Jonah's Gourd Vine Page 9

  “Ah don’t want no Pomp! John Buddy, you know’d me ’fo’ yuh knowed Lucy. If y’all wuz ever tuh quit would yuh marry me, John Buddy?”

  “Us ain’t never gonna do no quittin’ ’til one uh us is six feet in de ground, and if you git de notion tuh run tell her a whole mess tuh back her feelin’s and tear up peace, you better take wings and fly ’fo’ Ah find it out. You hear me? Nothin’ ain’t gointer part us.”

  So when Pomp Lamar, the new hoe hand, fell beneath Mehaley’s mango call—exotic, but fibrous and well-bodied—she answered “Yes” quickly with a persuasive kiss.

  “But Ahm got tuh be married real, Pomp.”

  “And dat’s whut Ah means tuh do, M’haley, come nex’ pay-day.”

  “And less we g’wan off dis farm, Pomp. You know is too much back-bendin’ and mule-smellin’ on cotton plantations. Less go on some public works, lak uh sawmill uh sumpin’. Ah kin git ’long wid anybody any whar so long ez you half-way treat me right.”

  “M’haley, you might not know it, but youse gittin’ uh do-right man. Whenever you needs somebody tuh do uh man’s part Ah’ll be ’round dere walkin’ heavy over de floor.”

  Next pay-day the quarters was gathered at Mehaley’s mother’s cabin. Quantities of sweet biscuits had been cooked up along with the chickens. The wedding was set for eight o’clock and the crowd was there—all except Pomp. People began to ask questions that had no answers. Mehaley didn’t get dressed. She was asked why she was still in her working clothes.

  “Humph! Y’all think Ahm gwine put mah trunk on mah back and de tray on mah head, and dat man don’t never come? Naw indeed! Ah ain’t gwine tuh dress tuh marry no man ’til unless he be’s in de house.”

  “You reckon he done run off?” Nunkie asked.

  “Aw naw,” Duke dissented. “He tole me he wuz crazy tuh marry Haley. He jus’ keepin’ colored folks time. When white folks say eight o’clock dey mean eight o’clock. When uh colored person say eight o’clock, dat jes’ mean uh hour ago. He’ll be heah in plenty time.”

  It was after nine when the bridegroom arrived. “Where you been at all dis time?” Mehaley’s mother wanted to know.

  “Ah couldn’t stand on de flo’ wid M’haley in dem ole sweaty britches. Ah been off tuh borry me some clothes tuh git married in.”

  Mehaley began to dress with the interference of ten or more ladies. Finally she was ready, but a quarrel arose as to who was to perform the ceremony. Mehaley’s father wanted to do it, but her mother had invited the pastor.

  “Ah don’t keer if you is her pappy,” the mother stated, “you ain’t nothin’ but uh stump-knocker and Ah wants dis done real. Youse standin’ in uh sho ’nuff preacher’s light. G’wan set down and leave Elder Wheeler hitch ’em right. You can’t read, no-how.”

  “Yes, Ah kin too.”

  “Naw, you can’t neither. G’wan sit down. If us wuz down in de swamp whar us couldn’t git tuh no preacher, you’d do, but here de pastor is. You ain’t nothin’ but uh jack-leg. Go set in de chimbley corner and be quiet.”

  “You always tryin’ tuh make light uh mah preachin’,” the husband defended, “but Gawd don’t. Dis de fust one uh mah chillun tuh jump over de broomstick and Ah means tuh tie de knot mah own self.”

  Around eleven o’clock, the pastor, worn out by the stubbornness of the father, retired from the field, and the couple stood upon the floor.

  “Whar yo’ shoes, Pomp?” Mehaley asked. “You ain’t gwine marry me barefooted, is yuh?”

  “Dey over dere under de bed. Yo’ paw and the preacher argued so long and dem new shoes hurted mah foots so bad, Ah took ’em off. Now Ah can’t git ’em back on. Dat don’t make uh bit uh diff’rence. You goin’ tuh see mah bare foots uh whole heap after dis.”

  So Mehaley Grant stood up to marry Pomp Lamar and her father Woody Grant, who had committed the marriage ceremony to memory anyway, grabbed an almanac off the wall and held it open pompously before him as he recited the questions to give the lie to the several contentions that he could not read.

  “Ah now puhnounce you man and wife.”

  “Bus’ her, Pomp, bus’ her rat in de mouf. She’s yourn now, g’wan Pomp. Les see yuh kiss her!”

  After many boisterous kisses, the women took Mehaley by the arm and led her off.

  “Us goin’ and bath M’haley fuh huh weddin’-night. Some uh y’all men folks grab Pomp, and give him uh washin’ off.”

  Mehaley got out of bed that night after the guests had all gone home.

  “Whar yuh gwine, Haley?”

  “Huntin’ fuh mah box uh snuff.”

  “Yo’ box uh snuff? Gal, don’t you know you jes’ got done married tuh uh husband? Put out dat light and come git back under dese kivvers.”

  “Naw, Pomp, not ’til Ah gits uh dip uh snuff. Ah wants it real bad.”

  She hunted about until she found it. “Lawd,” she cried, “you see some dem women done messed ’round and spilt soap suds in mah snuff!”

  She sat down before the fireplace and wept, hard racking sobs. Pomp’s assurance that she would have a dozen boxes from the Commissary first thing in the morning did not comfort her, and it was only when her stormy tears had exhausted her that she let her new husband lead her back to bed. In his arms, she said, “Pomp, don’t fuhgit you said you wuz gwine take me ’way fuhm heah.”

  “Cose Ah is, Haley. Nex’ pay-day, sho.” He kept his word.

  At sundown on the evening of their leaving, Lucy was on her knees at the praying ground, telling God all her feelings.

  “And oh, Ah know youse uh prayer-hearin’ God. Ah know you kin hit uh straight lick wid uh crooked stick. You heard me when Ah laid at hell’s dark door and cried three long days and nights. You moved de stumblin’ stone out my way, and now, Lawd, you know Ahm uh po’ child, and uh long ways from home. You promised tuh be uh rock in uh weary land—uh shelter in de time uh storm. Amen.”

  Lucy and John raced around their house in the later afternoons playing “Hail Over” and “Hide the Switch,” and Lucy grew taller. The time came when she could no longer stand under John’s outstretched arm. By the time her third son was born she weighed ninety-five pounds.

  John had added weight to his inches and weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, stripped. There was no doubt about it now. John was foreman at Pearson’s. His reading and writing had improved to the degree where Alf could trust him with all the handling of supplies.

  “John,” Alf said to him one day, “you damn rascal! that girl you married is as smart as a whip and as pretty as a speckled pup. She’s making a man of you. Don’t let her git away.”

  “Oh good Lawd, naw! Mist’ Alf, she even nice. Don’t talk ’bout her never partin’ from me. Dat sho would put de affliction on me.”

  “Well, John, you’d better keep Big ’Oman out of that Commissary after dark. Aha! You didn’t think I knew, did you? Well, I know a lot of things that would surprise folks. You better clean yourself up.”

  The hand of John’s heart reached out and clutched on fear. Alf Pearson shoved him on out of his office and returned to work, chuckling. Two days later Big ’Oman was gone. It got said that she was shacked up with somebody in a tie-camp on the Alabama River.

  A month later John said, “Lucy, somebody done wrote Mist’ Alf ’bout uh drove uh cows dey wants tuh sell ’im. He say fuh me tuh go look over ’em and see whut dey worth. Be back Sad’day.”

  “Iss been rainin’ uh lot fuh you tuh be goin’ uh long way, John.”

  “Goin’ on horse-back, Lucy. De water ain’t goin’ bother me.”

  Lucy said no more. John didn’t notice her silence in the haste of his departure, but a few miles on down the road he said, “Humph! Lucy ain’t frailed me none wid uh tongue. Wonder how come dat?”

  On Thursday John was cheerfully riding away from Lucy, but at daybreak on Saturday he was dressed and ready to ride back.

  “John, you ain’t gwine leave me, is yuh?” Big ’Oman sobbed, “thought you come to stay. De big boss
say you kin git uh job right heah.”

  “Ah got uh job, Big ’Oman. Done been off too long now.”

  The weeping girl clung to his stirrup. “When you comin’ back tuh me, John?”

  “In times and seasons, Big ’Oman. Lemme go now. All at rain yistiddy and las’ night makes bad travelin’. Bad ’nough when Ah wuz comin’. De later it gits, de higher de river.”

  He dashed off quickly and rode hard, counting the miles as he went.

  “Eighteen miles from home. ’Leben mo’ miles. Heah ’tis de river—eight mo’ miles.”

  The river was full of water and red as judgment with chewed-up clay land. The horse snorted and went mincing down to the bridge. Red water toting logs and talking about trouble, wresting with timber, pig-pens, and chicken coops as the wind hauls feathers, gouging out banks with timber and beating up bridges with logs.

  “Git up, Roxy! Us got tuh cross dis river, don’t keer if she run high ez uh bell-tower, us got tuh cross. Come on up dere. Let de damn bridge shake, bofe us kin swim.”

  Midway over, a huge log struck the far end of the bridge and tore it loose from the shore and it headed down stream. The whole structure loosened, rolled over and shot away.

  John freed himself and struck out for shore. Fifty feet or more down stream Roxy landed, snorting her loss of faith in the judgment of man. John felt himself being carried with the stream in spite of his powerful stroke, but inch by inch he was surely gaining land. The neighing of Roxy had attracted the attention of a white squatter on the farther shore and John saw people looking on his fight with the Alabama.

  There was a cry from the shore, a thud at the back of his head and he sank.

  John strode across infinity where God sat upon his throne and looked off towards immensity and burning worlds dropped from his teeth. The sky beneath John’s tread crackled and flashed eternal lightning and thunder rolled without ceasing in his wake.

  Way off he heard crying, weeping, weeping and wailing—wailing like the last cry of Hope when she fled the earth. Where was the voice? He strained his eye to see. None walked across the rim bones of nothingness with him, but the wailing wailed on. Slowly John saw Lucy’s face. Lucy wept at a far, far distance, but the breath of her weeping sent a cold wind across the world. Then her voice came close and her face hung miserably above his, weeping. She brought the world with her face and John could see without moving his head the familiar walls of their house.

  Gradually things came closer. The gourd dipper, the water-bucket, the skillets and spiders, and his wife so close above him, forearm across her face, retching in tears.

  “Whuss de matter, Lucy? You thought Ah wuzn’t never comin’ back? Don’t you know nothin’ couldn’t keep me ’way from you?”

  “John! Ah thought you wuz dead.”

  “Naw, Ah ain’t dead. Whatever give you de idea Ah wuz dead, Lucy?”

  “Dey brought yuh home fuh dead dis mawnin’ and iss nelly sundown now and you ain’t moved, and you ain’t spoke ’til jus’ now.”

  “Who brung me home?”

  “De Bickerstaffs. Say de bridge washed uhway wid yuh and de hawse on it, and you got hit by de timber. Yo’ lip is cut deep and yo’ head is hurted in de back and uh bad place right dere side yo’ nose.”

  “Umph, umph, umph! Lawd have mussy. Ah thought Ah been sleep. So dat’s how come Ahm all wet up and mah face hurt me so, eh?”

  “Yeah, and John, Ahm so glad you ain’t dead ’way from me and mah li’l’ chillun, and then agin Ah hated tuh think ’bout you herded tuh judgment in yo’ sins.”

  A silent wait.

  “You can’t lay on dis floor all night. Ah got tuh git yuh in de bed some way uh ’nother. Lemme go call somebody tuh he’p me muscle yuh. Ah sent fuh mah folks but ’tain’t been nobody from dat side yet.”

  The next day John called Lucy to him.

  “Lucy.”

  “Yeah, John.”

  “Dey done tole you ’bout Big ’Oman and me?”

  “Yeah, John, and some uh yo’ moves Ah seen mahself, and if you loves her de bes’, John, you gimme our chillun and you go on where yo’ love lie.”

  “Lucy, don’t tell me nothin’ ’bout leavin’ you, ’cause if you do dat, you’ll make two winters come in one year.”

  There was a feeling silence.

  “Lucy, Ah loves you and you alone. Ah swear Ah do. If Ah don’t love you, God’s gone tuh Dothan.”

  “Whut make yuh fool wid scrubs lak Big ’Oman and de rest of ’em?”

  “Dat’s de brute-beast in me, but Ah sho aim tuh live clean from dis on if you ’low me one mo’ chance. Don’t tongue-lash me—jes’ try me and see. Here you done had three younguns fuh me and fixin’ have uh ’nother. Try me Lucy.”

  The next big meeting John prayed in church, and when he came to his final:

  You are de same God, Ah

  Dat heard de sinner man cry.

  Same God dat sent de zigzag lightning tuh

  Join de mutterin’ thunder.

  Same God dat holds de elements

  In uh unbroken chain of controllment.

  Same God dat hung on Cavalry and died,

  Dat we might have a right tuh de tree of life—

  We thank Thee that our sleeping couch

  Was not our cooling board,

  Our cover was not our winding sheet…

  Please tuh give us uh restin’ place

  Where we can praise Thy name forever,

  Amen.

  “Uh prayer went up tuhday,” Deacon Moss exulted to Deacon Turl. “Dat boy got plenty fire in ’im and he got uh good strainin’ voice. Les’ make ’im pray uh lot.”

  Deacon Turl agreed and went on home to his chicken dumplings.

  John never made a balk at a prayer. Some new figure, some new praise-giving name for God, every time he knelt in church. He rolled his African drum up to the altar, and called his Congo Gods by Christian names. One night at the altar-call he cried out his barbaric poetry to his “Wonder-workin” God so effectively that three converts came thru religion under the sound of his voice.

  “He done more’n de pastor,” Moss observed. “Dat boy is called tuh preach and don’t know it. Ahm gwine tell him so.”

  But Moss never did. Lucy’s time was drawing nigh and a woman named Delphine drifted into town from Opelika. John was away from both home and church almost continually in the next month.

  Alf went to see Lucy.

  “Lucy Ann, where’s that husband of yours?”

  “He’s out ’round de barn somewheres, ain’t he, Mist’ Alf?” Lucy asked. She knew he was not there. She knew that Alf Pearson knew he was not there and that Alf Pearson knew that she knew he was not there, but he respected her reticence.

  “Lucy, you oughta take a green club and flail John good. No matter what I put in his way to help him along, he flings it away on some slut. You take a plow-line and half kill him.”

  When Alf was gone Lucy looked drearily up the path for her husband and saw her oldest brother coming with his double team.

  “Lawd a mussy!” she groaned and dropped into a chair. A heavy knocking at the door.

  “Who dat?”

  “Iss me, Bud. Lemme come in right now. Ahm in uh big hurry.”

  Lucy opened the door feebly and Bud’s stumpy figure thrust itself inside aggressively as if it said in gestures, “Who you tryin’ tuh keep out?”

  “Lucy, Ah come tuh git dat three dollars you borried offa me.”

  “Well, Bud, tuh tell yuh de truth, Ah ain’t got it right dis minute. Mah husband ain’t here, but he’ll be here pretty soon, then he’ll pay yuh sho, Bud.”

  “Who don’t know he ain’t here? How he gointer be here, and layin’ all ’round de jook behind de cotton gin wid Delphine?”

  “You better come back, Bud, when he’s here and tell ’im all dat tuh his face.”

  “And whut it takes tuh tell ’im, Ah got it! He ain’t nothin’ but uh stinkin’ coward or he wouldn’t always be dodgin’ back uh yuh. A
h’ll tell ’im all right. ’Tain’t no fight in him.”

  “G’wan home, Bud. If papa wuzn’t dead you wouldn’t come heah lak dis—and me in mah condition.”

  “Ah know you done wished many’s de time you had married Artie Mimms.”

  “Naw. Not nary time.”

  “Gimme mah money and lemme go ’fo’ Ah git mad agin.”

  “Ah tole you Ah ain’t got no money and won’t have none till John come.”

  “You ain’t gonna git none den—dat is if he ever come. Some folks say he done quit you fuh dat Delphine. She strowin’ it herself all over Macon County and laffin’ at yuh. You jes’ dumb tuh de fact.”

  “You can’t pay no ’tention tuh talk. Dey’s talkin’ everywhere. De folks is talkin’ in Georgy and dey’s talkin’ in Italy. Ah don’t pay dese talkers no mind.”

  “Gimme de money, Lucy, and lemme go.”

  “Done tole yuh Ah ain’t got no money. Come back heah when John is home.”

  “Naw, Ah ain’t gonna do nothin’ lak dat. Ah come heah wid de determination tuh git mah money uh satisfaction, one.”

  “But, don’t you see Ah ain’t in no fix tuh be fretted all up this uh way? G’wan leave me uh lone.”

  Bud looked around him contemptuously. “Humph! Here mah sister is cooped up wid three li’l’ chillun in uh place ain’t big uhnough tuh cuss uh cat in ’thout gittin yo’ mouf full uh hair.”

  “G’wan way from me, Bud. Ahm too sick tuh be worried.”

  “Naw, Ah means tuh have something fuh mah money. Gimme dat bed.”

  “Dat big one wid de knobs on it?”

  “Yep. Who you reckon want de tother one dat dem chillun done wet in? Move! Don’t you git in mah way. Move! If you wuz married tuh anybody you wouldn’t be in no sich uh fix.”