They drove away homeward, but at the last store before leaving town Luke dismounted and bought a large stock of peppermint candy—red and white striped.
“She’ll be tickled to death to git dis candy,” Luke jubilated.
“You ought to’ve got dat box kind of candy fuh her,” Artie commented gently.
“What! Spen’ a whole dallah fuh a teeny lil’ box when Ah kin git dis great big stick fuh uh dime?”
At home, Vangie had supper ready and as soon as the horses were unhitched and fed, they gathered about the table. Then the old lover slyly arose and presented his gifts. First the churn, a big brown earthen affair—and Vangie exclaimed happily over it, but there was a little of disappointment in her voice which Luke would have noticed had he not been so consumed by the joy of giving. Then the calico, which she received a little happier, and last the broom and candy, upon which he bumped her mouth awkwardly with his own.
“Oh, you’se mighty good to me, Honey,” she told him. “Ah reckon Ah got de bestest husban’ in Floridy.”
Luke went beaming back to his seat.
Artie nonchalantly tossed a parcel in Vangie’s lap.
“Thass a lil’ somethin’ fum me, too, Vangie. You been waitin’ on me and doin’ fuh me ever since you been heah an’ Ah ain’t never give you a cent. Ah’ll be buyin’ you somethin’ all along if you keep on lookin’ after me.”
It turned out to be a white wool skirt and a pink silk blouse. Poor Vangie was delighted and could not keep the ecstacy out of her eyes and voice.
“Oh, Oh, Artie!” she cried, grasping his hand. “You’se so good to me!”
She held the two garments up to measure and hugged them gleefully.
“Artie, Artie!” she all but wept. “How you know whut mah heart wanted so?”
“Ah, Ah would a bought it fuh you, Vangie, if Ah had a knowed,” said Luke miserably and remained silent for the rest of the meal.
That night Luke sprinkled his “hand” and put it on.
The old sun so careless of human woes, shone brightly every day. If Luke wept in his hell of misgivings, the sun came up and sped across the blue, glorying hotly in its strength and power just the same. Old trees rotted at the heart, and the sun nourished young saplings that quickly buried the struggling old forest-monarch in their shadows. The sun went on and on to his sky bed at night, pulling the gray and purple hangings of his couch about him and slept, indifferent to human tears.
Artie and Vangie did nothing that Luke could put his finger upon as unfaithful. It was just their lowered eyes, their happy gazes that hurt him. He did not believe that they had desecrated his hearth, but he could feel their love like a presence occupying the house. It pricked his old skin painfully as soon as he entered. He could not rage, he could not kill. He loved them both till it all but suffocated him. In this great love he saw they suffered too—that Artie loved him greatly for he laid down his love for his father’s sake. But for how much longer? Luke had asked himself.
The sun flung August hotly down upon him.
Vangie dressed every Sunday in the skirt and blouse that Artie had bought her. Luke could only explain this by the fact that Artie had given them. He, of the calico age, could not understand the tastes of the age of silk.
Oh, the house was unbearable! His suspicions had filled every chink and cranny. He began to approach sheltered places stealthily and creep thru the orange grove. Then he would hastily retreat lest he surprise them.
“Tell you whut,” he began one evening. “We cain’t do nothin’ to de crops fuh a week uh mo’—les’ we all shut up de house, turn de stock on de pashcher an’ go on a-fishin’ trip up de rivah!”
“Ooh! Les’ we all!” Vangie echoed.
“Ah kin stan’ a whole heap uh dat, Papa.” Artie laughed and stretched his mighty limbs. “Les’ start t’morrer.”
III
The awakening sun threw a flaming sword upon the St. John’s River the next morning as they embarked.
The camping necessities were piled high in the center of the large rowboat before Artie, who rowed. Vangie was perched in the low stern facing him with Luke at his back in the high prow seat.
Down river they flew under Artie’s mighty strokes. The sun lost its redness as it climbed. The hounds with forepaws on the gunwale barked defiances to river alligators, woods, and would not be stilled in their freedom.
“How fur we goin’, Artie?” Vangie asked.
“Oh, way past de ‘Coast Line’ bridge,” he answered. “Thass all right, ain’t it, Pop?”
“Ah, sho’, sho’,” the old man answered.
“We been down there heaps uh times on account uh game,” Artie went on. “Dere’s panthers, catamounts, deers and bears in dem woods ’bout twenty miles off.”
“Ooh. Ah’ll be skeered,” Vangie shuddered.
“No need to be—Ah’m heah,” Artie answered quickly. “Ole wile cat ’bout got me when Ah wuz a lil’ shaver but Papa kilt him—fought him wid his pocket-knife—ain’t he never tole you?”
“Naw, indeedy, please—Luke, tell me.”
“Oh, tain’t much to tell, Vangie. Hit wuz in dese same woods we gwine to now. Artie allus did love to follow me ’round trapisin’ long, holdin’ on to mah finger wid his lil’ fat han’s. His ma useter cry an’ say he loved me better’n he done her . . . Well, Ah had some traps set ’round in dem swamps an’ he cried to go, so Ah took him. Way down in dat hammock we flushed a wile cat an’ she leaped right at mah boy but Ah wuz too quick fur her. Ah got in betwixt an’ she landed on me. An’ Ah had to fight wid mah han’s an’ a pocket-knife. Ah kilt her, but she clawed me up so’s de doctah had to take a whole heap uh stitches.”
He displayed his arms and chest.
Vangie’s eyes grew misty.
“An’ fuh dat,” Artie said flippantly, but with a husky voice, “Ah’m gointer let him be mah papa till Ah die.”
They all laughed excessively to hide their feelings.
The sun quieted the dogs, sweated the people, and fried the paint on the boat.
Artie rowed on, his tremendous muscles bunching, stretching, bunching, stretching, as he bent to the oar. As he rowed he sang. The Negro melodies rolled out of his chest in deep baritone and rumbled over the river to be lost among the trees. Deep vibrating tones, high quavering minors. He sang on and on, filling Vangie’s ears with his music, her eyes with his body, and her heart with love of him.
Luke saw it all. His son’s back was toward him, huge, huge, till it swelled and swelled until it blotted out the boat, the river, the woods, the earth, the sun for Luke. The universe held nothing but Artie singing to Vangie and caressing her with his eyes. His old skin pricked and crept uncomfortably.
But, he gloated, the “hand” would hold. They could but bruise themselves against the bars.
Hell? Yes. Fire? No. Just one woman, two men in a boat—two men who love her—two men who love each other.
They suffer from the heat—Artie rowing, most of all. Vangie wets her handkerchief in the river and spreads it over Artie’s head under his hat. His arteries swell, her hand trembles. Their faces are close—their lips nearly meet. Involuntarily Luke grasps for his “hand” and all but faints. It was gone. God knows where. String must have worn in two.
The two hours for Luke crawled on up the river and over him with hot brassy feet. The sun was arching toward his bed.
“Ah’m tired,” Vangie gasped.
“Not much longer now,” Artie comforted her—“We’se gointer camp jes’ beyon’ de bridge—’bout three miles mo’.”
“Luke’s ’sleep,” Vangie observed.
Artie glanced over his shoulder—
“Guess ’tis pretty hahd on de ole man. We’ll camp soon.”
But Luke was not asleep. He slumped there with closed eyes lest they see his tears. His first wife had been merely a good worker—he had never loved any woman but Vangie. His whole life had been lived for his boy, so that Artie might know nothing but happiness. And now,
that which would give Artie happiness, would at one stroke rob him both of wife and son! His heart contracted so painfully that he gasped and opened his eyes.
The bitterness of life struck him afresh. He blamed them. He didn’t. Poor creatures! Designing devils! He closed his eyes again.
The bridge was in sight. And now he noticed the sun was setting. The sky darkened: the fleecy clouds soaked up more color and yet more—magenta, purple, blush, rose with light shafts hurled across the heavens from the west as if the sky monarch on retiring would disperse his train.
With every pull on the oars, Artie leaned nearer to Vangie and she, forgetting, was leaning toward him. He, with the rebirth of the world in his eyes—the eternal torch lighter. She inclining her taper to his light with closed eyes and all consuming love. All who ran might read.
The bridge was at hand. Wide, stone pillared, crouching low over the river. As they shot under, a train rushed screeching overhead.
Here in the darkness, Artie drew in the oars and let the boat drift slowly. His hand touched Vangie’s, his feverish lips touched her hungry ones, and lazily, slowly the boat was wafted out again into the light.
They saw at once that Luke was not [asleep]—and both fell a-weeping. Artie forgot about his oars and the boat floated where it would upon the stream.
The indifferent sun, in bed, drew round his purple curtain and slept.
On the river they wept on. The boat drifted on, for Destiny, the grim steersman, had seized the rudder and they were bound—whither?
’Possum or Pig?
Before freedom there was a house slave very much in the confidence of the Master. But young pigs began to disappear, and for good reasons the faithful house slave fell under suspicion.
One night, after his duties at the “big house” were over, he was sitting before his cabin fire. From a pot was seeping the odor of young pig. There was a knock at the door.
“Who dat?” he asked cautiously.
“It’s me, John,” came the Master’s voice.
“Lawd, now, Massa, whut you want way down heah?”
“I’m cold, John. I want to come in.”
“Now, Massa, ah jes’ lef’ a lovely hot fire at de big house. You aughter gwan up dere an’ git warm.”
“I want to come in, John.”
“Massa, whut you wanta come in po’ niggah’s house an’ you got dat fine big house up yander?”
“John, if you don’t open this door, I’ll have you whipped tomorrow.”
John went to the door grumbling about rich white folks hanging around po’ niggahs’ cabins.
The white man sat down before the blazing fire. The pot boiled and breathed of delicious things within.
After a while he said, “I’m hungry, John. What have you got in that pot?”
“Lawd, now, Massa, whut you wanter eat mah po’ vittles fuh and Mistis got roas’ chicken an’ ham an’ chine-bone pie an’ everything up to de house? White folks got de funniest ways.”
“What’s in that pot, John?”
“It’s one lil’ measly possum, Massa, ah’m bilin’ tuh keep fuh a cold snack.”
“I want some of it.”
“Naw, Massa, you don’t want none uh dat dirty lil’ possum.”
“Yes I do, and if you don’t give me some, I’ll have you whipped.”
John slowly arose and got a plate, knife and fork and opened the pot.
“Well,” he said resignedly before dipping in. “Ah put dis heah critter in heah a possum,—if it comes out a pig, ’tain’t mah fault.”
STEPPED ON A TIN, MAH STORY ENDS.
The Eatonville Anthology
I
THE PLEADING WOMAN
Mrs. Tony Roberts is the pleading woman. She just loves to ask for things. Her husband gives her all he can rake and scrape, which is considerably more than most wives get for their housekeeping, but she goes from door to door begging for things.
She starts at the store. “Mist’ Clarke,” she sing-songs in a high keening voice, “gimme lil’ piece uh meat tuh boil a pot uh greens wid. Lawd knows me an’ mah chillen is SO hongry! Hits uh SHAME! Tony don’t fee-ee-eee-ed me!”
Mr. Clarke knows that she has money and that her larder is well stocked, for Tony Roberts is the best provider on his list. But her keening annoys him and he arises heavily. The pleader at this shows all the joy of a starving man being seated at a feast.
“Thass right Mist’ Clarke. De Lawd loveth de cheerful giver. Gimme jes’ a lil’ piece ’bout dis big (indicating the width of her hand) an’ de Lawd’ll bless yuh.”
She follows this angel-on-earth to his meat tub and superintends the cutting, crying out in pain when he refuses to move the knife just a teeny bit mo’.
Finally, meat in hand, she departs remarking on the meanness of some people who give a piece of salt meat only two-fingers wide when they were plainly asked for a hand-wide piece. Clarke puts it down to Tony’s account and resumes his reading.
With the slab of salt pork as a foundation, she visits various homes until she has collected all she wants for the day. At the Piersons, for instance: “Sister Pierson, plee-ee-ease gimme uh han’ful uh collard greens fuh me an’ mah po’ chillen! ’Deed, me an’ mah chillen is SO hongry. Tony doan’ fee-ee-eed me!”
Mrs. Pierson picks a bunch of greens for her, but she springs away from them as if they were poison. “Lawd a mussy, Mis’ Pierson, you ain’t gonna gimme dat lil’ eye-full uh greens fuh me an’ mah chillen, is you? Don’t be so graspin’; Gawd won’t bless yuh. Gimme uh han’full mo’. Lawd, some folks is got everything, an’ theys jes’ as gripin’ an stingy!”
Mrs. Pierson raises the ante, and the pleading woman moves on to the next place, and on and on. The next day, it commences all over.
II
TURPENTINE LOVE
Jim Merchant is always in good humor—even with his wife. He says he fell in love with her at first sight. That was some years ago. She has had all her teeth pulled out, but they still get along splendidly.
He says that first time he called on her he found out that she was subject to fits. This didn’t cool his love, however. She had several in his presence.
One Sunday, while he was there, she had one, and her mother tried to give her a dose of turpentine to stop it. Accidently, she spilled it in her eye and it cured her. She never had another fit, so they got married and have kept each other in good humor ever since.
III
Becky Moore has eleven children of assorted colors and sizes. She has never been married, but that is not her fault. She has never stopped any of the fathers of her children from proposing, so if she has no father for her children it’s not her fault. The men round about are entirely to blame.
The other mothers of the town are afraid that it is catching. They won’t let their children play with hers.
IV
TIPPY
Sykes Jones’ family all shoot craps. The most interesting member of the family—also fond of bones, but of another kind—is Tippy, the Jones’ dog.
He is so thin, that it amazes one that he lives at all. He sneaks into village kitchens if the housewives are careless about the doors and steals meats, even off the stoves. He also sucks eggs.
For these offenses he has been sentenced to death dozens of times, and the sentences executed upon him, only they didn’t work. He has been fed bluestone, strychnine, nux vomica, even an entire Peruna bottle beaten up. It didn’t fatten him, but it didn’t kill him. So Eatonville has resigned itself to the plague of Tippy, reflecting that it has erred in certain matters and is being chastened.
In spite of all the attempts upon his life, Tippy is still willing to be friendly with anyone who will let him.
V
THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A TRAIN
Old Man Anderson lived seven or eight miles out in the country from Eatonville. Over by Lake Apopka. He raised feed-corn and cassava and went to market with it two or three times a year. He bought all of his victuals wholesale so he wouldn�
�t have to come to town for several months more.
He was different from us citybred folks. He had never seen a train. Everybody laughed at him for even the smallest child in Eatonville had either been to Maitland or Orlando and watched a train go by. On Sunday afternoons all of the young people of the village would go over to Maitland, a mile away, to see Number 35 whizz southward on its way to Tampa and wave at the passengers. So we looked down on him a little. Even we children felt superior in the presence of a person so lacking in worldly knowledge.
The grown-ups kept telling him he ought to go see a train. He always said he didn’t have time to wait so long. Only two trains a day passed through Maitland. But patronage and ridicule finally had its effect and Old Man Anderson drove in one morning early. Number 78 went north to Jacksonville at 10:20. He drove his light wagon over in the woods beside the railroad below Maitland, and sat down to wait. He began to fear that his horse would get frightened and run away with the wagon. So he took him out and led him deeper into the grove and tied him securely. Then he returned to his wagon and waited some more. Then he remembered that some of the train-wise villagers had said the engine belched fire and smoke. He had better move his wagon out of danger. It might catch afire. He climbed down from the seat and placed himself between the shafts to draw it away. Just then 78 came thundering over the trestle spouting smoke, and suddenly began blowing for Maitland. Old Man Anderson became so frightened he ran away with the wagon through the woods and tore it up worse than the horse ever could have done. He doesn’t know yet what a train looks like, and says he doesn’t care.
VI
COON TAYLOR
Coon Taylor never did any real stealing. Of course, if he saw a chicken or a watermelon or muskmelon or anything like that that he wanted he’d take it. The people used to get mad but they never could catch him. He took so many melons from Joe Clarke that he set up in the melon patch one night with his shotgun loaded with rock salt. He was going to fix Coon. But he was tired. It is hard work being a mayor, postmaster, storekeeper and everything. He dropped asleep sitting on a stump in the middle of the patch. So he didn’t see Coon when he came. Coon didn’t see him either, that is, not at first. He knew the stump was there, however. He had opened many of Clarke’s juicy Florida Favorite on it. He selected his fruit, walked over to the stump and burst the melon on it. That is, he thought it was the stump until it fell over with a yell. Then he knew it was no stump and departed hastily from those parts. He had cleared the fence when Clarke came to, as it were. So the charge of rock-salt was wasted on the desert air.
Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick Page 16