Sarah said mildly to Annabel, “What’s that you’re wearing?”
“Pongee. It’s new.”
“Is it?” Sarah said with unflattering surprise. She studied the material briefly. “Well, it’s better out here in the sun. Indoors it made you look yellow as a Chinaman.”
Maggie laughed heartily and ambled away. Watching her go, Annabel said, “She must weigh two hundred pounds.”
“Maybe James likes the feel of it,” Sarah said.
Blair Senior, Blair Junior, Bonard, and James were discussing business, that of both the bank and the sawmill. Benjamin joined them under the oak tree where they stood watching two Negro men set up trestle tables to accommodate the vast quantities of food being prepared in the kitchen. The talk went to predictions of crop yields, and from that to more general predictions for the future of the family, the county, the state of Georgia, the South, the country, and the world. They alternated the grim and the hopeful until Bonard told the first dirty joke of the day. He had a talent for collecting and telling them, and never repeated himself. As one led to another and they became dirtier, the men drifted automatically away from the main party, until they were joined by other men and some of the older, bolder boys who were attracted by their frequent laughter. They decided during a pause to make their ritual inspection of the livestock and nearer fields. All men were supposed to be knowledgeable about such things, although none on the present occasion, not even Benjamin, knew as much of what they were pretending to examine as Sarah did. For the most part, men talked to men and women to women, but there was considerable mingling too, as affections and disaffections eased and sharpened.
The women talked ailments and remedies, servants and food, children and the old, fashions and flower gardens. Each knew the prejudices and vanities of every other. Compliments and barbs were exchanged about “my begonia” and “your crepe myrtle.” Flat contradictions were followed by warm statements of support. Jane said that she found used tea leaves good for the top of fern pots, and Prudence begged anyone to advise her how to rid her yellow rose bushes of lice. The prompt answers ranged from applying vinegar and tobacco juice to picking them off by hand. Frankie, absently fingering the lace at her throat, was remembering the hour she’d spent yesterday with Benjamin in the wood they had gone to their first time together and once or twice a week since. When they appeared to be waiting for a comment from her, she sighed and said everyone knew she was a Savannah girl and couldn’t grow jimsonweeds. Miss Kilmer, smoothing her shirtwaist, reminded them of the trouble she had with her garden because: “The dear kitties will go marauding.”
“Drown them,” Annabel suggested, and when the cat lover gasped, added placatingly, “You know I don’t mean it, Miss Kilmer, but you’ll admit you let those creatures do too much as they please. You’ll wind up having no garden at all.”
“My sweet peas have never been better than this year,” Miss Kilmer announced with more acid in her voice than anyone had ever heard. Sarah frequently made the comment to Casey that Annabel brought out the worst in people.
Annabel yawned and smiled, and as Sarah joined the group, she challenged her with “Auntie Sarah, everyone admires my pongee. Take a look at Frankie in this light. Isn’t she a wonder? I declare she is the image of me when I was her age. Everyone says so. It’s like having my youth again. I vow you’ll have been sorry many a time for letting her slip through your fingers! I thank the stars Bonard had the wit to steal such a treasure from under your grandson’s eyes! You may say I fancy it, but I mark an even rosier glow on her these last few weeks. You see how happy Bonard makes her. Isn’t it so, my dear?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Frankie agreed demurely.
Annabel considered her remarks a double scoring, for not only had Benjamin and Frankie been very near marrying; at the same time Sarah had violently opposed an attempt of Annabel’s to marry Jane to Bonard. Continuing the attack, she said, “I don’t much approve your allowing Bessie Marsh’s young’un here among us.”
Sarah said, “Both his father and I wanted him. He is one of the family, and you may as well get used to him, Annabel, because he’ll be with us in future whenever we can manage it.”
“You see how wise you were to avoid such a marriage,” Annabel said to Frankie as if the others were not there. She sniffed. “I don’t wonder that Priscilla chose not to come today.”
“She’s with her father,” Sarah said. “He is ill.”
Annabel shook her head as one who knows better. “That union isn’t turning out well, is it? And to think ’twas I who put Ben up to it.”
Sarah said, “You must allow something to free choice.”
“Law yes, but these things are always a matter of suggestion, and it was I who put it into his head, or he’d never have thought of her. She wasn’t the sort of girl a young man like Ben looked at, nor the other young men thought of marrying. I remember his laughing when I told him how good she’d be for him. Ah well, one of my rare pieces of bad advice.”
“I can think of hundreds,” Sarah said, “although I don’t allow that it was bad in this instance.”
“You don’t mind my talking so, surely? We’re all family here, and you can say what you like to family.” Annabel smiled good-naturedly, satisfied that she had avenged the pongee.
Sitting with Nell, Doreen, who had no gift for light society, asked if she would like to hear a hymn. Nell said she would not, but Doreen obliged anyway with verse and two choruses of “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere.” Doreen had a strong voice for praying which she enjoyed exercising, but an unreliable one for melody. Nell pretended to go to sleep, and then went to sleep, but when she was ready to leave her, Doreen shook her awake and begged earnestly, “When you get to heaven, Aunt Nell, ask God what He’s done with Pharaoh, and when He tells you, find him and say I’ll join him in the sweet by-and-by.”
“Who is Pharaoh?” Nell asked.
“My beloved horse the Yankees killed. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes,” Nell said softly. “I’d forgotten, but now I remember that day.”
The children, with country space at their disposal, ran free, although their gossiping mammies kept watch over them, ready to attend at the first sound of crying. There was little trouble, however. Davy dropped a curly leaf from a tomato plant down the neck of Anna Saxon’s dress and told her it was a spider. Anna squawled, refusing to sit on the ground the rest of the day and promising Davy that if he came near her again, she’d bite him. Blair III stepped on a pretty piece of blue glass, cutting his big toe in a new-moon arc, the scar from which would be with him until he died. He cried a little, because it bled copiously, and was bandaged and petted by his mammy until inactivity bored him, whereupon he quickly mastered the trick of hopping and even running on one set of toes and the other heel.
The plantation carpenter, a man called Scudder, had set up two extra swings, a seesaw, and what they called a spinning jenny, which had nothing to do with spinning cotton but was a center-balanced, center-fixed thick board that could be pushed in a circle at moderate speed carrying at each end a child who weighed about the same as his partner on the other end. If the weights of the two children differed, then the lighter passenger kept to the far end of his side while the heavier sat closer to the center. The problem was in stopping once speed had been achieved, and a child had to be nimble to find the ground with his feet before he landed with a hard bump. The daughters of James and Maggie Davis were twelve, thirteen, and fourteen and would not on other than a family occasion be playing with the smaller children. When they kept the contraption to themselves for what he considered too long a time, Bobby Lee told them it was his and Leon’s turn to ride. Rebecca pushed Bobby Lee over backward when he tried to unseat her, whereupon Leon struck her on the arm with both fists. As she set up a wail, her sister Beatrice told Leon he was a bastard, because she’d heard her papa tell her mama so. Bobby Lee, recovering his legs, shoved Beatrice one way and Rebecca another, although they were each three times hi
s weight and double his height. Cora, the eldest of the three sisters, kicked Leon on the behind when he tried to push the spinning jenny around. Fanny Saxon and Luck Elk, who had been chummily sharing a swing seat a little distance away, left it and joined the battle on the side of the boys, simply because it looked to be Big against Little. Davy, who had been watching the proceedings with growing outrage, began to butt everyone his head could reach without regard to the target’s being friend or foe. As the clamor grew, mammies came running, and the combatants were soon pulled apart and shaken or hugged, depending upon the disciplinary technique favored by the several women.
It was a happy day. Sarah called Doreen to ask God’s blessing on the gathered family before they began to eat. Then as everyone moved and milled about the trestle tables under the trees, they said how good everything looked and then how good everything tasted. Gaiety gave way to sober appreciation, and when the largest mouth and the greediest eye had been filled to surfeit, a quiet time followed. The women withdrew to their resting rooms, and the children were bedded down in theirs, most of them on floor pallets, because children always preferred them to beds for their novelty and because they allowed more scope for mischief. For a while they giggled and nudged each other and changed places and accused each other of breaking wind, and then they went to sleep.
The men and bigger boys wandered into the woods, and when they came to the old Kendrick swimming place on the creek, they propped their backs against stumps or slumped under the trees, and most of them slept. Eventually, when all were again awake, they undressed and swam, only the Negro men not going into the water when Benjamin urged everyone to “come on in.” Late afternoon, they trooped back to the big house bearing on their shoulders long, stripy watermelons they had cooled in the creek.
The women had revived and found new energy for conversation, although the topics of discussion were unchanged. Reconciled to waking as they had been to sleeping, the children played. Although they protested that they were not, all were ready to eat again, this time of the red, sweet, mealy flesh of the melons, and to spit the black seeds playfully at each other as they swatted flies and cursed mosquitoes. Now and then they managed to sit quite still as Casey made more photographs. Thus the day’s party drew to a close; but its end was accomplished gradually. Horses and mules had to be hitched, hands had to be shaken and promises made in answer to a hundred requests to “come see us soon.” And Sarah and Josephine had to fill plates and baskets with left-over food and press them on departing guests for their supper when they arrived home. Last to go was Benjamin, taking Leon to the Marsh farm with a quart jar of Brunswick Stew in a hamper that included barbecued pig and cucumber pickles and three kinds of cake. As man and boy rode slowly along the darkening way, they sang “Yankee Doodle,” not because it was the Fourth of July, but because the words amused them. “… stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni!”
21
From the dignity of the messenger and the bowed heads of their mistresses the cats concluded that gravity was in order and composed themselves in a semicircle, looking as glum as deacons. “Something must have told me,” Doreen said to Eloise. “I’m so glad I sang her a hymn. Do you reckon she’s had time to get her bearings and give my message to Pharaoh?”
Brought the same news on the same morning, Annabel Saxon burst into tears and abandoned the breakfast table, leaving her husband to stare as he went off to open the bank and to marvel that there was never any knowing another human heart.
Two women who shared the same mile of earth died on July 4, 1879, both called old, although Mrs. Marsh of Marsh Farm was half the age of Nell Kendrick of Beulah Land. Their circumstances at death could hardly have been more different, the one cherished by family, the other despised; yet the subject of food, indeed of the very same dish, was by no remarkable coincidence near the mind of each in her ultimate hour.
Through the window Nell Kendrick saw Benjamin ride away with Leon in front of his saddle, and then she went to sleep. It had been a long, satisfying day. She had spoken pleasantly to everyone (except Annabel) who stopped to render respect. She had eaten with enjoyment—too much, it was true, but that had been her way. After the clamorous day, silence and peace settled over Beulah Land with the coming of night. There was only an occasional murmur of gossiping voices and tired laughter as servants cleared house and yards of the marks of family celebration.
She woke a scant hour before midnight to hear Bianca snoring on the floor pallet beside her bed. She thought of throwing her bedside Bible at her, but belched gently and closed her eyes, remembering the taste of Brunswick Stew. And so she sighed and died. Her death was not discovered until Sarah entered the room at five-thirty the following morning.
Mrs. Marsh’s end was less gentle and occurred a dozen hours earlier.
She had tied the cow’s rope to her left ankle and was sitting on the edge of a copse at the side of the cornfield. There wasn’t much grass, and the cow had several times turned to the standing corn. Although nearly blind, the woman was alert, and she yanked the cow every time she tried to pull toward the corn. Woman and cow were annoyed with each other, the one wanting the corn leaves and the other to sit quietly and think about Brunswick Stew. Would the boy remember? If he didn’t, would Miss Sarah not think of it anyway? She was a kinder woman than most and had been thoughtful of them in their past need. It was getting on for dinnertime and she was hungry; she’d mash her peas and pot liquor together, so they’d go down easier.
Eugene Betchley approached the copse carrying a live frog in his hand. He had first thought only to play a trick, knowing the cow’s skittishness; but then it occurred to him that more than laughter might be got from his fooling. Mrs. Marsh’s ears were sharp enough to hear his hard feet crunching the stiff earth rows as he came along. “That you, Bessie?” she said. There was no answer, and she was suddenly alarmed. “Bessie?” she called. When there was still no answer but the sound of footsteps coming on, she screamed for her daughter. “Bessie! Where are you?” She froze, her nose having told her who was there.
Eugene set the frog on the dry grass before the cow. The frog leaped. The cow shied. The frog leaped again; the cow bucked. Eugene yelled and slapped her hard on the flanks, and she went running, dragging the woman into the cornfield. Eugene picked up a rock and followed, coming to the cow, which had slowed to take a few corn leaves, their underside rougher than her tongue. The dazed woman was trying to untie the rope as it dragged her, but before she could manage it, Eugene struck, bashing in the side of her head.
When the dinner of boiled peas and corn bread was ready and the sun told her it was noon or nigh, Bessie stepped from the kitchen to the back yard and rang the rusted hand bell that had been used all her life to summon anyone at work in the fields. Eugene joined her presently after stopping at the well to slop water down his throat and over his hands, which he wiped on the bib of his overalls. Bessie thought briefly of her mother when he came in, but she thought of her only as being late, and no one at the Marsh farm waited for anyone else when food was on the table. With a shrug she sat down opposite Eugene and filled her plate after he’d served himself.
Both ate heartily, but when Eugene made as if to empty the last of the peas on the last of his crumbled corn bread, Bessie said, “Save that spoonful for Ma. She mightn’t have heard the bell.” She knew by the mockery in his eyes that something had happened and jerked the pea bowl away from him. “Where is she?”
Tilting the chair back to balance on two legs, he sucked his teeth and studied her face. “Ain’t it nice, us here by ourselves?”
She rose and clutched him by the hair of the head. “Tell me.”
“Don’t do that!” He struck her hand away and stood up. “In the field,” he said sullenly. “Cow dragged her, looks like.”
“You seen her and left her?”
“Might have been sleeping for all I knowed. I wasn’t that close.”
“Where?”
“Cornfield, by that clump
of sassafras. Hey!”
Bessie was running, Eugene after her. When they came to the place, the cow was eating contentedly, disregarding the body of Mrs. Marsh, who lay on her back, blood drying darkly where it matted her gray hair, her eyes sightlessly open to the hot sky.
Bessie saw and understood. She wouldn’t look at the man, for to do so would have made her his accomplice. She was afraid of him, but she knew she must protect him.
Eugene said, “Musta been sleeping to let the cow do her thataway. Way it happened, I spect. I’ll take her on to the house.”
“You sure she’s dead?” Bessie asked unnecessarily.
Eugene squatted and examined the head, eager now to cooperate. “Oh yeah. She’s gone, all right.” He untied the rope that bound her ankle. “Never should have done that. Not much good to herself and none to nobody else. Have to think on it that way, like she’s better off and so are we. I’ll fetch her home. You bring the cow.” Bessie took the rope from him when he handed it to her. He lifted the worn, soiled body to its lifeless legs and held it to look at the lolling head before slinging it up into his arms. “Heavier than she looks.” Bessie followed with the cow.
After bathing her and putting a clean dress on her, Bessie laid her on the bed she’d shared with Leon, throwing a sheet over her to keep flies and gnats off. Eugene walked to the country church a half mile away and brought back the preacher’s wife, Miss Ona, who said she’d sit with the corpse so they could finish the day’s work. Bessie and Eugene returned to the fields, coming in at sundown to send Miss Ona home with word for Reverend Paul that he could do the burying in the morning and they’d be there early to dig the grave.
Bessie and Eugene had eaten a supper of flour hoecake and fried fatback by the time Benjamin arrived with Leon. In a flat voice Bessie told them that Mrs. Marsh “got killed by letting the old cow drag her.” She’d seen it happen from a distance, she related, but when she got there, it was too late. Leon confirmed Eugene’s remark that Mrs. Marsh was in the habit of tying the rope to her ankle. Seeing Benjamin touch their son with concern, Bessie glared. “If you hadn’t been off having a good time today, you could have saved her.”
The Legacy of Beulah Land Page 13