Pauline wore a pink, flowery dress and a big white straw hat. She was walking slow—she always walked slow with her head high like she’s always thinking about something far away. As we came closer to her she smiled and waved at us. The next moment you couldn’t see her for the dust.
“Who was that?” Marcus said.
“Pauline,” I said.
“I ain’t never seen her before.”
“She lives down there.”
“She pretty,” Marcus said. “That other woman was something like that. But she darker than that other woman was. She married?”
“No, but you can say she is. She’s Bonbon’s woman.”
“Bonbon?”
“Bonbon,” I said.
“Well, that sure don’t cut no ice with me,” he said.
“It better,” I said. “It cut ice with everybody else in the quarter.”
“Well, not with this kid,” he said.
By then we were passing Bonbon’s house, and as I glanced toward the house I saw his wife Louise sitting on the gallery in the rocking chair. She was looking at Marcus. Marcus wasn’t standing more than two feet away from me, and Louise Bonbon was a good hundred and fifty feet away from the road, but I could tell she was looking only at Marcus.
“Ain’t that his wife?” Marcus was saying. He hadn’t noticed the look; he probably hadn’t seen her looking.
“That’s his wife,” I said.
“So he got two, huh? A black one down the quarter and a white one up here?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“And y’all don’t do a thing, don’t even chunk on his house at night?”
“No, we don’t chunk on his house,” I said. “We were waiting for you to lead us.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m go’n do,” he said. “I’m taking that black woman.”
“Sure,” I said.
He jumped down and opened the gate for me, and after I had parked the two trailers before the crib, I put some water and fuel in the tractor and hooked up the empty ones. Then we went on back down the quarter.
Louise Bonbon was still on the gallery, still watching Marcus. I had seen her look at other black men in the quarter, but I had never seen her watch any like she was watching Marcus now. But Marcus wasn’t paying her any attention. He was thinking about Pauline. That evening he fell back again and he had to drag that sack on his shoulder again, and that black stallion was only about six inches behind him. But he didn’t mind at all. He was thinking about Pauline. He was thinking about the sweet words he was going to whisper in her ear. (He had told me what a great lover he was at dinner before we went back in the field. He had told me how once he got after a woman she couldn’t do a thing but fall for him.) Marcus was a pretty handsome fellow and he knew it. He was about six feet tall, slim, but well-built; he had medium brown skin and a pile of curly black hair. He had light brown eyes, a kind of straight nose, thin lips, and a well-shaped mustache. Marcus had a lot of Indian blood in him, and he probably had a lot of white blood in him, too. So already he was thinking about him and Pauline in bed. He had already seen those long, pretty arms round his neck, he had already heard the deep sighs from her throat. And after it was over, he was going to lay beside her and whisper words she had never heard before. He was going to tell her things Bonbon had never thought about. How could a white man—no, not even a solid white man, but a bayou, catfish-eating Cajun—compete with him when it came down to loving. So now he was glad Bonbon was there on the horse. He was glad the horse was so close he could feel his hot breath on the back of his neck. He was glad he could hear the sagg-sagg-sagg of the saddle every time the horse moved up. And even that hot, salty sweat running into his eyes couldn’t make him hate Bonbon.
That night when I came back from the yard, Marcus had already taken his bath, had already ate, and had dressed.
“Taking off?” I said.
“Going courting,” he said.
“Courting?”
“Miss Guerin.”
“Pauline?” I said, stopping him.
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t go there, Marcus,” I said.
“Take it easy, babyboy, I won’t hurt your overseer.”
“Don’t go there, Marcus,” I said.
“I’m going,” he said.
My grip tightened on his arm.
“Don’t go there, Marcus,” I said.
But he just stood there grinning at me.
“You want him to kill you, don’t you?”
“He ain’t go’n kill me, you know that.”
“Don’t push your luck, Marcus,” I said.
“See you later, babyboy,” he said, pulling my hand away from his arm and going down the steps.