Claudie Longwood straightened up and stretched, looking down the long furrow to the end of the field. He took the faded red bandanna out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow before more of it could run into his eyes. His back and arms ached from using the hoe, but that was nothing new, he had learned to live with such pain years before. A turn around the well pump, a good supper and a little sleep and he'd be good as new.
The row looked about 200 feet long to the end and the weeds were so thick in the young cotton that it was hard to tell one from the other. And there were two more just like it to go.
It was closing in on 3 p.m. Claudie could tell by the way that his shadow angled off to the southeast. There wouldn't be any getting off early this Saturday, he thought. He'd be lucky to get done by 6 and, by the time he got cleaned up and into town, it would be close to 7:30. By that time, all the gals would be paired off with somebody for the evening and everybody would be half lit.
"Hell with it," he said aloud to the broad field surrounding him. "Doan reckon I gotta go to town ever' Sat'dy night."
Truth was, he had his eye on Mary Larkins. She'd come over to Mississippi from somewhere in Alabama and moved in where her Aunt Bessie on the old Campton place. She was a mysterious and pretty woman, black as a raven's wing and with teeth white as sweet milk. She always wore colorful calico dresses and when she walked her broad rump rolled in a way that interested all the boys.
Truth was, Claudie was sweet on her, even if she had given him little more than a glance. Some folks said she was a "mojo woman," that she carried doodads in a tobacco sack under her clothes and she could work up spells with roots and such, evil or good, depending upon the situation. Some of the boys had started calling her "Root Mary," because of the rumor.
Claudie did not know if he believed any of that stuff, but he sure had more than a passing interest in what she had under that bright calico dress besides 'baccer sacks. 'Course, she was in her thirties, according to some of the other gals, which made her about a dozen years older than Claudie. Some gals liked the younger boys and some liked more seasoned men. He did not know which she was, but he meant to find out soon as he could.
He went back to his hoe, whacking away at the weeds amongst the cotton shoots. It was best to keep busy at such times, made the minutes pass quicker and took away from a long, hot day of work. Plus, he didn't want his daddy or Mista Boots to sneak up and spot him lollygagging with work still to be completed.
Not that Mista Boots had the reputation of sneaking around and trying to catch his field hands not working. No, Claudie had never heard of that happening. Many black folks did not like Mista Boots, in fact hated him. Everybody knew he was behind the evil sheriff and ran things and a lot of folks hated all of them, all the whites. Fact was, Boots Ralston had always been fair to Claudie and his family, leastways when it came to being honest with the crop shares and the credit. The same could not be said of some white landowners-or even some of the few black, Claudie suspected.
Claudie did not plan to spend his life bending over hot soil, fighting for a bare living. Nosiree. He had his guitar and his singing and he was getting good with both, according to what some told him. He was not good as Robert yet, but then Robert had a start on him. Nevertheless, he would keep playing whenever he could and, before you knew it, he'd be the one all the gals were eyeing at the joints.
"Mark my word," Claudie said to the last half of the last row, standing straight again and bringing the bandana to his face. "Claudie Longwood Junior gonna be somebody." He laughed aloud at that, wondering if the sun had finally gotten to him.
Claudie had considerably underestimated the duration of his chore. It was almost 7:00 when he headed to the house, dog-tired. His legs wobbled on the sloping path from the field up through the thicket behind the house. The humidity shot up several more notches in the dampness held in by the woods and he almost gasped for breath in the thick heat. Damn, why did a man deserve such labor? What had he done in another life to cause him to be here suffering as he was?
He stopped at the well and wet himself down with the cool water in the fading day, pumping the handle with his head under it. The cold water cascaded over his broiled skin in a way that was so painful it was delicious. Every muscle in his body ached and he found it difficult to stand up straight after a day bent before the hoe.
"Boy, you done wore yo'self plumb out," his mother fretted when he went in through the back door into the kitchen. She said it sternly, like his mama said everything, but the look in her eyes told him she was worried. "I reckon you done worked all Sat'dy."
"I'm awright, Mama," he said. "Jus' hungry. I sho am wore out."
"Well, I saved you some supper," she said, turning back an oilcloth on the table to reveal a heaping plate of food. "Near 'bout lost a arm with all the snatchin' an' grabbin', them boys eat like a pack of hogs. But I managed to set you some aside."
Claudie dug into the beans and potatoes, fatback and cornbread. All he had for dinner was a little piece of ham in a biscuit and he was starving.
Claudie was used to common grub because it was all he had ever known. When times were especially good, which was not often, they would have pork chops or pork cutlets and rarely a piece of beef roast. They raised a few hogs along, but much of what came from the killings went to sale for extra cash money. And they had chickens, but the consumption of those was confined to Sundays when the preacher came to eat.
And eat he did, old Brother Dobbins. Claudie wondered about how the Bible spoke against gluttony and how Brother Dobbins would almost fight over the last biscuit on the table. He wondered what God thought about a man like Brother Dobbins and his hoggish ways, snatching the last drumstick from the hand of a hungry child. The preacher be a good man, but he got a failin' fo' food, his mama had said.
Claudie had almost said something when his mama said that. In his circles, folks knew that Brother Dobbins liked women more than food. He'd been seen many times coming and going to the home of one of those gals down in The Bottom, a gal that was said to sell meat with hair on it out the back door. He could not understand how his mama and daddy-daddy especially-had not heard about that, or why they did not notice how the preacher looked at his sister, Junie, when he came for dinner. He had that same lustful, sweaty look on his face as he had when he gazed at a golden fried pulley-bone.
Junie, just before turning a woman at 15, noticed it too, but she did not mention it to her folks. She did tell Claudie.
He make me feel all creepy, lookin' at me like that, like he wanna eat me up too.
Doan you worry none. He bothers you, I kill his ol' fat ass. You jus' tell me.
Claudie was not sure he would really kill the old preacher, but he had little doubt that he would beat the man within an inch of his life if he laid a finger on his sister. He was not a violent man and tried to stay out of trouble, but he had been in a few scraps around the juke joints. So far, it had all been knuckles and feet, no guns or strait razors or knives, and he had won every encounter handily.
'Course, he hadn't tied up with somebody like Big Sweat Dawkins either, something he didn't want to do if he could help it. Big Sweat was bad news when he got mad, and it didn't take a lot to get him there. Claudie had seen him whip three and four big men at once without raising much more than his normal sweat, which was profuse enough to earn him his nickname.
Claudie's daddy came in through the back door just as he was mopping up the last of the tater juice with a piece of hoecake.
"You get 'at piece uh work done, boy?" he asked. Claudie noticed the old man had on his good clean bibs, so he had been home a while.
"I did, Daddy, got it plumb to the end. Y'all get finished?"
"Nah, we like one mo' day. I does, anyhow. I puttin' Ted back on the hoe come Monday an' I do the barn work myself. He ain't no help, jus' gets in the way."
Ted was Claudie's younger brother, just 16 and not "work brittle" as the old folks said. Claudie just called him what he was: lazy.
"Well, it a damn shame Mista Boots put y'all workin' on a white man's barn, what with all this hoein' to do," said Claudie.
"You hush yo' mouth," his mother said. "Lawd knows you ain't been taught to talk like that. It them bars you runnin' in, they ruinin' yo' soul!"
"Aw, Mama," said Claudie. "I be sorry."
"Well, ol' man Tabor OK fo' a white man," said Claudell Sr. "And Mista Boots wanted us all to help 'cause his barn burn. They claims it was a nigra what burnt his barn."
"They always claims it was a nigra done this'n that," Claudie replied. "They blames a nigra fo' ever' bad thang what happens, seem to me like."
"You watch yo' mouth, boy," his mother said. "You get round talkin' 'bout white folks an' that shuff be stretchin' yo' neck, I tell you. You hush up."
After supper, it was still daylight and too early for bed. Claudie walked down to the little thicket behind the house, with its open place beside a small creek. The scrub trees there grew together into what looked like a tunnel of foliage and there was a stump about the right height for sitting. It was mostly quiet there, except for the faint sound of the creek running over rocks, or sometimes when the wind moved the leaves.
Claudie liked to go there alone just to sit and think. Sometimes, he would take his guitar and practice on it. Other times, he'd tote his fishing cane and catch a few perch and bluegill, which were plentiful. However, this day he did neither, being far too tired.
He couldn't figure out what life was supposed to be about. It seemed to him that things just worsened all the time, nothing ever got better. As a child, he had paid no attention to anything but playing and having fun-that is, until he got big enough to do serious chores. He didn't realize that he was much different from anybody else because all he associated with were other people like himself, poor blacks. He saw white people and understood in some elemental way that most of them seemed to be better off than most blacks, but that didn't mean anything. It just seemed to be the natural order or things.
Now, he knew different. Things didn't happen that way naturally, no. They happened that way because folks made them happen that way. And usually that was white folks.
Claudie didn't hate white people as a rule. Some of them were evil, certainly, but some of them seemed OK. Billy Prather was OK, even if his brother, Rube, was an evil man and a big wig in the Klan. Billy loved music and he spent a lot of time hanging around the black juke joints. And Billy wasn't much better off than any black person Claudie knew, other than maybe for skin color and the difference that meant. His folks were dirt poor white trash. His daddy had done time for stealing chickens and hogs, and some claimed he was guilty of barn burning and worse. Most blacks would get a kind word from the average white before any member of the Prather clan, with the possible exception of Billy.
Claudie realized there were many things he just didn't understand. Maybe that had to do with his age or maybe there were things nobody ever really learned the truth of. The old folks believed that life was just a prelude to what came next, and if that was so then nothing made much difference. Life was mostly about suffering for salvation, going on through all the doom and gloom in hopes of pie in the sky in the great by and by.
Maybe they were right, but Claudie had his doubts. It seemed to him that a god that could invent the world and the wonders of the heavens wouldn't be so small minded to expect his creations to abide senseless suffering for a possible dream. It didn't make sense that if God's son had freely given himself up to the suffering of the cross in order to wash away the sins of mankind, God would hold it against everybody and extract a pound of flesh from them.
"God gotta be bigger'n that," Claudie muttered to himself, there on the stump in the small clearing by the creek in the dying day.
He ambled back to the house, worn out in body and spirit. The old corn shuck mattress on the sapling frame cot in the lean-to was hard and lumpy as ever, but he was too tired to care. Sleep ran him down like a car too long on the rail crossing.