Of Love and Dust (14 page)

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So now he was looking at Bonbon’s wife. I didn’t know it then—I mean I didn’t know he was doing it with the notion of taking it any farther. I thought he was looking at her just like all of us looked at her when we went by the house. We knew she wanted to give it to us—any of us who was crazy enough to come in there and get it—but we all knew the trouble that could follow.

Marcus went back to the yard with me Monday evening, and when we came back down the quarter, Sidney Bonbon’s dog barked at us.

“They got a dog, too, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

I didn’t give it another thought after that. Anybody else who didn’t know about the dog would have asked that same question. But Marcus was already wondering how he was going to get by that dog into that house.

But the funny thing about all this, Marcus didn’t know Louise had been looking at him for a week already. If he had, I doubt if he would have wanted Louise. Because, you see, he wanted her only for revenge. He wanted to get to her, not her getting to him. He wanted to clown for her, he probably would have stood on his head for her, probably would have walked on his hands for her—until he got into those
drawers. Then that would have been the end. If they lynched him after, it wouldn’t have meant a thing. Because, you see, they couldn’t take away what he had got. No, he probably would have laughed at his lynchers.

Marcus thought about all this Saturday evening while he was unloading those two trailers of corn; because before that time Marcus hadn’t given Louise a moment’s thought—not one. It was just Pauline. But up there unloading those trailers, things started changing. He saw Pauline again. She came out of the house and went across the yard, and she didn’t even glance at him. Yet, she stopped to talk to Bonbon, who met her between the house and the big gate. Marcus, pitching corn into the crib, could see them talking. The longer he watched them, the madder he got. Then she went out of the yard. He could see her slip through the thin dress. He could see how that slip clung to her slender body. He thought how he would be a completely different person with a lovely body like that to come home to. Then he realized that that body was for a white man, and he got mad again. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to really hurt her. But how? Beat her up? Kill one of her children? Yes, yes, that would hurt her. But what would that do to Bonbon? Probably nothing. What did Bonbon care about two little mulatto children?

Marcus pitched corn and thought. The hot corn dust had his eyes and body on fire.

How could he hurt Bonbon? How? How? Wait; wait. Yes—sure. Bonbon had a wife, too, remember. Yes, that’s right, he had a wife. And some kind of way he would get to his wife. So let them lynch him—let them. What did he care.

“No,” he thought; “they ain’t lynching me. I’m go’n run away from this goddamn place. That’s what I’m go’n do—but when? If I try now they’ll throw me in Angola for the rest of
my life. It won’t be for no five years, it’ll be for the rest of my natural life. No, I can’t run now. I have to wait until that trial over. Then I’ll pick my chance …

“But suppose they put that trial off for six months? Them white people can do what they want with a nigger. Suppose they put it off for six months? Then what? What then? No. No. Him there laying with her and me laying in that house knowing it—no; hell no. I’d rather die. I’d rather die.”

Marcus had unloaded one trailer of corn and was on the second load when Marshall Hebert came from the store and looked up at him. This was the first time he had seen the big white man, but he knew who he was from hearing people talk. Marshall stood there looking up at him a few minutes; then he walked away. Marcus saw him pull a piece of moss from one of the trees, and after rolling it up into a ball, drop it on the ground. He walked across the yard toward the big gate and looked out in the road. But the road didn’t interest him, and he turned to look at Marcus. He must have stood by the gate a half hour watching Marcus work.

After Marshall had gone, Marcus started thinking about Bonbon’s wife. The thought of taking out his revenge on Louise gave him extra strength to go on. Finally, a little after ten o’clock, he finished up and came down the quarter. And after taking a bath and coming outside, who should he see in the road but Pauline, walking by herself. He said if she had acted toward him the way a woman ought to act toward a man, everything about Bonbon’s wife would have been forgotten. But, no, when she saw him she acted like she had seen the devil himself. He said that’s why he hit her. He wanted to show her he was a man, not dirt. He said he was so mad with her he wanted to kill her, and, yet, at the same time, if she had given him a little smile, he would have been ready to kill Bonbon for her.

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But now he was looking at Bonbon’s wife. He had been looking at her two days before I caught on to what was happening. Monday morning in the field, the two punks made him sweat just like they had made him sweat the week before. When Bonbon came out there in the evening he made him sweat again. But it looked like he didn’t mind. I didn’t know what had made the change. I didn’t know if Bonbon had got the best of him already, or if Murphy Bacheron had done it with that one punch last Saturday night. Tuesday it was the same: the punks in the morning, Bonbon in the evening. Then Wednesday night when we were coming back down the quarter we saw Louise standing near the gate.

Louise was about twenty-five, but she was the size of the average twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl. Most of the time she wore the clothes of a thirteen-year-old girl—she wore skirts and blouses instead of dresses. She wore sandals instead of shoes. She never wore socks or stockings unless it was winter. Her hair was yellow (the same color with that hay in August) and her face was more cream-color than it was white. Her sad gray eyes were the only thing about her that made you feel Louise wasn’t a child. They had seen too much sorrow, they had seen it much too long.

I had seen Louise up close only once, when Bonbon sent me from the field to get the gun. Aunt Margaret, the old lady in the quarter who worked for them, wasn’t up there that day, so Louise had to bring the gun to the gate. Louise didn’t say anything to me, her eyes didn’t invite me in; she just stood there with the gun hanging in her hand like she was waiting for me to make the first move. If I wanted to touch her face or her hair, if I wanted to kiss her or push her down, then go right on and do it. She wasn’t telling me to do it, but she wasn’t telling me not to do it, either. It was left up to me. Burl Colar told me she made him feel the same way once when Bonbon sent him there. But me and Burl both did the same thing; we got away from there quickly as we could. At the same time we were careful to keep people from thinking we were running.

Louise wore a white dress that night when Marcus and I saw her, and under those black, moss-covered trees, she looked like a ghost standing there. At first I thought she was by herself, but as we came closer I saw she was holding Tite by the hand. Tite was her little three-year-old daughter.

“Madame Bonbon,” Marcus said, and bowed to her.

She didn’t answer. She was looking at him all the time, but she acted like she didn’t even hear him. When we got little farther down the quarter, I grabbed him by the arm and jerked him around.

“What you meant back there?” I asked him.

“All I did was speak to her,” he said.

“You saw me speaking?”

“I saw you trembling,” he said, grinning.

I got mad with him then. I remembered all the other things he had pulled. I remembered that old woman telling me to look after him, to talk to him. I remembered only three days ago she wanted to go to Marshall Hebert again
to beg Marshall to keep Bonbon from hurting him or killing him out there in the field. Right now I wanted to hit him so bad my hand started shaking.

“I’m getting sick of you, Marcus, you hear me?”

“All right,” he said.

“What you mean by that?”

“You getting sick of me—leave me alone.”

We were standing face to face, no more than a foot or two apart. It was dark, but I could see how the sweat and dirt had caked on his face. I wanted to hit him so bad then I wanted to knock his face clean.

“You sonofabitch,” I said.

I wanted him to curse me back so I could kick his ass good. He grinned.

“You rotten sonofabitch,” I said.

“Now, what you cussing me for?” he said. “All I did was speak to the poor little suffering thing—there you going round cussing me. They ought to have more love in this world.”

“You sonofabitch,” I said.

He shook his head and grinned. “Going on down the quarter, Jim?” he said.

We started walking again. He walked a little ahead of me. Every now and then he glanced back at me and grinned.

After I ate supper I came out on the gallery with my guitar. Few minutes later Marcus came out there and laid down in front of his door. He was laying on his back looking up at the tin roof. I didn’t know if he was listening to me playing the guitar or if he was still thinking about Louise up the quarter.

“Marcus?” I said.

He didn’t answer me and I called him again. This time he looked at me and grinned.

“Listen,” I said, moving over where he was. I was going to talk to him in a different way now. I wasn’t going to get mad again, I was going to talk to him like you talk to a child. “We don’t want any trouble on this plantation, hear?” I said.

“What kind of trouble?” he said.

“The kind of trouble Bonbon would make if he caught you messing with his wife. Do you know what he would do if he caught you anywhere near that woman?”

He didn’t answer.

“He would lynch you. He would burn you alive. Him and his brothers would burn you alive. You and half of the people around here.”

“I just spoke to her,” he said.

“Is that all it’s going to be?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it?” I said.

“I just spoke to the lady,” he said. “I see no harm in speaking to a person.”

I could feel myself getting mad again. I didn’t want to, I don’t like to get mad. But something about Marcus made you mad no matter if you liked it or not.

“Don’t fuck with that woman, Marcus,” I said. “You hear me?”

He didn’t answer.

“You hear me, boy? I don’t want to have to kick your ass, now.”

“Jim, please,” he said. “Just let me digest my food. Can’t a man lay down in peace and digest his food after he been working all day.”

My hand sprung over his chest. I wanted to grab him, I wanted to shake him, I wanted to slam him against the wall. But my hand just hung over his chest, trembling.

I got up from there and went to my side of the house,
then I threw my guitar on the bed and went down to Josie’s. She had some cold beer there and I drank a couple bottles.

“Tell that goddamn convict keep ’way from my place,” she said.

“Tell him yourself,” I said, “I’m no goddamn messenger.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you tonight?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Here’s your money.”

I paid her and went out. I stood out in the road a long time, telling myself I ought to get away from here. “I don’t owe that old woman anything,” I said. “I ought to go pack my bags and get away from here. Sure as hell, that sonofabitch is going to start trouble before all this is over with.”

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