THIRTEEN

Martha dressed carefully. Looking in her mirror she tied and retied her head scarf before settling on a style that gave her a carefree air. All eyes would be on her, and she wanted the women to know she had not lost the will to live. It was time that she got out of the house and it was impossible to live on the island and not see the women and their stares.

When she reached the path that led to the Gulf, the sun was already aglow and the dew fast drying. Martha walked briskly, not knowing exactly where she was going, just that she wanted to get to the water’s edge.

She glanced back at the village and was caught in the peacefulness. The houses in rows looked asleep. Black iron pots for boiling laundry were cold now, with gray ashes almost touching their bottoms. A lone child in a white shirt, probably his father’s, was drawing water from the outdoor pump and white smoke was rising, indicating the beginning of a fire for the breakfast meal.

It was a quiet scene that belied the feelings of fear and distrust that were now rampant on the island. Martha sighed and turned away, feeling remorse for her part in that fear and distrust. The women needed her for their midwife, but they wanted her only on their terms: just like them—happy keeping the customs of the island.

Martha hurried toward the water’s edge. To her surprise, she was not the only one who had sought the comfort of the constant rhythm of the rolling sea. The man’s back was to her and at first she didn’t know whether to go ahead or turn around. If only he were farther up shore away from the trail. Then she could slip by in the opposite direction and indicate her desire to be alone with the swiftness of her walk.

She stood on the trail listening to the waves, watching him pitch pebbles out to sea with a fast hard throw. She waited, wanting to go closer to the water’s edge. She hoped he had as little interest in talking to her as she had in talking to him.

Before she had moved, he turned to pick up more pebbles and saw her on the trail. The surprise showed in his face that was now a golden tan from the summer sun.

“Mornin, cha,” he called. “C’mon, I’m leavin directly.”

“Mornin, Beau,” she said softly as she approached him near the water.

“I often come early,” he said. “I feel close t’ Tee heah in the mornins.”

A sadness flooded Martha. She felt ashamed that she had not realized that Beau would be as lonely and grieved as she was about losing Tee. She suddenly knew how separate men and women were on Blue Isle—and now she was uneasy because she knew if someone saw them there, it would be said that she had connived to meet him.

He must have sensed her distress. “I won’t stay, though there is somethin I gotta say t’ yuh.”

She lowered her eyes hoping that he, unlike the others, would not condemn her.

“Word is out yuh won’t take the stranger in marriage. I’m glad. I loved yuh, Mat, since I can remember. I fear, though, you won’t consider the likes o’ me. But I still care.”

It hurt to have him talk this way. She didn’t know how to respond.

He went on. “Have yo quiltin and I’ll take m’ chance.” He waited, then started toward the trail.

“Wait.” Her eyes on the sand, she said, “I don’t think I’ll have a quiltin. I don’t think I’ll marry … nobody, Beau.”

He started to walk away and she moved closer. “Please. Wait,” she said, still not looking at him. “I knowed you liked me, Beau, and I’m glad I got the chance t’ hear yuh say it. I hope we can talk sometimes and be friends.” She looked at him. “Can we?”

The seriousness on his face eased into a smile. “Oh, cha, of course. We friends.”

She watched him until he disappeared. Then she walked along the shore, thinking that she had a lot to learn about the men of her island. She thought of Tee, who had dared suggest that she consider leaving, and now Beau, who, in spite of what some people thought of her, would take his chance when she presented her quilt pattern.

Then she remembered Titay’s words: Who’ll want sich a hand? Where you go? Mongst strangers?

Beau wanted her hand. Maybe she should forget about going to school. A man want a woman that keep his way. What was a man’s way? What was Beau’s way? What if she showed her pattern? Would Beau’s father let him bid for a woman who wanted to go on learning? She knew she would take her lessons as long as the teacher gave them. Would Beau laugh and find her crazy if she sometimes spoke like Hal?

The thought of Hal made her angry and Titay’s words hit Martha hard: Mongst strangers? Would people away from here laugh at her? At the way she talked? At the way she looked? She ran down the shore as if to get away from herself and her confusing thoughts. She ran until she came to the path that led to home through the woods. She slowed as she neared the chinaberry tree. The loud talk and shouts of the women startled her.

“I don’t care what y’all say,” Ocie shouted. “I know what Mat done.”

I jus don’t want no Cora midwifin m’ granbaby,” Gert shouted.

“Tis m’ granbaby too,” Ode’s mother said.

“And nobody like Mat gon touch this chile. She always thought erself better’n us,” Ocie said. “So smart, lordin o’er us. And so uppity with that stranger. They say she leavin Blue Isle. I hope she do.”

Martha wanted to show herself to stop the talk, but she hesitated.

“Don’t talk sich trash,” Alicia shouted.

“She trash,” Ocie shouted back. “Let Titay say somethin t’ er and see if she listen t’ er own granma. Let Titay put er house in order. Tis like Cora say, Mat found somethin new wid that stranger, she’ll never be tame. No man’ll tame her.”

“Don’t bring that Cora filth heah, no,” Cam said angrily.

“I ain’t fuh fendin that Mat, no, but I don’t talk bout Titay,” Ocie’s mother said.

“Mat er own woman, yes,” Alicia said. “Titay can’t take Mat’s sins on her head, no.”

“You bes come t’ yo senses, Ocie, girl. That woman Cora no midwife, no,” Cam said.

“And no old woman who can’t handle er own grandaughter can’t do nothin fuh me. C’mon, Mama, le’s go.” They left, Ocie heavy with her unborn child.

Martha was too ashamed to let the women see her. She stayed on the edge of the woods, listening.

“I fear fuh that daughter-in-law o’ yourn, Gert,” Cam said. “Cora ain’t measure her yet, one time; she eat all wrong, yes. Nothin but sugar cane. No greens, no liver, no oranges. Titay make you eat all them things, yes.”

“What Cora know?” Alicia asked. “Bet she ain’t even pared good clean goose grease. What she know? Evil spirits hinder birth. So she say put nine bags round the stomach and spread special potion on birthin bed.”

“Can’t tell that Ocie nothin, neither her mama. They den-thick with that woman, Cora.” Gert waved her hands in the air then grabbed her head and cried, “Ocie, too big. She swell up. That’s no good. I tell er, see Titay ’fo tis too late.”

“She blieve in Cora’s magic. Cora tell er no pain,” Cam said, and all the women laughed.

“Taint funny fuh Ocie, no,” Gert said. “I fear, really fear.”

Martha approached the tree and when the women saw her they became quiet, their eyes on her. Martha’s heart pounded as she hurried by, her eyes averted from their stares.

Just as she came to the commissary, Hal was walking up the path from the Gulf. He waved to her, but she pretended that she didn’t see him, hastening her footsteps. Since the evening she had said she would not marry him, she had kept plenty of space between them.

At home she went directly to her room, not wanting to face Titay. She closed her door softly, hoping Titay would not know she had come. She lay on her bed confused and miserable. Ocie hate me. Trustin Cora wid er life.

The silent treatment was getting her down. She closed her eyes, trying to shut it all out of her mind. She knew she had to get away from this place, but she felt empty, dry, lost, with a great desire to go, but no plan.

Suddenly she jumped from her bed and rummaged through the crate that served as a desk. She found pencil and paper and began to write:

Miss Boudreaux, Dear teacher. Please help me go away from here. I will work hard for just room and board and time to go to school. For the sake of my life, I have to go. I thank you very much. Sincerely.

She reread what she had written and wondered what her teacher would think. She looked at the word Sincerely. She erased it and added, Humbly, Martha Dumas.

Hurriedly she sealed it. She ran out of the house toward the commissary. Ovide was just leaving as she came up. “Ovide, Ovide, please! For the teacher, yes. I be happy for her answer, yes. Please.”

She watched him place her letter in his pocket and felt a mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. Now she must wait.