Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 28
The day had been lowering and gray, and before the first dark fell, rain began. Nobody could go out in such weather, so the children ate supper early and went to bed, the three babies in Mary's bed in the big room and Seraphine with the other children in the shed room. They were all sleeping soundly when the boat on the river, due since early in the afternoon, made a hoarse blowing for the landing. Its voice must have reached to the clouds for a fresh downpour of rain beat on the roof and against the side of the house; great gusts of wind swelled and crackled the newspapers pasted over the cracks on the walls; those cut into fringes and decorating the high mantel-shelf shivered and shook with the draft, and the ones tied to barrel hoops and hung on the rafters swung slowly back and forth like bells tolling.
The red rooster, out with his flock of hens in the fig tree, flapped his wings three times and tried to give the boat a brave answer, but the rain and wind cut off the words in his throat. A shiver suddenly ran down Mary's back, and she straightened up and drew her frayed shawl a bit closer around her shoulders. That shiver meant that a rabbit was running over her grave. Jesus have mercy, how she hated to think of a grave on a lonesome black night like this.
The fire spat sharply when raindrops fell down the chimney and dulled its flame. Mary put down her needle and with the long iron poker punched the sticks of wood sharply together to make them brighter.
The top of the pot which hung on a pot hook in the back of the fireplace began clicking and clattering as steam from the stew inside it rose and filled the room with pleasant smell of goatmeat and herbs cooking together. Outside, in the rain, a goat bleated pitifully. Poor little Nan. She must smell the stew which was made out of her own son, a weanling born only last spring. She ought not to take his death so hard. She would have two more kids as soon as next spring came. Fretting would dry up her good sweet milk, make it bitter, and the babies would suffer.
Mary got up and, taking down the door-bar, cracked the door open wide enough to peer out into the thick wet darkness. "Nan—Nan," she called gently, "don' fret so hard, gal."
Nan's quivering answer guided Mary's eyes to a dim white spot where the little goat was tethered to the fig tree.
"I see you, Nan. Don' be lonesome. I'm here wid my mind a-runnin on a child o my own too. I know how you feel wid you son gone. I know good."
The wind whistled and lashed at the trees. Mary's long skirt whipped at her legs and pulled her back inside the room.
She closed the door tight, put the bar into place and, filling her pipe, sat down to smoke one last pipeful before she went to bed. It was good to be under shelter with all the children well and safe and out of the cold black rain. Lord, what a night!
She looked up at the enlarged picture of Unex hanging on the wall. It was taken from a small one he sent her and it cost a lot, but it was good to have his face there over the mantel-shelf where she could look at it the first thing every morning when she got up and the last thing every night before she went to bed. How much like July he was. The same high bony forehead and full eyes, the same broad mouth. If the picture could talk, it might tell her where he was, how he was; then she could be happy and satisfied. But it could only stare and stay dumb.
A large yellow cat crept in through the cat hole, a notch cut in one corner of the door. Mary chuckled. Tom had come home early to-night. The rain must have run the rats too deep in their holes for him to catch; or maybe he found courting no fun on such a wet night. Tom thought of nothing but pleasure: eating, sleeping, courting, keeping his fur smooth. He had not a trouble in the world, although his yellow kittens were scattered from one end of the plantation to the other. He was like all the other men. Children could come and children could go, but as Jong as his belly was full of victuals and he had a warm dry place to sleep, he was happy and satisfied. Women are different. Poor little Nan cried and could not sleep for grief because her child, a tall weanling, was gone from her.
Somebody stumbled up the steps and made a loud knock and called, "Si May-e, is you home? Do, fo Gawd's sake, open de door."
"Who dat?" she cried, almost startled out of her wits, for the voice was Unex's own. Spirits trick people on nights like this, she must be careful what she did.
"Who dat, I say?" She called out boldly, and the prompt answer came.
"Dis is me, Unex, Si May-e. Do le me in"
Mary dropped the door-bar. Her brain felt addled, her knees shook, she could not speak a word.
Unex was soaking wet, laden with luggage, a drenched hat pulled over his face. As he staggered toward the fire, each step he took left a puddle of water on the floor. His wet coat and breeches clung tight to his body and he seemed to have no breath left for speaking.
The door swung wide open, pushed back by the wind, and Mary's hands shook so she could hardly shut and bar it again. She hugged Unex and kissed him with many a sob, and he wept with her, but all the time he held fast to a bundle.
"Unex—honey—whe you come from?" She took off his hat and pushed his head back and stroked his thin cheeks. "Whe in Gawd's world is you come from, son? Put you bundle down an' get off dem wet clothes, dey is plastered wid mud."
Unex held tight to his wet bundle with bothhis arms.
"Lawd, I'm glad to git here. I mighty nigh give out back yonder in de big road," he sighed, and bending his head over wiped his wet face on his sleeve.
Mary got up and ran to get him a dry towel.
"Wha dat you got wrapped up so tight, in a blanket?"
Unex smiled a slow sad smile. "Dis is a present I brought you, Si May-e! De nicest present ever was, but I liken not to a got here wid em. Look at em and see how you like em."
He began undoing the blanket carefully, awkwardly. His hands were cold, the joints of his fingers stiff; but Mary stood still and watched him. At last the top of the blanket was off, and Unex bent over it saying, "Is you wake, Emma? Looka, Si May-e. E's you gramma, honey."
"Whe in Gawd's world did you get em from, son?"
The baby's bright black eyes stared up from a tiny wrinkled face, both small fists were clenched tight. Unex slipped a finger inside one of them, and it held on tight for dear life. "Emma is my own, Si May-e. I fetched em to you to raise for me."
Mary shifted her weight unsteadily from one knee to the other. "Who had em for you, son?" she whispered.
"E mammy is dead, Si May-e," the boy answered simply. "I couldn' raise em by mysef."
Mary brushed her tears away and patted Unex's shoulder briskly. "Gi me de child, son. How-come you had em out in all dis rain to-night? You done well not to drown em. Po lil creeter. Put some wood on de fire. Put de kettle up close so de water can hotten, den go wake up Seraphine. I bet dis baby is hungry as e only can be. When did you feed em last, Unex?"
Unex opened the wet paper suitcase and took out a big shining nickel bottle and held it up to show her. It was a fireless bottle, he said. Milk would stay hot in it all day and all night. Emma had been drinking out of it ever since he started for home, two days and two nights ago.
Then he held up a milk-stained glass bottle with marks to show how much milk to give Emma, so she would not drink herself to death. Emma never knew when to stop. Mary looked and listened in bewilderment. She was deeply impressed, but when she looked at the tiny creature in her lap, touched its little cheek, felt its bony hands, she knew it was hungry and cold, too weak to cry or complain. The milk in the fireless bottle must be stale, but she had three babies of her own to feed and Emma would have to depend on Nan's milk.
"Wake up Seraphine, son," she ordered.
Seraphine was so dazed it was hard to make her understand at first, but as she got wide awake, she began crying with joy.
"Get a cup out de safe an' go milk lil Nan. "Stale milk'll gi dis baby de colic. E needs warm milk fresh from de breast. Nan'll have a plenty. E ain' been milked since befo sundown."
Seraphine hesitated. "It's dark outdoors, Si May-e. How can I find Nan?"
Mary laughed, Seraphine ever was afraid of the dark. "Open de door, gal. You can see em; lil Nan shows white on de darkest night."
Seraphine soon had a cup and was gone, and Mary got the baby unwrapped. Poor little thing. Such a tiny mite. Its hands were no bigger than bird claws, its belly was withered up with emptiness, yet its eyes were bright as chinquapins. Emma had a brave little heart.
All the clothes in the paper suitcase were either wet or soiled, so Mary got things belonging to the three babies and dressed Emma in them. When Seraphine had the milk bottle washed clean with soap-suds and rinsed with spring water, Nan's milk was mixed half and half with hot water from the kettle, and Emma's supper was ready.
"Dat is too much," Unex protested when Mary filled the bottle almost full. Emma was not due to have more than up to the first mark on the bottle. Mary laughed.
"Do, fo Gawd's sake, Unex. Emma'll know when e belly gits full. Gawd made chillen wid more sense'n people. If Emma misses and drinks too much, e belly will know, and throw em straight back up, and be shet of em."
Unex gave up. Mary was too positive for any argument.
"Do looka how Emma duh level down on de milk. E's pure a-starvin, po lil creeter," Seraphine sympathized.
And while Emma leveled down, Mary untied the strings of Unex's wet shoes. When he got off his wet clothing, he had no dry ones to put on so he wrapped himself in a quilt and sat by the fire warming, stretching his bare feet out to the fire, while he ate a little cornbread and goat meat. He was not hungry. For two or three days a burning in his belly had killed all his appetite.
When Emma was fed and dozing, Seraphine took her and sat listening, while Unex and Mary talked.
When he left home he went straight up north.
"Wid Yankees?" Mary asked quickly.
"Yes, wid Yankees." But they seemed much like other white people except for their talk. At first he could hardly understand a word they said.
He drifted from one city to another, looking for better work, bigger wages. Then he met a girl, her name was Emma, and he went no farther. That was last spring. He saw her almost every night and on Sundays, in the week-days both of them were busy, both working. By Thanksgiving she had to stop work, but he worked on at the docks helping load and unload ships that came and went over the ocean. He made her come stay with him, but she didn't seem well. She had to stay in bed most of the time and that was when she made Emma so many clothes. Unex paused and looked sadly at the pile of rumpled things on the floor. It was not little Emma that got her so poorly, but a fever. First a night fever, then an inward fever gnawed steadily at her insides and gave her no rest day or night.
He bought that same fireless bottle for her so she could have something hot to drink any time she wanted it without getting up out of bed and worrying herself to fix it. Thirst troubled her a lot, and cold things gave her a chill. One night, when he came home late from work little Emma was there, but the little mother was gone.
Unex sat silent, looking at the fire. Nobody spoke for a little, then Mary told him that inside fretting is bad for people. It is better to cry and get it out. Unex shook his head. Talking would do more for him than crying. He had tried crying and it made him feel worse. He wanted to tell her all about it, and then he would speak no more of it again.
The people in the house did all they knew to help him, the policeman on the corner came in and said he could have sent Emma to the hospital if somebody had only told him she was so sick. But it was too latethen. She was gone. Nobody could bring her back. They took her out on the far edge of the city in a graveyard crowded with other poor people and put her in the ground.
One of the women in the house offered to take the baby and raise her, but babies in cities have a hard time. He wanted Emma's to have a chance to live. So he sold some of his things, gave the rest away and bought a ticket for South Carolina.
On the train everybody was kind, from the engineer to the conductor. They gave him two seats and asked if the baby's milk was hot and sweet. They washed the milk bottle and did everything they could to help him. People are kind all over the world.
When the train reached town, there seemed no way to get home up the river before morning, for the old river boat had its engine broken. By the time it was fixed the tide was right to help push it up the river through the blackest darkness God ever made. They reached the landing in the pouring rain. He would have spent the night there, but Emma's milk was out and she had to have fresh clothes.
Unex looked at Mary with a wistful smile. "You don' mind raisin de baby for me, is you, Si May-e?"
Mary smiled back. Lord no. She was glad to do it.
"I see you ain' forgot how to hold babies yet," he added, then Mary laughed out.
"Who? Me? Great Gawd, I ain' had no chance to forget. I ain' been widout one since I had you, son. I got three right yonder in de bed. Now I'll have four. A full litter, enty?"
Three? How could she have three? Unex was puzzled.
Mary told him how on the night her own twins were born, another baby was found behind the organ. Nobody had ever owned the child yet. Unex looked at Seraphine and growled.
"Who had em, Seraphine?"
But Mary laughed pleasantly, and warned him not to let himself get upset. Seraphine was a good girl. If she had missed and tripped one time, it must not be held against her, and he must not hurt her feelins by asking her questions.
Tears filled Unex's eyes. "You is too good, Si May-e. I bet dey ain' no 'oman in de world good as you."
"I know so," Seraphine echoed softly.
Mary shook her head and sighed. No, she was far from good. She loved her children and she was not going to let anybody hurt their feelings.
She had a few more questions to ask Unex. Had he seen July on any of his travels? Unex shook his head. He had not. He looked for July but he would not have known him anyway, for July left home when he was a helpless baby, less than a year old.
And how did Unex get money to have the baby's mother buried?
Unex explained that the baby's mother belonged to a burying society which pays sick people fifty cents a day every day while they are sick and buries them when they die. Most city people belong to some society like that. It's a big help too. City people have some nice ways.
"We got a Bury-league, now," Seraphine boasted. "I don' belong to it, but a lot o people in de street does. De members pays fifty cents evy time somebody dies; if you lose a child as much as twelve years old, you get fifteen dollars; if you lose a baby or a child under twelve, you get twelve dollars and a half; if a man loses his wife he gets twenty-five dollars an' a good store-bought box to bury em, an' a nice tombstone."
"How much does a dead man bring?" Seraphine looked grave. "A lawful husband brings sixty dollars, but if e ain' married to you, you don' get a Gawd's cent."
"Dat don' seem ezactly right," Unex ventured, but Mary said it didn't matter. She and Seraphine had no husbands and did not belong to the Bury-league, not yet. It was cheaper for her and the children to stay well, so they could spend the money they made on rations and clothes and pleasure. None of them was likely to die anytime soon. Of course, if one was to show any sign of getting weakly, she might join then, but it was not a bit of use now. Not now.