May in the Florida outdoors; May in the open house of Luke Mimms and May in the hearts of the three occupants of the house.
Luke, the father-husband, was glowing. He was fifty-eight and God had granted him a pretty wife one summer less twenty. His son, Artie the beloved, twenty-two, had accepted her at last and was at peace with Luke. The world was bright. Fifty-eight is young after all with love.
Vangie was radiating ecstasy from her black eyes and brown skin. She, the homeless waif, was loved by Luke. She was the mistress of his comfortable household and her big stepson had said he was glad she was there. For three weeks he had sulked in sullen silence. But now—since morning—he had not only permitted her to make up to him, he spent his leisure doing errands for her, or displaying his huge strength for her entertainment.
Artie laughed in his deep baritone. He was at peace again with his beloved father; his new stepmother was not the ogre he had pictured her before he looked at her. She was pretty. She was obliging, and after all she was only a kid, grateful for any little kindness shown her.
“See, Dumplin,” Luke gloried, “didn’t Ah say Artie’d be all right t’reckly? Yas, mah boy is awful ’fectionate. He wouldn’t hurt a flea—he kain’t stay ’way f’um his pappy.”
Vangie patted Luke’s hand, and scolded him prettily.
“It’s yo’ fault, Honey. You kept callin’ Artie ‘yo baby’ an’ Ah thought he wuz a lil’ teeny baby chile. Ah never knowed he wuz bigger’n a house. No grown body don’t want no step mama. If he wuz a lil’ boy Ah figgered Ah’d teach him to love me like he wuz mine.”
“Don’t mind him,” Artie said, “he always calls me ‘baby.’ Heah Ah is de stronges’ man in de country—ain’t let nobody th’ow me in a rassle since Ah wuz sixteen—but Ah’m all he’s got—Ah mean till you came.”
“Kah! Kah!” Luke laughed boisterously. “Ef Ah had a’ tol’ you Ah had a son twenty-two, you would A’ thought Ah wuz ole—Dat Artie boy, he’s jealous uh me, dat’s whut—we been heah by ourselves since he wuz nine.”
“Yeah,” Artie added—“It sho’ made me good and mad to think we been gettin’ ’long all dese years, den w’en Pop gets ’round sixty he got to jump up and get married.”
“Ain’t but fifty-eight,” Luke threw in hastily.
“Whut’s the difference? But Ah ain’t mad uh nothin’ no mo’. If youse happy Ah is. Vangie is a good girl an’ Ah’ll do all Ah kin to make it nice for her. Ah’m glad not to be foolin’ wid the cookin’. Ah got mo’ appetite already.”
II
Artie did make things nice for Vangie. There was always plenty of stove wood in the wood box and water in the two brass bound pails. He “grubbed” potatoes for her, churned for her, took her fishing with him and even let her go hunting with him when he discovered her enthusiasm for dogs in general, and his pair of “redbone” hounds in particular.
May was burned to June beneath the Florida sun. Berries hung plump and green in clusters among the lacy China-berry trees. The woods were full of color and odors.
June for Luke, for Artie, for Vangie—June in the world.
But Luke was not so happy as he had been. Not that he was jealous—he hated himself at the very thought of such a passion—but Artie and Vangie did seem to have a great deal to talk about in which he had no part. They could enjoy themselves for hours together and did not remember he was alone. Artie never seemed to go out “sparking” on girls anymore—he was forever calling Vangie or she was forever calling him.
Sometimes his great love for the two “young ’uns” would overflow and wash all baser passions from his soul. Then he would assure himself that all was well. He had prayed for peace and harmony between these two, and God had heard him.
“Youse mah wife,” Luke said to her one day at the table and closed his gnarled black hand upon her brown one. This was as near as he ever came to betraying the sore on his heart. Artie looked quickly at his father, searchingly. Vangie did not return the caress, but neither did she draw her hand away. So Luke was satisfied.
“Artie baby, don’t think cause Ah married, dat you kain’t git yo’ shear. Youse haff an’ haff partners wid me on dis truckin’ farm—you kin take over yoh twenty acres whenever you gits ready, an’ git married when so evah you please. Pinkie Turk wuz jes’ axin ’bout you.”
“Thank you, Pop, but Ah reckon the place can stay together lak it tis. No hurry a-tall—Ah ain’t in no hurry to jump over de broom-stick wid nobody.”
During supper that night the dogs were rather noisy—moonless black night with the alligators booming from Lake Belle whip-poor-will crying in the orange grove—
“Past-Ned old boy, put ’im up!” Artie called out to his “tree” hound. “Go git ’im Beulah,” to his “strike.” To Vangie he explained: “Them dogs knows it’s a good hunting night—b’leeve Ah’ll air ’e mout if Ah kin git Pop to go ’long.”
“Nope, son. Pop’s too tired. Git Dan Carter to go wid you.”
“Oh, lemme go wid you, Artie,” Vangie begged. “Ah ain’t never been in mah life.”
“Sure you kin, Vangie.”
“Naw, Dumplin’, you better not,” Luke objected quickly. “You mought git snake-bit.”
“Shucks, she kin wear yo’ boots,” Artie put in.
“Oh, Ah wants to go!” wailed the girl.
“But Honey,” Luke contended, “dey mought flush a catamount.”
“Aw, we ain’t goin’ in a hammock,” Artie retorted. So Luke, having offered every objection but the real one, gave in.
“You reckon any boogers goin ter git me, Artie? You sho you kin take keer uh me?” she appealed.
“Sho’ Ah kin take keer uh you, Vangie, and Ah wouldn’t leave you go if Ah couldn’t.”
So Vangie drew on her husband’s boots and followed Artie into the black woods.
Luke crept to bed alone with the dish-rag under his pillow—for that is a powerful charm to keep the marriage bed inviolate.
He heard the deep voices of the hounds “treeing” far away. The late moon hung low and red when the two others returned tired but happy. But Luke could never hear a baying hound again nor look at a low, full moon without that painful heart-contraction he had felt that night in the vastness of his bed alone while his wife strode thru the dark woods, depending upon, looking to someone other than himself, for protection.
By eight o’clock next morning he trod the village road to End-Or. He hurried to the gate of Ned Bickerstaff to get a “hand.”
“Does you want dis han’ for hate, for to make money come to yuh, for to put yo’ enemy on his back, or to keep trouble fum yo’ do’?” the old male witch asked.
“Ah—Ah jes’ wants to fix it so’s nobody kain’t git ’tween me and Vangie.”
“Does you want him daid, or crippled up fuh life, uh jes’ fixed so he kain’t stay heah?”
“None of ’em. There ain’t no man—now. Ah jes’ wants to [be] sure there never ben one.”
Bickerstaff made him a small parcel sewed up in red flannel and received ten dollars in return.
“Take dis, Luke Mimms. Long as you got dis, nobody can’t never cross you. Wait till sundown, sprinkle wid a drop or two of water and nobody kin git twixt you ’thout water gittin’ him. But don’t sprinkle it tell youse sho’ you wants somethin’ done, cause it’s bound to come after de sprinklin’. And don’t never take it off once you put it [on] else it will work the other way.”
Luke hurried home to his fields and toiled vigorously all day beside his big brown boy. Like the roots his hands were gnarled; like the soil his skin was brownish black. Dirt of the dirt he appeared to the observer. But like the moist black earth he worked, he held within everything of good and evil. He watched Artie from the corner of his wrinkled eyelids. How he hated that big form that threw its shadow between Vangie and him! How he loved his dear boy, his baby now grown to such splendid manhood! Aha! In his pocket was the little red bag that by its magic made their years equal and enlarged his shrunken old form to that of Artie, the brute magnificent. The dull brown earth-clod was alive and warm with the fire of love and hate. So he sang in his quivering voice:
“There’s a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sinsick soul.”
He trusted to his “hand” and grew cheerful again.
“Artie, les’ we all knock off now. Hit’s mighty hot an’ de bear’s bout to git me. Les’ put some ’millons tuh cool and drive in to town.”
“What fur? Oh, all right, Pop, Ah’ll go feed de hauses and change up a bit. You g’wan git dressed—Ah’ll hitch up whilst you puts de melons in de spring house.”
Vangie waved them off cheerfully and went on with her work.
On the road they laughed, told jokes, commented on timber and crops, fertilizer and stock, laughed and joked some more and finally arrived at Orlando.
Then Luke revealed the object of his trip. He wanted to buy things for Vangie. “Artie, she kin have everything to make a ’oman proud.” He stopped, embarrassed, for a moment. “You an’ her is the same in mah heart. You know Ah allus tried to give you what yo’ lil heart wanted. Ah allus ast Gawd to fit it so’s Ah could. To yo’ dyin’ day Ah wants it to be so. An’ now, wid her it’s the same. You—you doan’ mind, do you Artie boy?”
There was a childish, almost pathetic look in his eyes as he looked up into his son’s face, and Artie felt a disturbance in his breast. He put one arm quickly about his father’s shoulder, then drew it away and roughly tied the horse to the great oak tree.
“Oh, course Papa. Ah wants you to do for Vangie whutever you so desired. You been a good papa to me. Ah wants you to be jes’ as happy as a king. Whut you got in yo’ mind to buy her?”
They advanced to the door of the store.
“Well, Ah thought Ah’d buy her a new churn, a store broom, and bolt uh new calliker.”
“You reckon she wants dat?” Artie asked skeptically.
“Sho! All women-folks do. Ah uster give yo’ ma a bolt uh calliker ev’ry Chris-mas.”
He shopped eagerly, giggling like a schoolgirl. Artie shopped also, but his purchase was made without any flourish in another part of the store, and Luke in his excitement asked no questions.
They drove away homeward, but at the last store before leaving town Luke dismounted and bought a large stock of peppermint candy—red and white striped.
“She’ll be tickled to death to git dis candy,” Luke jubilated.
“You ought to’ve got dat box kind of candy fuh her,” Artie commented gently.
“What! Spen’ a whole dallah fuh a teeny lil’ box when Ah kin git dis great big stick fuh uh dime?”
At home, Vangie had supper ready and as soon as the horses were unhitched and fed, they gathered about the table. Then the old lover slyly arose and presented his gifts. First the churn, a big brown earthen affair—and Vangie exclaimed happily over it, but there was a little of disappointment in her voice which Luke would have noticed had he not been so consumed by the joy of giving. Then the calico, which she received a little happier, and last the broom and candy, upon which he bumped her mouth awkwardly with his own.
“Oh, you’se mighty good to me, Honey,” she told him. “Ah reckon Ah got de bestest husban’ in Floridy.”
Luke went beaming back to his seat.
Artie nonchalantly tossed a parcel in Vangie’s lap.
“Thass a lil’ somethin’ fum me, too, Vangie. You been waitin’ on me and doin’ fuh me ever since you been heah an’ Ah ain’t never give you a cent. Ah’ll be buyin’ you somethin’ all along if you keep on lookin’ after me.”
It turned out to be a white wool skirt and a pink silk blouse. Poor Vangie was delighted and could not keep the ecstacy out of her eyes and voice.
“Oh, Oh, Artie!” she cried, grasping his hand. “You’se so good to me!”
She held the two garments up to measure and hugged them gleefully.
“Artie, Artie!” she all but wept. “How you know whut mah heart wanted so?”
“Ah, Ah would a bought it fuh you, Vangie, if Ah had a knowed,” said Luke miserably and remained silent for the rest of the meal.
That night Luke sprinkled his “hand” and put it on.
The old sun so careless of human woes, shone brightly every day. If Luke wept in his hell of misgivings, the sun came up and sped across the blue, glorying hotly in its strength and power just the same. Old trees rotted at the heart, and the sun nourished young saplings that quickly buried the struggling old forest-monarch in their shadows. The sun went on and on to his sky bed at night, pulling the gray and purple hangings of his couch about him and slept, indifferent to human tears.
Artie and Vangie did nothing that Luke could put his finger upon as unfaithful. It was just their lowered eyes, their happy gazes that hurt him. He did not believe that they had desecrated his hearth, but he could feel their love like a presence occupying the house. It pricked his old skin painfully as soon as he entered. He could not rage, he could not kill. He loved them both till it all but suffocated him. In this great love he saw they suffered too—that Artie loved him greatly for he laid down his love for his father’s sake. But for how much longer? Luke had asked himself.
The sun flung August hotly down upon him.
Vangie dressed every Sunday in the skirt and blouse that Artie had bought her. Luke could only explain this by the fact that Artie had given them. He, of the calico age, could not understand the tastes of the age of silk.
Oh, the house was unbearable! His suspicions had filled every chink and cranny. He began to approach sheltered places stealthily and creep thru the orange grove. Then he would hastily retreat lest he surprise them.
“Tell you whut,” he began one evening. “We cain’t do nothin’ to de crops fuh a week uh mo’—les’ we all shut up de house, turn de stock on de pashcher an’ go on a-fishin’ trip up de rivah!”
“Ooh! Les’ we all!” Vangie echoed.
“Ah kin stan’ a whole heap uh dat, Papa.” Artie laughed and stretched his mighty limbs. “Les’ start t’morrer.”
III
The awakening sun threw a flaming sword upon the St. John’s River the next morning as they embarked.
The camping necessities were piled high in the center of the large rowboat before Artie, who rowed. Vangie was perched in the low stern facing him with Luke at his back in the high prow seat.
Down river they flew under Artie’s mighty strokes. The sun lost its redness as it climbed. The hounds with forepaws on the gunwale barked defiances to river alligators, woods, and would not be stilled in their freedom.
“How fur we goin’, Artie?” Vangie asked.
“Oh, way past de ‘Coast Line’ bridge,” he answered. “Thass all right, ain’t it, Pop?”
“Ah, sho’, sho’,” the old man answered.
“We been down there heaps uh times on account uh game,” Artie went on. “Dere’s panthers, catamounts, deers and bears in dem woods ’bout twenty miles off.”
“Ooh. Ah’ll be skeered,” Vangie shuddered.
“No need to be—Ah’m heah,” Artie answered quickly. “Ole wile cat ’bout got me when Ah wuz a lil’ shaver but Papa kilt him—fought him wid his pocket-knife—ain’t he never tole you?”
“Naw, indeedy, please—Luke, tell me.”
“Oh, tain’t much to tell, Vangie. Hit wuz in dese same woods we gwine to now. Artie allus did love to follow me ’round trapisin’ long, holdin’ on to mah finger wid his lil’ fat han’s. His ma useter cry an’ say he loved me better’n he done her . . . Well, Ah had some traps set ’round in dem swamps an’ he cried to go, so Ah took him. Way down in dat hammock we flushed a wile cat an’ she leaped right at mah boy but Ah wuz too quick fur her. Ah got in betwixt an’ she landed on me. An’ Ah had to fight wid mah han’s an’ a pocket-knife. Ah kilt her, but she clawed me up so’s de doctah had to take a whole heap uh stitches.”
He displayed his arms and chest.
Vangie’s eyes grew misty.
“An’ fuh dat,” Artie said flippantly, but with a husky voice, “Ah’m gointer let him be mah papa till Ah die.”
They all laughed excessively to hide their feelings.
The sun quieted the dogs, sweated the people, and fried the paint on the boat.
Artie rowed on, his tremendous muscles bunching, stretching, bunching, stretching, as he bent to the oar. As he rowed he sang. The Negro melodies rolled out of his chest in deep baritone and rumbled over the river to be lost among the trees. Deep vibrating tones, high quavering minors. He sang on and on, filling Vangie’s ears with his music, her eyes with his body, and her heart with love of him.
Luke saw it all. His son’s back was toward him, huge, huge, till it swelled and swelled until it blotted out the boat, the river, the woods, the earth, the sun for Luke. The universe held nothing but Artie singing to Vangie and caressing her with his eyes. His old skin pricked and crept uncomfortably.
But, he gloated, the “hand” would hold. They could but bruise themselves against the bars.
Hell? Yes. Fire? No. Just one woman, two men in a boat—two men who love her—two men who love each other.
They suffer from the heat—Artie rowing, most of all. Vangie wets her handkerchief in the river and spreads it over Artie’s head under his hat. His arteries swell, her hand trembles. Their faces are close—their lips nearly meet. Involuntarily Luke grasps for his “hand” and all but faints. It was gone. God knows where. String must have worn in two.
The two hours for Luke crawled on up the river and over him with hot brassy feet. The sun was arching toward his bed.
“Ah’m tired,” Vangie gasped.
“Not much longer now,” Artie comforted her—“We’se gointer camp jes’ beyon’ de bridge—’bout three miles mo’.”
“Luke’s ’sleep,” Vangie observed.
Artie glanced over his shoulder—
“Guess ’tis pretty hahd on de ole man. We’ll camp soon.”
But Luke was not asleep. He slumped there with closed eyes lest they see his tears. His first wife had been merely a good worker—he had never loved any woman but Vangie. His whole life had been lived for his boy, so that Artie might know nothing but happiness. And now, that which would give Artie happiness, would at one stroke rob him both of wife and son! His heart contracted so painfully that he gasped and opened his eyes.
The bitterness of life struck him afresh. He blamed them. He didn’t. Poor creatures! Designing devils! He closed his eyes again.
The bridge was in sight. And now he noticed the sun was setting. The sky darkened: the fleecy clouds soaked up more color and yet more—magenta, purple, blush, rose with light shafts hurled across the heavens from the west as if the sky monarch on retiring would disperse his train.
With every pull on the oars, Artie leaned nearer to Vangie and she, forgetting, was leaning toward him. He, with the rebirth of the world in his eyes—the eternal torch lighter. She inclining her taper to his light with closed eyes and all consuming love. All who ran might read.
The bridge was at hand. Wide, stone pillared, crouching low over the river. As they shot under, a train rushed screeching overhead.
Here in the darkness, Artie drew in the oars and let the boat drift slowly. His hand touched Vangie’s, his feverish lips touched her hungry ones, and lazily, slowly the boat was wafted out again into the light.
They saw at once that Luke was not [asleep]—and both fell a-weeping. Artie forgot about his oars and the boat floated where it would upon the stream.
The indifferent sun, in bed, drew round his purple curtain and slept.
On the river they wept on. The boat drifted on, for Destiny, the grim steersman, had seized the rudder and they were bound—whither?