Jonah's Gourd Vine

  “Splendid, John, splendid.”

  “Mist’ Alf, Ah don’t treasure ’cross dat creek. Lemme stay heah wid you, please suh.”

  “John, I’m not sending you over there. Your mother is taking you. If you’re ever in need of a job, come on back here and behave yourself and I’ll look after you. No matter where you are, don’t steal and don’t get too biggety and you’ll get along. Touch the horses up a little. I’m in a hurry.”

  CHAPTER 4

  There was work a plenty on the Shelby place. John and Ned were plowing the rocky hillsides. As they turned the furrows John always strode several feet in advance of Ned. The older man limped behind his plow, stumbling now and then, slashing the mule and swearing incessantly.

  “Gawd uhmighty! Git up heah, you hard-tailed bastard! Confound yuh, gee! John Buddy, whar you gwine?”

  “Ahm goin’ tuh git me uh sweat-rag tuh wipe mah face wid. Ahm tired uh sweat runnin’ intuh mah eyes.”

  “You jes’ tries tuh keep from workin’, John. Out nearly all night proagin’ over de Creek and now yuh don’t wanta do nothin’.”

  “Ah done plowed uh acre and uh half tuh yo’ one, and nowhere you put yo’ foot down but whut ’tain’t uh rock dere. Nobody can’t make nothin’ on dis place—look lak God jus’ stood up and throwed uh handful uh rocks. If dis ain’t work, ’tain’ uh hound dawg in Georgy.”

  “Jes’ you stay from over dat Creek, runnin’ after all dem gals and git yo’ night rest, dem rocks wouldn’t be so worrysome.”

  “Ah do mo’ of it than you right now. Dis ain’t no slavery time,” John flung back over his shoulder as he started towards the house.

  “Yuh done got powerful biggity since yuh been on dat Pearson place,” Ned muttered to himself, “Can’t say uh word, ’thout he got tuh gimme two fuh one.”

  Amy stood trembling between her son and her husband. The other children were growing up and imitating everything that John did, as closely as possible. Zack and Zeke were already trying on John’s hats and ties. Their whole talk was “over de Creek,” and “man when us git on dat ole train.” Amy had managed to keep things on an even keel by soothing John’s feelings and reminding Ned that if John went over to Notasulga to choir practice and meeting, that he was now seventeen and ought to have a little freedom. So it had gone, and now the cotton was knee-high. The crops more than half made. She breathed a little easier. She was at the house putting on a pot of collard greens when John came in for the sweat-rag.

  “Mama, better tell Ned tuh leave me be. Tell ’im tuh stop his bulldozia. Ah done heered ’im lyin’ tuh Mist’ Shelby makin’ out Ah don’t do nothin’—hard ez Ah works.”

  “He be’s drunk when he keer on lak dat and his likker tell ’im tuh talk. Don’t pay ’im no mind.”

  “But, mama, ev’ry time Ah go cross de Creek he look lak he go crazy and git tuh blasphemin’ ’bout no ’count gals. Ah don’t keer if he do be peepin’ through his likkers he got tuh quit dat. Sho ez gun’s iron, he got tuh quit dat. He don’t know nothin’ ’bout—’bout no gal Ah keeps comp’ny wid.”

  “Heah de rag yuh wanted, John. Go ’long back tuh work and Ah’ll give Ned uh straightenin’. Dat is if he kin stand uh straightenin’.”

  Ned was sullen when John returned but he said nothing. He took part of his humor out on the mule and held the other inside him. He said to himself as he stumbled along behind his plow, “Damn biggity rascal! Wisht Ah had ’im tied down so he couldn’t move! I’d put uh hund’ed lashes on his bare back. He know he got de advantage uh me. He don’t even know his pappy and he ought tuh be proud Ah took and married his ma and made somethin’ out of ’im. He ought to be humble, but he ain’t, and plenty folks right now on account uh his yaller skin will put ’im above me. Wisht Ah knowed somethin’ that would crumple his feathers! But he sho’ is makin’ dis crop, though. Ah oughter clear more’n uh hund’ed dollars. Effen Ah do, Ahm gwine buy me uh hawse and buggy, and ain’t gwine ’low nobody tuh hitch it up but me.”

  That evening the things unsaid laid a steamy blanket over talk. John made the long journey over the creek and Ned fumed.

  “Whyn’t you tell John whut yuh got tuh say, Ned?” Amy slapped back, “You been tellin’ ’im.”

  “’Cause Ah don’t want tuh hafta kill ’im, dat’s how come. He must smell hisself—done got so mannish. Some fast ’omanish gal is grinnin’ in his face and he tries tuh git sides hisself.”

  Amy smoked her pipe and went on to bed. The children too. Zeke and Zack were in the woods trying out a new coon dog and came in after moon-up. John came home later.

  When Amy brought dinner to the field next day John took his bucket and went off alone to eat. With a huge hickory tree between him and the others, he pulled out the three cornered note and read again and again.

  Sweet Notasulga, Chocklit Alabama Date of kisses, month of love Dere John, you is my honey. I won’t never love nobody else but you. I love choir practise now. Sugar is sweet, and lard is greasy, you love me, don’t be uneasy.

  Your darling,

  LUCY ANN POTTS

  Ned called several times before John heard him.

  “John Buddy! You John! Come heah and take holt uh dese plow lines.”

  “Yes suh,” John said at last.

  “Don’t set dere and answer me. When Ah speak, you move!”

  “Ah, Ahm comin’, but Ah ain’t goin’ tuh run fuh nobody.”

  “Looka heah, John, Ahm sick uh yo’ sass. Ah got it in me tuh tell yuh and if Ah don’t tell yuh, Ah’ll purge when Ah die. Youse uh good fuh nothin’ trashy yaller rascal—ain’t fit tuh tote guts tuh uh bear.” A sudden frenzy took Ned, “Anyhow, Ah done made up mah mind tuh beat you nelly tuh death. You jes’ spilin’ fuh uh good killin’! Drop dem britches below yo’ hocks, and git down on yo’ knees. Ah means tuh straighten you out dis day.”

  As he said this, Ned snatched off the trace-chain from the plow and turned upon John who was still twenty feet or more from his step-father. When Ned whirled about with the doubled trace-chain in his right fist he found not a cowering bulk of a boy but a defiant man, feet spread wide, a large rock drawn back to hurl.

  “Don’t you vary! Dog damn yuh!” John challenged. “Come uhnother step and Ah’ll bust yuh wide open, wid dis rock. You kin cuff and kick Zeke and them around but Ah done promised Gawd and uh couple uh other men tuh stomp yo’ guts out nex’ time you raise yo’ hand tuh me.”

  For a throbbing space the two stood face to face. Ned turned and hobbled off.

  “Stand dere! Jes’ you stand dere till Ah go git mah double-barrel britch-loader and Ahm gointer blow yo’ brains out!”

  Ned limped off towards the house. John held his pose until the older man dipped below the first rise. Then he let fall his arm, and walked back towards the hickory tree.

  “Ahm gointer git behind dis tree and if dat ugly-rump nigger come back here wid dat gun, Ahm gointer bust ’im wide open wid uh rock ’fore he know whut hit ’im. Humph! Ah don’t b’lieve he gone at no britch-loader nohow. He gone ’cause he got skeered Ah wuz goin’ take dat trace-chain ’way from ’im and lay it ’cross his own back.”

  John waited a long time. Ned could have gone twice the distance and returned with a gun. If he could have looked over the hill he would have seen Ned “proaging” off to the Turk place to get a gallon of red-eye-for-courage. Finally John came out from behind the hickory tree and loosed the mules from the plows and looped up the plow lines on the hames.

  “Shucks! Ahm goin’ ’way from heah.” It came to John like a revelation. Distance was escape. He stopped before the burnt-off trunk of a tree that stood eight or ten feet high and threw the character of Ned Crittenden upon it.

  “And you, you ole battle-hammed, slew-foot, box-ankled nubbin, you! You ain’t nothin’ and ain’t got nothin’ but whut God give uh billy-goat, and then round tryin’ tuh hell-hack folks! Tryin’ tuh kill somebody wid talk, but if you wants tuh fight,—dat’s de very corn Ah wants tuh grind. You come grab me now and Ah
bet yuh Ah’ll stop you from suckin’ eggs. Hit me now! G’wan hit me! Bet Ah’ll break uh egg in yuh! Youse all parts of uh pig! You done got me jus’ ez hot ez July jam, and Ah ain’t got no mo’ use fuh yuh than Ah is for mah baby shirt. Youse mah race but you sho ain’t mah taste. Jus’ you break uh breath wid me, and Ahm goin’ tuh be jus’ too chastisin’.

  “Ahm jus’ lak uh old shoe—soft when yuh rain on me and cool me off, and hard when yuh shine on me and git me hot. Tuh keep from killin’ uh sorry somethin’ like yuh, Ahm goin’ way from heah. Ahm goin’ tuh Zar, and dat’s on de other side of far, and when you see me agin Ahm gointer be somebody. Mah li’l’ finger will be bigger than yo’ waist. Don’t you part yo’ lips tuh me no mo’ jes’ ez long ez heben is happy—do Ah’ll put somethin’ on yuh dat lye soap won’t take off. You ain’t nothin’ but uh big ole pan of fell bread. Now dat’s de word wid de bark on it.”

  John stepped back a few paces, balanced his rock, hurled it against the stump with all his might and started across the field to the creek.

  The involuntary beauty of sunset found him once again upon the plantation of his birth exulting among the herd, and finding Pheemy’s cabin good to be in.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hello, John.”

  “Hello, Bully.”

  “Whut you doin’ back over here?”

  “Come tuh git me uh job uh work again. Whuss de news?”

  “Oh de white folks is still in de lead. Seen Mist’ Alf yit?”

  “Naw, goin’ up tuh de big house now.”

  “Soon’s yuh git back tuh de quarters Ah got uh bug tuh put in yo’ ear.”

  “Awright, be back tuhreckly.”

  There were more used suits in Alf Pearson’s clothes closet and John received them.

  “My son, Mister Alfred’s, clothes don’t fit you now as well as they did last year, John. Too tight. Reckon I’ll have to give you mine from now on. By the way, John, I’ve lost two hogs since you’ve been gone. Get back on your same job. Can you read and write fairly well now, John?”

  “Yes suh.”

  “That’s fine. I want you to take this note book and keep up with the groceries and fertilizer and feed that the folks in the quarters draw. It’s hard for me to do it with running the bank and watching slick politicians. I had thought my son would have been home by now to help me, but it seems to take quite a long time to finish studying in Paris.”

  “Yes suh.”

  “You just take everybody’s name on a separate page and put down everything they get the moment you hand it to ’em.”

  “Yes suh.”

  “And John, if you’ve been fooling around Duke’s wife, leave her alone. He’s been up here to me about it. Don’t start no fight about it. There’s plenty single girls around here.”

  “Ah ain’t studyin’ ’bout his Exie, Mist’ Alf. He better talk tuh her. She de one come pullin’ on me.”

  Alf Pearson laughed heartily and gave John a playful shove.

  “Get along you rascal you! You’re a walking orgasm. A living exultation.”

  “Whut’s dat, Mist’ Alf?”

  “Oh never mind about that. Keep up with the pigs.”

  That night M’haley and Big ’Oman and Bootsie got up a game of “Hide and Seek” but John counted and let the other boys hide. The game ended fairly early. John had been around behind the house to look at his writing and the chimney and found it all defaced, so he didn’t want to play. When the game was over he called Bully aside.

  “Bully, Ah wrote some writin’ on de back uh An’ Pheemy’s chimbley.”

  “Yeah, Ah know you did. Fack is, ev’rybody know yuh did, and dat’s de very crow Ah wants tuh pick wid yuh.”

  “Is you heard who took and scratched it, and put smut out de chimbley all over it and mommucked it all up?”

  “You ain’t mad, is yuh?”

  “Yeah, Ahm mad. Ahm jes’ ez hot ez Tucker when de mule kicked his mammy, and any man dat tell me tuh mah face dat he done it he got tuh smell mah fist. You know who done it, Bully?”

  “Don’t yuh say Ah tole yuh and when you go tuh git atter her, don’t you call my name, but M’haley took and done dat when she heered you wuz singin’ in de choir. Some of ’em say you jes’ done it so you could git a chance tuh see Lucy Potts.”

  “Whut M’haley got tuh do wid dat? Ah feel lak Ah could take and lam her wid lightnin’.”

  “Why doncher do it, John? If ’twas me felt bad lak you do, Ah’d beat her jes’ ez long ez she last. Anyhow she takin’ de under currents on you.”

  “Naw, Ah don’t choose beatin’ lady people. Uh man is crazy tuh do dat—when he know he got tuh submit hisself tuh ’em. Ahm gittin’ sleepy. B’lieve Ah’ll turn in.”

  Bully went away whistling, and John made to go inside to bed.

  “John!” in a soft whisper from around the corner of the house. “Come heah, John.”

  John stepped to the corner, “Who dat callin’ me?”

  “Aw, you come see,” the voice retreated into the shoulder-high cotton. John followed.

  “Whut you want wid me, M’haley?”

  “Look lak you ain’t glad youse back.”

  “Yes Ah is, M’haley, but ’tain’t lak de fust night Ah come. Ah reckon all de new done wore off de plantation.”

  “’Tain’t de plantation. Dat’s jes’ de same. Ah reckon you jes’ ain’t got time tuh strain wid us quarters niggers now. You sings on de choir at Macedony.”

  “Whut’s singin’ notes got tuh do wid it? It jus’ ’tain’t new no mo’.”

  “Naw, you jes’ stuck on dat li’l’ ole Lucy Ann, and she ain’t nothin’ but uh baby. She ain’t but leben years ole.”

  “She twelve now, goin’ on thirteen. She had her birth night de day befo’ mines. Her’n on December 31, and mine’s January 1. Ain’t dat funny?”

  “Ahm fifteen, so goody, goody, goody.”

  John said nothing. After a while M’haley said, “John, Ah thought once me and you wuz gointer make uh wed.” He stood stolid and silent.

  In the silence she threw her arms about John’s passive neck and swung herself off the ground, then lay still against him.

  “John.”

  “Hunh.”

  “Feel mah heart. Put yo’ hand right heah. Ain’t it beatin’ hard? Dat’s ’cause Ahm so glad youse back. Feel it again. My heart is rearin’ and pitchin’ fur you lak uh mule in uh tin stable. John, Ah loves you, Ah swear Ah does. You so pretty and you ain’t color-struck lak uh whole heap uh bright-skin people. John?”

  “Hunh.”

  “John, hug me till mah dress fit tight.”

  The next day John whitewashed Pheemy’s chimney, and wrote Lucy’s name in huge letters across it, and on Sunday he was at church far ahead of anybody else, with a three-cornered note in his hymn-book.

  “Hope ole big-mouf M’haley don’t come pukin’ her guts ’round heah,” he thought aloud. This was another day and another place. Pearson’s quarters and M’haley had no business here. His eye wandered out of the window and down the dusty road. A bunch of girls approached in starchy elegance. “Lawd, dat look lak M’haley now—comin’ heah tuh bull-doze and dominize.”

  John fell to his knees and prayed for cleansing. He prayed aloud and the empty house threw back his resonant tones like a guitar box.

  “Dat sho sound good,” John exulted. “If mah voice sound dat good de first time Ah ever prayed in de church house, it sho won’t be de las’.” He arose from his knees and before the drove of girls had reached the steps John had forgotten all about his sins and fears, but he retreated to the choir-stand out of M’haley’s reach.

  As soon as Lucy took her seat before him he leaned forward and thrust his hymn-book into her hand. She coyly dropped hers, and he picked it up and pretended to search for a song. Lucy slyly did the same and read:

  Dere Lucy:

  Whin you pass a mule tied to a tree,

  Ring his tail and think of me.

  Your sugger-lump,


  JOHN

  John read:

  Long as the vine grow ’round the stump

  You are my dolling sugar lump.

  Mama whipped me last night, because Bud told her we was talking to each other.

  Your sweet heart,

  LUCY ANN

  John was so sweetly distracted by this note that he was blind and deaf to his surroundings. Bud Potts had rapped loudly and importantly and had gestured with his hands as if he were pushing a wash-basket of clothes up on a high shelf for the choir to rise. Everyone was standing but John. He never noticed this until Oral Johnson nudged him.

  “Get yo’ pitch!” Bud ordered as if he were giving the order to fire on Fort Sumter.

  “Basses—duh-h-h-h. Y’all got it? Altos—fah-h-h—Trebles—me-e-e-e—. Pay ’tension dere, Lucy!”

  Satisfied in the matter of the pitch, Bud took a full breath and broke out thru his nose—“Duh, duh, duh, duh! Dole la fee so lah so fee.” The altos were right behind the basses and fighting in haughty jerks for sound supremacy—“fah! fah! me! sol! fah-so-la-so-lah-so-fah!” The trebles pitched out in full, Ory behind the pack and keened furiously to make up for lost time, “—me, me, ray, do! Me-fah-lah-so-lah-so-fah! Oh me, me, me,—”

  It was a hard race and hotly contended at the top of the lungs all the way. The trebles won because while altos, basses and even other trebles forgot their notes in confusion and fell by the wayside, Lucy never missed a note. Bud growled away in the bass but Lucy treed him and held him growling in discomfiture out upon a limb until the end of the piece cut him down.

  John beat the bass notes by a vigorous side-to-side motion of his head and everybody in the audience thought they heard him singing them.

  The preacher arose.

  “Ah takes mah tex’ and Ah takes mah time.” He pursed up his wrinkled black face and glared all over the church. No one accepting the challenge he went on—“Ah takes mah tex’ ’tween de lids uh de Bible,” and slammed it shut. Another challenging glare about the room. Same results. “Don’t you take and meddle wid whar Ah takes mah tex’. Long ez Ah gives yuh de word uh Gawd, ’tain’t none uh yo’ business whar Ah gits it from.”