Of Love and Dust (27 page)

46
 

Marshall was out there the next evening. We had finished that patch of corn and we had crossed the ditch into the other patch. We were still working on the bayou, though, and we still had the shade on the headland in the evening. Marshall parked the car under one of the willow trees to watch us. The limbs on the willow hung so low, the leaves brushed against the top of the car. When Marshall drove away, the leaves brushed against the top of the car again. You could see the scratch marks they left in the dust that had settled on the car.

Marshall was out there the next day. He was out there the day after that and every day for the rest of the week. He never said anything to anybody but Bonbon. And they only talked when the rest of us were down the field. When everybody was on the headland, Marshall spent most of the time looking at Marcus.

Every evening when we came in I talked to Marcus. I told him how I felt, how I didn’t trust Marshall. But, of course, Marcus had to have an answer.

“I asked him for a lot of money,” he said. “For a hundred dollars—and that car. He got to think about it before he make up his mind. I can understand.”

Then he would take a bath and put on some clean clothes and go up to Louise. If Bonbon was home, he would go up to the church and look through the window. The next evening Marshall would show up in the field again and he and Marcus would stare at each other again. Sometimes it went on a minute, sometimes only a couple seconds. But if you knew it was coming, you would see it every time.

Why Bonbon didn’t get suspicious to something going on, I don’t know. Then I think I do. Bonbon had been taking from Marshall so long he had forgot it was wrong. He just couldn’t see Marshall doing him anything now. He thought Marshall had accepted this as part of life, just like he had accepted taking as part of life. I say taking—not stealing—because I don’t think Bonbon felt he was stealing any more. He was just taking things that Marshall was going to die and leave. There was enough there for everybody, and he didn’t see anything wrong with taking a little of it. How could Marshall see anything wrong with it, either?

Every evening now when I came up to the front, I saw Bishop. He was either standing out on the back gallery or he was somewhere in the yard. He would have on his white suit or his seersucker suit, and he always had a basket on his arm. He used the basket for carrying everything from grocery from the store to clothes from the clothesline. Bishop and I never said anything to each other when I came to the yard because he never came close enough for me to speak to him. He just watched me from far off. It looked like he wanted to hear what I had to say, but he was afraid that it might be bad news. Before he would hear bad news, he wouldn’t hear any. So he just stood back and watched me. If I waved at him, I would notice how that white straw hat made a little bow. A minute later if I looked for him, he wouldn’t be there. Then the next day I would see him again. Usually it
was dusk when I came up there, and Bishop dressed all in white looked like a ghost around that old house.

Aunt Margaret told me that when Marcus came up the quarter now, all he and Louise talked about was getting away. Sitting at the table eating supper, or laying across the bed, that was all they talked about. They didn’t shut the door any more unless they wanted to bounce, Aunt Margaret said. If all they wanted to do was talk, then they would leave it wide open. They didn’t care if she heard what they had to talk about or not. Aunt Margaret said sometimes she would hear Louise crying in the room. Before Marcus came there she had never heard Louise cry in the house once. If she got mad about something, she just clamped her mouth and locked herself up in the room. She wouldn’t open the door for Tite, Aunt Margaret or Bonbon. But she didn’t do that any more; she cried now when she couldn’t have her way.

“Shhh, shhh, we’ll do it,” Marcus would say to her.

“He won’t set the trial,” Louise would say. “What’s keeping him from setting the trial? He can set it anytime he want.”

“Just give him time, honey,” Marcus would say to her. “He trying to make me sweat. Now, you got faith in me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she would say.

“And that’s all that count,” Marcus would say.

Then it would be quiet in the room. After a while one of them would get up and latch the door. Now they only latched the door for one reason—bouncing, Aunt Margaret said.

During the day, Louise sat on the gallery or walked around in the yard. If Marshall went by the house in the car, she watched the car until it was out of sight. When she thought it was time for Marshall to come back, she went to the fence
so Marshall could see her. She wanted him to see how bad she wanted to get away. Marshall never paid her any mind. He went by the house like he didn’t know anything was going on.

Thursday evening, while Louise was sitting on the gallery, she saw Bonbon and Pauline going by in the truck. That night, when Marcus came to the house, she was worse than ever. She had to get away. She had to get away now.

“Get him to set the trial; get him to set the trial,” she said. “Don’t let him keep us here. Get him to set the trial.”

Aunt Margaret sat on the gallery listening to them. Tite had gone to bed, and the door to Louise’s bedroom was wide open. Aunt Margaret could hear her crying and Marcus trying to make her stop. But the more he whispered to her, the worse she got. Aunt Margaret felt tears running down her own face, and she raised her hand to wipe them away.

“Don’t think I’m crying for y’all,” Aunt Margaret thought. “Y’all dead already. I’m crying for the ones go’n have to suffer when y’all gone.”

47
 

Marcus went up the quarter with me Friday evening. After he had opened and shut the gate for me, I saw him walking across the yard toward the house. Bishop was coming down the back stairs with the basket on his arm, but when he saw Marcus, he moved back inside and latched the screen door. He didn’t take the basket off his arm—he forgot it was there; he said his heart was jumping too much to think of something small as a basket then. “Boy, please don’t come here,” he was saying to himself. “Please, please don’t come here.” He heard the gate slam, he heard Marcus coming up the back stairs, then he heard him knocking on the door. And all he could say was, “Boy, please don’t come here; please, please don’t come here.” Marcus knocked again—louder this time. Then he pulled on the door. When he saw the door was latched, he started shaking it by the handle. Bishop said he had backed all the way to the wall, backing the way you back from a man with a gun in his hand. He said he wanted to edge over to the corner and hide, but he was afraid Marcus might hear him moving and know he was in there. He said he had a hard time keeping the basket from falling on the floor; he managed to hold on to it by drawing up his arm.

Marcus shook the door, then he stopped to listen. When nobody showed up, he started shaking the door with all his might. Bishop said it was clear Marcus wasn’t leaving from there until somebody came to the door and talked to him.

Then all of a sudden everything got quiet. It was so quiet, Bishop could hear his heart thumping. He shut his eyes and mumbled a prayer to himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw Marshall standing there looking at him. Marshall looked
at him with so much hatred, Bishop started backing away from Marshall just like he had backed away from Marcus. Marshall stared at him to make him leave the kitchen. He wouldn’t go; he watched Marshall and backed along the wall. Marshall kept on staring at him to make him leave, but still he wouldn’t go.

“Get out,” Marshall finally told him.

“No sir,” he said.

“Get out of here,” Marshall told him again.

“No sir,” he said. Then he started babbling off at the mouth. “Your people say I can stay here. Your people liked me. They say long as I was a good boy I could stay here. They say if I looked after y’all and I was a good boy, this house was my home till I died. They say that room there ’side that dining room—”

“Didn’t I tell you to get out,” Marshall said, coming on him.

Bishop slumped to the floor. Marshall grabbed him in the collar and raised him halfway up, then slammed him back down. Bishop hid his face behind the basket that still hung on his arm. Marshall stared down at him a moment before going to the door.

“What do you want?” he said.

“The trial,” Marcus said.

It was quiet. Bishop did not raise his head from behind the basket, but he could almost picture the way Marshall looked at Marcus now. He could picture the tightness in Marshall’s body and he could picture the way his fist was clenched. He could picture Marshall’s cold blue eyes staring at Marcus through the screen door. Bishop wouldn’t have been surprised if he had heard a gunshot. But on second thought he knew he wouldn’t hear a gunshot; because earlier that day he had heard Marshall talking on the telephone about a trial.

“Be up here Monday at ten o’clock,” he heard Marshall saying.

“When can I have the car?” Marcus asked.

It was quiet again. Bishop’s face was pressed against the basket. But he didn’t have to raise his head to know how Marshall was looking at Marcus. He didn’t have to see Marshall’s face to know Marshall wanted to kill Marcus where he stood.

“The car’ll be there at seven o’clock,” Marshall said.

“Where?” Marcus asked.

“By the shop,” Marshall said.

“Where Bonbon go’n be?” Marcus asked.

“Mr. Bonbon won’t be here,” Marshall said.

“You sure now?” Marcus said.

It was quiet again. Bishop wouldn’t dare raise his head. Any little unnecessary noise could have made Marshall kill Marcus on those steps.

“Money?” Marcus said. “That little child is sick; we’ll need little something to get started with after we get up there.”

“The dash drawer,” Marshall said.

“The dash draw’?” Marcus asked.

It was quiet a moment, then Marshall repeated what he had said. Marcus told him good night and left.

Marshall didn’t move from the door for a long time. Bishop thought he might still hear a gunshot. But after the gate had slammed in the yard, he knew he wouldn’t hear any shooting tonight. He felt Marshall looking at him now. His face was pressed against the basket and he was mumbling a prayer to himself. But he wasn’t praying for his own safety; he was praying for Marshall and he was praying for the house. He was asking the old people who had died to forgive him for letting them down.

48
 

The next morning, when Aunt Margaret went up the quarter, she found Louise packing her things to leave. Marcus had stopped by there after he left Marshall the night before, and he had told her about the trial and the car. Soon as Bonbon left that morning, Louise started getting ready. When Aunt Margaret got there, she told Aunt Margaret what she wanted her to do. Aunt Margaret told her she knew what she was supposed to do when she came to that house on Saturdays, and she wasn’t doing anything this Saturday that she hadn’t been doing all the others.

“And we just might not send for you, too,” Louise said.

“Yes’m, y’all do that,” Aunt Margaret said. “Y’all do exactly that. ’Cause it might be a little inconvenient for me to leave my church and friends—not counting Octave. Y’all do that, Miss Louise; don’t send for me.”