Deep Summer (34 page)

“I’m ten,” said Cynthia proudly.

“You’ll be a grown-up lady before you know it. What a pretty dress.”

Cynthia looked up at her with worshipful gratitude. “Do you really like it, Miss Ann?”

“I certainly do. Those dark red ribbons are so becoming to a girl with black hair. I never could wear red.”

“Some day soon,” ventured Cynthia, moving closer to her, “will you let me come over to Silverwood and see the dresses you got in Paris?”

“Why of course. Any day you like.”

“Tomorrow? I’ve got a new pony. I can ride over there.”

“All right.”

“Goody goody—mother, may I go to see Miss Ann tomorrow?”

Mrs. Larne smiled at Cynthia fondly. “Don’t let her get in your way, Ann.”

“She won’t. I love children.”

Miss Ann was really rather sweet, Corrie May reflected, even if Mrs. Larne didn’t appear to like her very much. How beautifully they all spoke, even the little girl. They didn’t pronounce words like folks in Rattletrap Square. Mrs. Larne was asking,

“Denis, who’s that white girl waiting in the hall?”

“Oh Jerusalem.” Denis sprang up again. “I forgot about her. Excuse me a minute, will you?” He came into the hall and glanced around. Corrie May had withdrawn hastily into the shadow of the staircase, afraid they wouldn’t like it if they knew she’d been listening to their talk, but she came forward again.

“Here I am, Mr. Larne.”

“Oh yes. You’re the sister of the Upjohn boys?”

“Yes sir.” She twisted the end of her sleeve. “Er—Mr. Larne, I wouldn’t have come today if I’d knowed you was having a party.”

“Oh, it isn’t a party. Just a few friends in for supper.”

He smiled at her reassuringly. A Negro man passed them, carrying a tray on which stood a decanter and thin-stemmed glasses. “This note from my clerk explains everything, I believe,” Denis said to Corrie May.

“Then it’s all right for him to give me the insurance money?” she exclaimed gratefully.

“Yes, quite all right. Have you the paper certifying their decease?”

“Their what?”

“I mean saying they died of fever in the logging camp.”

“Oh yes sir. Here it is.”

“Thank you.” He drew a chair out from the wall. “Sit down here—you must be tired after coming this long way. I’ll write the authorization in a minute.”

He went into one of the rooms off the hall. Corrie May sat down and smoothed her skirt and tucked her feet under the chair. What fine manners he had. Like Miss Ann, he wasn’t mean a bit. Maybe her father was wrong about rich people. Cynthia Larne came into the hall, dragging Ann, evidently to show her some treasure after the manner of little girls adoring big ones. They came down the hall so fast they didn’t notice Corrie May and nearly ran into her chair.

“Oh!” said Ann. Then she laughed apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Cynthia looked with curiosity at Corrie May. Evidently she was not used to the sight of girls with sunbonnets and bare feet. “Are you the girl that wanted to see my brother?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.” Corrie May stood up awkwardly. “Er—Miss Ann, if you and the little lady wanted to be here I could wait on the back gallery.”

“Why no indeed,” said Ann. “Stay where you are. Did you see Mr. Larne?”

“Yes ma’am, I seen him all right. He’s writing the paper for me.”

“What sort of paper?” asked Cynthia.

“About my brothers, ma’am. They got fever in his camp and died.”

“Oh, what a pity,” said Ann sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Corrie May. “Thank you ma’am.”

The Negro man came into the hall again with the tray. “Miss Ann, the mistress says will you have some sherry?”

“Yes, thanks.” Ann took the glass. “And Napoleon, pour a glass for this lady too.”

Corrie May started with surprise, but the servant did as he was told—though he was evidently surprised too—and Ann held out the glass. “Here. You must be tired after coming all the way out here in the sun. I hope you didn’t try to walk it.”

“No ma’am. My beau’s got a wagon. He brung me.” Corrie May sat down again, holding the glass carefully. She tried to sip daintily and not spill any drops, like Ann.

“Miss Ann,” said Cynthia in a half-whisper, “let me taste that.”

“Oh my soul, darling, I don’t dare. Isn’t your mother frightfully strict?”

“Yes ma’am, she sure is, but Brother Denis lets me taste things.”

“Brother Denis can do a lot of things in this house that I can’t, honey. Still, it does seem cruel, and it won’t hurt you. Here.” She moved her vast skirt between Cynthia and the door. “Thank heaven for hoops,” she said over Cynthia’s head to Corrie May, as though their both being older gave them comradeship. Corrie May wondered what it felt like to wear hoops. She had never had any. They cost five or six dollars a set, and besides it took such an everlasting lot of cloth to go over them. Poor folks couldn’t be wearing skirts eight yards around. Cynthia secretly took a sip from Ann’s glass and offered to return it. “Do you like it?” Ann asked.

Cynthia nodded.

“You may drink it all if you won’t tell your mother on me.”

“Oh—but then you won’t have any.”

“I can get some more.”

“You sure are sweet,” said Cynthia, and she finished the sherry with such awesome delight that Corrie May couldn’t help laughing. Ann laughed too as she caught Corrie May’s eye.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am. About a month ago. You was feeding the swans in the park and you gave me some cakes.”

“Oh yes, of course, I remember.” Ann bit her lip at the reminder. “Why—I told you about the work in the cypress, didn’t I?”

“You mustn’t feel bad,” Corrie May answered respectfully. “You was trying to do me a favor.”

“But I’m terribly sorry!” Ann exclaimed. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No ma’am, thank you ma’am. Mr. Larne’s tending to it.”

“I see. But if you ever need anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Miss Ann,” begged Cynthia, “come on out and see my pony!”

With a last regretful look at Corrie May, Ann yielded. “All right, honey. But don’t set the glass on the chair. It’ll make a ring. Put it on the little table with the cover.”

Corrie May heard their voices trailing off. Another carriage drove up to the front and several more young ladies and gentlemen got out. She heard Mrs. Larne telling them Denis would be out directly. In spite of his assurance that it wasn’t a party Corrie May felt embarrassed at having come into all this majesty, and she was glad when he reappeared. He gave her a paper.

“Here you are. Now if you’ll take this back to the clerk, he’ll pay you the money. Can you write?”

“Not much, sir. But I can set down my name.”

“That’s all you’ll need. I was going to say if you couldn’t you’d have to bring a witness with you to certify your mark. When he gives you the money, put your name on this line.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.”

“And give your mother my very deepest sympathy,” Denis added.

“Yes sir.”

“I was greatly distressed about the fever in the camp,” he went on. “We do all we can to keep the men well, but nobody can prevent disease entirely.”

“No sir, I reckon not.” Corrie May stood still an instant, looking up at his face with its expression of real concern. He didn’t look as if he’d ever want to hurt anybody. And if he hadn’t been kind he wouldn’t have offered to pay insurance for the men that died. A hundred dollars was a lot of money.

The Negro man who had brought the sherry passed them again. How well-dressed he was, she thought, and how contented he looked. None of that frowning strain that could be seen on people’s faces in Rattletrap Square. She’d love to have somebody like that to wait on her. But that was absurd even to think about. A trained butler like him was worth about three thousand dollars.

Something clicked sharply in Corrie May’s head. Mr. Larne’s fields were full of Negroes. Even a fieldhand cost five hundred dollars at the market. Two dead white men cost Mr. Larne a hundred dollars. Two dead slaves, even cheap ones, would have cost him a thousand. It was less expensive hiring white men for dangerous work than sending slaves to do it because if a white man died nobody had lost very much but his folks.

Corrie May turned around and went out. She couldn’t look at that man any more. She had crossed the gallery and reached the back gate before she remembered she hadn’t drunk more than half of that nice sherry and heaven knew when she’d get any more like it.

Some Negro boys were lounging around the door of the kitchen-house, hopefully awaiting a handout from the cook. None of them came forward to open the gate for Corrie May. She opened the gate herself, and walked past the cotton storehouses. Outside the storehouses were some platforms for cotton, where several Negroes sat resting after their day’s work. They were singing to the music made by one of them who plucked a banjo. They were having a fine time, singing plantation songs. They sure could sing, too. All Negroes could sing. They seemed to do it just naturally. But when Corrie May drew near enough to hear the words they were singing, something turned over inside of her and she stopped short.

“Nigger pick de cotton, nigger tote de load,

Nigger build de levee foh de ribber to smash,

Nigger nebber walk up de handsome road,

But I radder be a nigger dan po’ white trash!”

Corrie May stood around an angle of the storehouse and the Negroes had not noticed her. They were repeating the refrain, and the little boys were shuffling on the cotton-platforms while the others sang and swung with the rhythm, so familiar with the words that they scarcely thought about them at all.

“Oh Lawd, radder be a nigger,

Radder be a nigger, Oh my Lawd,

Nigger nebber walk up de handsome road,

But I radder be a nigger dan po’ white trash!”

Corrie May started to run. She ran through the cottonfield as though something were behind her trying to catch her and crush her to death.

“Lawsy mussy!” Budge exclaimed as she reached the big road. “What you running so for, Corrie May?”

She stood by the wagon, panting too fast to answer. Budge’s face suddenly became grim.

“He didn’t throw you out, did he?”

“No, no,” panted Corrie May. “He was nice to me. He said he was sorry.”

She put up her hand to shade her eyes and looked back at the columned palace of the Larnes. “He said he was sorry!” she repeated.

“Well now,” said Budge soothingly, “that was good of him. I told you he was a fine fellow.” He got out of the wagon. “Here, honey, lemme help you in. There now. If we hurry up this lazy mule we ought to get to town before dark. Giddup, Nellie!”

Corrie May sat by him on the driver’s seat, her mind reaching desperately for words. Budge was talking and she began to hear him. He was saying how fine it would be when they got married, living in their own cabin in their own cotton-patch.

“You have to work mighty hard in that cotton-patch of yourn, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“Sho, honey, you can’t raise no cotton if you don’t work. But I don’t mind. Ain’t everybody can make enough crops to pay rent for a piece of ground.” Budge spoke complacently.

“It’s mighty tough,” said Corrie May, “for you to have to work every day from can’t-see to can’t-see just to pay rent. And me too. Married to you, working all the time with nobody to help me—”

“Say, baby,” Budge protested in a hurt voice. “Honest, there ain’t such a lot to do. Just two rooms to be cleaned up.”

“And cotton to be picked,” said Corrie May, “and corn to be hoed, and young uns to be raised—”

“Oh there now,” said Budge. “You and me might save up enough to buy a nigger, even.”

“A nigger?” she flung back at him scornfully.

“Well hell,” exclaimed Budge with sudden indignation, “is it my fault I ain’t rich?”

She answered more gently. “No, honey, it ain’t your fault. I know you does the best you can.”

“You better quit talking about things you don’t know nothing of,” Budge advised her sternly.

“All right,” she answered wearily. “I’ll quit.”

“That’s right, sugar.” He patted her hand. “Now me and you’ll get married this fall and we’ll get along fine.”

Corrie May felt her back stiffen. Her hands curled over the edge of the seat and held it so tight the board hurt her fingers. Her feet got stiff too and she felt her toes turn under as though with cold.

“I ain’t gonta marry you this fall,” she said.

“That ain’t too soon,” pled Budge. “Course if you’d rather wait, till Christmas, say—”

“I ain’t gonta marry you no time,” said Corrie May.

“You ain’t—what? You done said—”

“Yeah, but I’m saying it over. I been thinking. I ain’t gonta have to work hard and mess around my whole life. I’m gonta be somebody, Budge Foster, you hear me? I’m gonta be somebody and have me some clothes to wear and have folks speak to me on the street.”

“After all you done told me—”

“I take it back.”

“Me loving you and hanging around all this time for you—”

“Oh Lord, I’m awful sorry, Budge.” There was a quaver in Corrie May’s voice.

“Say, you look ahere,” said Budge threateningly. “You’ll get in a peck of trouble if you start carrying on like that.”

“No I won’t,” she retorted. “You just see.”

“You think you’s too good for a man that wanted to marry you honest and look out for you—” his words caught and he became hurt and pleading. “Corrie May, honey, I been loving you so much. Don’t you start going on.”

“You shut up,” said Corrie May.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “you talk to me like I was a nigger!”

“Lord no,” said Corrie May vehemently. “You ain’t no nigger! You’s so white you wouldn’t touch a nigger. You’s a heap sight different from a nigger, you are!”

“Sho I’m different from a nigger. What do you—”

“I’ll tell you how different,” she cried with sudden fury. “You get up at the bust of dawn and work cotton, like a nigger; you wear overalls with a patch in the seat of the breeches, like a nigger; you waddle home so tired you can’t see, like a nigger; and when you dies you ain’t got no more’n you had the day you was born, like a nigger. But you ain’t a nigger. You’s white. You get sick one day and can’t tend to your cotton and who takes care of you? Your crop fails one year and who feeds you just the same? Who keeps your roof patched so the rain can’t come in? Who cares if you starve to death? Nobody. And that’s the difference in you and a nigger, Mr. Budge Foster, and you can’t tell me nothing else.”