“I’m going after my cousin,” Claus cries, starting to run; but Jack Rowan grabs the boy by the collar. “No you ain’t either, nigger,” he says. “You going the opposite way, same as us. C’mon! C’mon. Let’s get outa here!”
“He my cousin,” Claus protests.
“C’mon,” Pit Raleigh yells, helping Rowan drag Claus. “Fly, legs! Gawd, fly!”
Millard Post doesn’t look back, doesn’t see them run; he just keeps going toward the car; thinking, I’ll show them; you just watch talk; then afterward, I can run like hell. How she going to know who did it?
• • •
Inside the Posts’ shack, Thad Hooper stands with his coat and hat on, ready now to leave. Bissy and Bryan stand by him near the door. Old Hussie sits in the corner in the rocker, smoking her pipe wordlessly.
“… so now that it’s all settled,” Hooper concludes the matter, “you stay off that corn, boy. You hear?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Thad. I certainly do most ‘preciate all this, Mr. Thad.”
“Well, I figured there was no sense deducting that money from your family’s share of the crops, or from Hus’s wages. No sense them paying because of you. And God knows you’d never save it from your mill check, so we’ll drop it. And you can do those extra chores I mentioned … But I’m warning you, boy. No corn on my place!”
Bissy says, “Don’t you worry, Mr. Thad. I’m gone keep tight rein on dis no-good nigger.”
Bryan, looking and sounding sheepish, scratches his head and drawls, “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Mr. Thad. I got my lesson studied by now.”
“Okay.” Hooper starts to reach for the doorknob, but glances back at Hussie before he does. “Nice to have a day off, hah, Hus? We sure appreciate your taking the trouble with the barbecue last night.”