And he stood helpless and defeated, staring at the hollow squares where moon vine crept over the sill. What was that? “Evelina? Evelina! Evelina!” Mice claws in the walls, only wind flirting a calendar leaf.
So, muttering violently, he shuffled about the cabin arranging, dusting, threatening. “Spiduhs an’ widduhs, hide yo’ self fo’ shame.… Pow’ful big comp’ny comin’ to call.” He lit a brass kerosene lamp (a gift to Evelina, Christmas 1918) and when the flame quickened he placed it on the mantel beside a blurred photograph (taken by the Pose-Yourself man who traveled through once a year) of a cheeky, beverage-colored face, Evelina, smiling, with a twist of white net in her hair. Next he puffed a satin pillow (Grand Prize in Scrap Quilt, awarded to Beautiful Love, Cypress Frolics Fair 1910) and dropped it proudly in the rocker. There was nothing left to do; so he prodded the fire, added a chunk of kindling and sat down to wait.
Not long. For presently there was singing; deep voices chanting airs that echoed and echoed with immense and rollicking power: “I’ve been workin’ on the RAIL-road, All the livelong day.…”
Preacher, his eyes closed, his hands folded solemnly, measured their merry path: in the pecan grove, on the road, under the chinaberry.…
(On the eve of his Pappy’s death, it was said, a great red-winged bird with a fearsome beak had sailed into the room from nowhere, twice circled the old man’s bed and, before the watcher’s very eyes, disappeared.)
Preacher half expected such a symbol now.
Up the steps they tramped and onto the porch, their boots heavy on the sagging boards. He sighed when they knocked; he would have to let them in. So he smiled at Evelina, thought briefly of his outrageous offspring and, moving ever so slowly, reached the door, removed the plank and opened it wide.
Curly Head, the one with the long, orange-red beard, stepped forward first, mopping his square, burned face with a throat bandanna. He saluted as if he were touching an invisible hat.
“Evenin’, Mistuh Jesus,” said Preacher, bowing low as he could.
“Evening,” said Curly Head.
Yellow Hair followed, jaunty and whistling, a cocky swing to his gait and his hands dug deep in the pockets of his corduroys. He gave Preacher a head-to-toe scowl.
“Evenin’, Mistuh Saint,” said Preacher, distinguishing them arbitrarily.
“Hi.”
And Preacher trotted anxiously after them till they were all knotted before the fire. “How you gent’mens feelin’?” he said.
“Can’t complain,” said Curly Head, admiring the comic-strip papering and calendar-girl display. “You sure got an eye for the gals, Gran’pa.”
“Nawsuh,” said Preacher gravely, “I ain’t studyin’ ’bout nona them ol’ gals, nawsuh!” And he shook his head for emphasis. “I’se a Christian, Mistuh Jesus: an upstandin’ Baptist, paid-in-full membuh of de Cypress City Mornin’ Star.”
“No offense meant,” said Curly Head. “What’s your name, Gran’pa?”
“Name? Why, Mistuh Jesus, you knows I’m Preacher. Preacher what’s been conversin’ wid you nigh on six months?”
“Why, sure I do,” said Curly Head and slapped him heartily on the back; “course I do.”
“What is this?” said Yellow Hair. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“Got me,” said Curly Head, and shrugged. “Look, Preacher, we’ve had a hard day and we’re kind of thirsty.… Think you could help us out?”
Preacher smiled craftily, raised his arm, said, “Ain’t nevuh touched a drap in my life, dat’s de truth.”
“We mean water, Gran’pa. Plain old drinking water.”
“And make sure the dipper’s clean,” said Yellow Hair. He was a very particular fellow and a bit sour for all his jaunty ways. “What you have this fire blazing away for, Gran’pa?”
“It be on accounta my health, Mistuh Saint. I gits de chills mighty easy.”
Yellow Hair said, “It’s just like these colored folks come out of a machine, all of them all the time sick and all the time got funny notions.”
“I ain’t sick,” said Preacher, beaming. “I’se fine! Ain’t nevuh felt no bettuh ’n whut I feels right now, nawsuh!” He fondled the arm of the rocker. “Come sits yo’self here in my nice rockah, Mistuh Jesus. See de pretty pillow? Mistuh Saint … hims welcome to de baid.”
“Much obliged.”
“Could do with a sit-down, thanks.”
Curly Head was the older and more handsome: head finely set, eyes a kind deep blue, face full and strong and wearing a rather earnest expression. The beard lent a touch of real magnificence. He spread his legs wide and swung one over the rocker’s arm. Yellow Hair, sharper featured and paler complexioned, collapsed on the bed and scowled at this and that. The fire made a drowsy sound; the lamp sputtered softly.
“Spec I best git my belongin’s?” said Preacher, his voice quite wan.
When no answer was forthcoming he spread his quilt in a far corner, and silently, a little secretively, began gathering Evelina’s picture, his pipe, a green bottle that once had held his anniversary scuppernong wine and now contained seven good-luck pink pebbles and a net of dust and spider threads, an empty box of Paradise candy and other objects, equally precious, which he piled on the quilt. Then he rummaged through a cedar chest, smelling of years, and found a shining squirrel-skin cap and pulled it on. It was good and warm; the journey might prove very cold.
While he did this Curly Head methodically picked his teeth with a hen quill he had borrowed from a jar and watched the old man’s proceedings with a puzzled frown. Yellow Hair was whistling again; the tune he whistled was completely flat.
After Preacher had been about his business for a great while, Curly Head cleared his throat and said, “Hope you haven’t forgot that drink of water, Gran’pa. Surely would appreciate it.”
Preacher hobbled to the well bucket hid among the stove’s litter. “Seems lak I can’t remembuh nothin’, Mistuh Jesus. Seems lak I leaves my haid outside when I come in.” He had two gourds and filled them to the brim. When Curly Head finished, he wiped his mouth and said, “Fine and dandy,” and began to rock, letting his boots drag the hearth with a sleepy rhythm.
Preacher’s hands trembled as he tied his quilt, and it required five tries. Then he perched himself on an upended log between the two men, his small legs barely scraping the floor. The torn lips of the golden girl holding the bottle of NE-HI smiled down and the firelight flared an appealing mural on the walls. Through the open windows could be heard crocheting insects in the weeds and sundry night cadences, familiar in all Preacher’s lifetime. Oh, how beautiful his cabin seemed, how wonderful what he had grown to despise. He had been so wrong! What a doggone fool! He could never leave, now or ever. But there, before him, were four feet wearing four boots and the door well behind them.
“Mistuh Jesus,” he said, careful of his tone, “I’se been turnin’ de whole mattah ovah an’ I’se come to conclude I don’t wants to go wid y’ all.”
Curly Head and Yellow Hair exchanged strange glances and Yellow Hair, rising from the bed, hunched himself above Preacher and said, “What’s the matter, Gran’pa? You got a fever?”
Mortally ashamed, Preacher said, “Please, suh, beggin’ pardon … I don’t wants to go nowhere.”
“Look here, Gran’pa, talk sense,” said Curly Head kindly. “If you’re sick we’ll be glad to get a doctor from town.”
“Ain’t no use,” said Preacher. “If de time’s up, de time’s up.… But I’d be tickled iffen y’all ’ud leave me be.”
“All we want to do is help,” said Yellow Hair.
“Sure is,” said Curly Head and squirted a fat spit into the fire. “You’re being purentee cussed, that’s what I say. It’s not everybody we’d take so much pains to do them a favor, not by a long shot.”