Catherine Carmier

by Ernest J. Gaines

  There was silence. There had been silence all the time that Raoul and Catherine were out there. And even after they had gone, there was silence still. The men wanted to talk, but they could not begin yet. One other person had to leave. When Jackson walked away, one of the Negroes said:

  “You watch something.”

  They could see him going up the road. He was walking between the highway and the riverbank.

  “Don’t say nothing,” one of the other Negroes said.

  “His aunt sick there now, you know,” the first one said. “And for that same reason—him and her, there.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” the storekeeper said. “If Raoul ever get hold of it …”

  The storekeeper had said this to keep the Negroes talking.

  “Don’t say nothing,” one of the Negroes said, falling into the trap. “I bound you it’ud be something.”

  The two Cajuns at the far end of the porch looked at each other. One nodded to the other, and they moved closer to where the Negroes were talking.

  Brother thought he had heard enough, and he went down the steps and got into his car. He did not like it at all about Jackson’s going into the yard yesterday—he had not heard about it until this morning. When Mary Louise was telling him about Charlotte last night, she had not mentioned anything about Catherine and Jackson. She had only said that Jackson had told Charlotte that he was going back to California. But Brother was not going to stay out there and listen to the Negroes and Cajuns talk about him. He knew how the Cajuns felt about Jackson and he knew how they felt about Raoul, and he knew they would keep the Negroes talking about both as long as they were out there.

  When he turned off the highway into the quarters, he saw a car parked in front of Charlotte’s house. He thought she might have gotten worse, and he drove faster. Before coming up to the house, he drove into the ditch and parked behind the car in front of the door. When he came into the yard, he saw Mary Louise sitting in the swing.

  “Miss Charlotte—she ain’t no worse?”

  “Reverend Armstrong just stopped by.”

  He looked toward the door, but he could not see anything through the blackened screen, and he went to the swing to sit down.

  “Seen Jackson?” Mary Louise asked.

  “Yeah. He went walking up the road.”

  They were silent a moment.

  “Didn’t Catherine come out there?” Mary Louise asked.

  “Yeah,” Brother said, not looking at her.

  Mary Louise continued looking at him, but she did not ask any more questions. Brother could feel that she wanted to.

  “Don’t tell me you still love Jackson, Mary Louise?”

  “No,” she said.

  Brother was looking at her now. He could tell by her eyes that she was lying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Reverend Armstrong sat beside the bed with his legs crossed and his arms folded. He and Charlotte had been talking now about fifteen minutes. He had inquired about her health. Her health was all right. She was a little tired, but that was all. They had talked about the weather. The weather had been very hot and dry the last few weeks, but they expected rain any day now. They had talked about the gardens. The gardens had been doing quite well under these conditions.

  Charlotte knew that Reverend Armstrong had come there for more than just a casual talk, and all the time they were talking about her health, the garden, and the weather, she was anticipating the moment when he would turn to the main thing he had come there to talk about. A child returning home with a report card of nothing but D’s and F’s could not have dreaded this moment any more than she did.

  The moment came.

  “You got to put yourself in my place, Reverend,” she said. “All my life I ain’t never had nothing. Nothing. No kinda learning. No kinda—nothing. Worked hard all my life; and for nobody but him. Look like I got that right.”

  “What right is that, Sister Charlotte? Not to talk to him? Is that the right you’re speaking of?”

  “I helt him when he was a little baby. Next to my bosom. His mon was in the field working—cutting cane. I helt him—skinny’s he could be. Holding him one hand and trying to cook with the other. I felt his little heart beat ’gainst my bosom. ’Member how he used to grab a handful of my hair—and all the time I’m trying to cook there. I just didn’t born him, Reverend. That’s all. I just didn’t born him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you, Reverend? Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Watched him grow up there—skinny’s a weed. Watched him go to school—the first one to take him to church. Saw that he got religion—baptized. Now …” She became quiet, crying softly to herself.

  Reverend Armstrong waited patiently for a minute or two.

  “I think before anything else you consider yourself a Christian, don’t you, Sister?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “But I got a heart.”

  “Yes. I understand. But your duty as a Christian—”

  “But I got a heart, Reverend, sir; I got a heart.”

  “I know how much you must love him. But Mary must ’a’ loved Christ that much, too; don’t you think so?”

  She was silent.

  “Don’t you think so, Sister Charlotte? She loved Him?”

  She was silent, crying softly. He was silent a while, too, looking at her.

  “Sister Charlotte?” he said.

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “But she gived Him up. Don’t you think it was a hardship for her to bear?”

  “I got nothing, Reverend.”

  “You have Him. And when you come down to it, ain’t He the only one who count?”

  She was silent, crying softly.

  “Sister Charlotte?”

  She looked at him. “Reverend, you got two sons. You got two. How you’d feel if they was both took from you at once?”

  “I would lean on Him. I would lean on Him more.”

  “Reverend, look at my side.”

  “I am, Sister Charlotte.”

  “I’m a old woman. I’m old. Two more years—three more, the most. I ain’t never had a thing. Is that too much I’m asking for?”

  “Normally, I would say no. But when it starts blocking your duty as a Christian, I have to say it is. In this case, that’s what it’s doing, Sister Charlotte.”

  “I’m a Christian, Reverend,” she said. “I can’t be nothing else but.”

  “I know that. I know. But the first thing a Christian must learn is sacrifice. And to be able to sacrifice the thing you like most is the truest test you can have.”

  “Reverend, I love my boy. That’s all I want in this life, Reverend; to love him.”

  “To have him, Sister Charlotte. To have him.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  “But this is not the Christian way.”

  “To love?”

  “Not to love. To love is. But to have, to possess.”

  “I’ll never get in his way. I just want him here with me. I’ll never get in his way.”

  “You can’t have him here with you, Sister Charlotte. He must go back.”

  “And me?” she said.

  “You must continue the work.”

  The tears ran down her face.

  “Continue? And how long?”

  Reverend Armstrong was stuck for an answer.

  “How long, Reverend?”

  “Until He calls,” he said.

  She looked at him a moment, and turned her head, and the tears rolled down her face.

  “Look around you, Sister Charlotte. Look around you. Things ain’t like they used to be. Nothing is. They ain’t staying; they leaving. And the few that’s here now ain’t nothing like us when we was their age.

  “I get up there and preach every Sunday, but I can tell. I look out there at them, and I can tell. Once there I would get out there with my fist and beat the fool out of a bunch of them. You know the old saying: ‘Y
ou can’t preach Heaven in them, you beat the other place out.’ But it’s not like that any more. No more. You got to talk now. You got to talk. You got to talk and pray and hope.”

  He was silent a while. His legs still crossed, his arms still folded, he was looking at her.

  “There ain’t but a few of us left now, Sister Charlotte. Just a few of us left. The old ones leaving us every day, the young ain’t joining no more. So it’s left up to us. Us few to keep it going, to keep the lamp burning till He come back. More than ever before He need us now. Nothing else is to get in the way. More than ever before we must sacrifice—willing to give up everything for Him. There’s only a few of us, and us few must carry the load. Heavy? Course it’s go’n be heavy. Probably heavier now than ever before. But we must keep going. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She did not answer, crying softly.

  “Sister Charlotte?”

  She nodded as a child would, still crying softly.

  “I know how you feel. But duty comes first. Nothing but duty. Nothing.”

  He touched her on the arm. Electricity ran through her as if the Lord Himself had touched her. She knew from then on her life would be devoted only to God.

  She heard Jackson come into the yard. The minister had been gone now half an hour. Jackson stopped on the porch where Brother and Mary Louise were. She tried to hear whether they were saying anything. No, they were silent. He came into the room. It was dark in the room and she could hardly see his face.

  “Jackson?”

  He was nearly in the kitchen. He came back and stood beside the bed. She looked up at him, but she could not think of anything to say. After a while she nodded her head.

  “Eat your food ’fore it get cold,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  He was not hungry at all, but the food was there, and he forced himself to eat a little of it. Then, after he had washed his plate, he went to his room and lay across the bed. It was dark in the room—warm and dark—and he lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

  What was he going to do now that he was forgiven? She had said only a few words—“Eat your food before it gets cold—” but he knew from those few words that he was forgiven. How did it come about? What had caused it? He did not know, but what did it matter?

  Well, he was forgiven. So, he was forgiven. Now what? Was he going to get up and start packing his suitcase? Or was he going to wait until tomorrow to start packing? Maybe he would wait until Saturday. But he did not like leaving a place on a weekend—so maybe he would wait until next Monday.

  He did not know what he wanted to do. He knew he would leave eventually. There was nothing else he could do. But when, when all the time he knew she was still down there and that she still loved him. When would he leave?

  He ought to leave now, he told himself. Hadn’t that been the promise? As soon as she’s well, I’m going to make it up to her some kind of way and then I’m going to get out of here, he had said. He had said that when?—only today. Only today he had said it. And wasn’t that the most intelligent thing to do? Hadn’t Madame Bayonne warned him about Catherine? And when he tried to show how stupid the whole idea was, wasn’t it proven that she was right?

  He ought to get out of here now. No, his aunt was not well and up—she would probably be in bed another couple of days. But he should get out of here, anyhow. Mary Louise would look after his aunt—he was sure of that; and even if he did stay, why would he stay? For her? No; and he would be lying to himself if he said so.

  He knew he should leave without ever trying to see Catherine again. He knew that for sure. What good could come of it? If she said yes, I’ll go with you, then what? What then? That would mean he would have to settle down, quit searching. But how could he settle down—and what to? Teaching? Teaching what? How could he teach when he did not believe in what he was teaching? What else could he do—get some kind of Civil Service job? And how long would he be satisfied with that? No, he ought to get out of here. He ought to get out of here now.

  But he did not get out, and the next few days were miserable for him. Nothing he did worked out for him. He tried reading a book, but he read the same lines over and over. He tried playing solitary, but he could not concentrate on the cards either. He would not leave the house either day or night—lying across the bed in broad daylight, sometimes for hours.

  Charlotte was up now and moving around. All day long he heard her going from the kitchen to the porch, from the porch to the kitchen. Sometimes she would stop by his room and listen a few minutes before going on again. When people came up to the house and asked about him (not that they cared anything about him, but it was the right thing to do) she told them that he had just gone into his room, and he was probably studying. She told them that he studied a lot—preparing himself for his teaching when he went back to California. Charlotte did not know what he was doing in the room all this time, but whatever it was, it was no business of theirs. Only to Mary Louise and sometimes to Brother would she talk about him.

  “You think he sick?” she asked Mary Louise.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think he et something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think it’s her? You think it’s Catherine? You think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary Louise said.

  When Brother stopped by the house—he had gone back to work now—Charlotte asked him if he knew. Brother said no’m, he did not. Then after he had gone, Jackson would hear Charlotte coming up to his door, stopping a moment, then walking by again. The only time she would dare knock and come into his room was at mealtime. While he sat at the table staring vacantly at the wall, she would take quick, furtive glances at him. Sometimes he would say something to her, sometimes he would not say a word throughout the entire meal. She would not be sitting at the table with him, but she would be in the kitchen, pretending to be busy. Once, just before going back to his room, he looked at her. He looked at her a long time—the way he might have looked at her when he was small and when he thought she was the greatest person in the world. He felt like going up to her and putting his arm around her; he felt like giving her a big kiss on the jaw and telling her that he hated himself for the way he had become. But he did none of this. He was unable to do it. But even if he could, and did, what would she think? He knew what she would think. She would try to work her way into his feeling; try to show him why he should stay here, when all the time it was impossible.

  In his room, while lying across the bed, standing at the window, or sitting in the chair, he thought about all kinds of things. Why didn’t he ask Catherine to leave with him—he still thought she would leave if he insisted—settle down to teaching and forget everything else? Why did he have to believe in teaching? It was a good paying job and you had three months off each year—so why believe? Why couldn’t he be like the rest and go along with the game? Why worry about selling one’s soul—what is a soul? Why worry about it when everyone else was doing it? He would think about something totally different. Why didn’t he join the Peace Corps and get away from everything? But what would he do in the Peace Corps? Teach English? But if he taught English in the Peace Corps, why couldn’t he settle down and marry and teach English? He thought about something else. He ought to join the merchant marines and go to Africa. He would probably love it in Africa. Why didn’t he go into a monastery and become a priest? He wondered if committing suicide took a lot of courage.

  Saturday afternoon, he was standing at the window in his room when Charlotte came in with a letter.

  “For you,” she said.

  He took the letter. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to get out sometime, Jackson?” she asked timidly.

  “I’m all right,” he said, and looked out of the window.

  She did not like the way he looked, but she did not say any more. It had taken all of her courage to say those few words. She left the room.

  H
e opened the envelope that she had brought him.

  “Pardon me for not writing a long and formal letter. There’s a dance in Bayonne Sunday night. Being held at the Catholic Hall. We’ll be there. Hope you come. Lillian.”

  He read it again. He wondered if Catherine had gotten Lillian to write the letter. He wondered if Catherine had written it herself and had signed Lillian’s name. If neither, then Lillian had done it. But why? What would she get out of it? He read it again. Maybe he had seen the wrong name at the bottom of the page. No, he had not. It was Lillian’s. Beautiful penmanship—a name that had been written a million times.

  What should he do? Should he go to Bayonne? He knew he should not. He knew he should get the first bus out of here. But he knew he would not do it. He knew he would go to Bayonne, to her, even if the same thing must happen all over again.

  When Charlotte got ready to leave for church that evening, she called from the other side to tell him that she was going. He asked himself, shouldn’t he go to church with her. Would that be too much for him to do? Didn’t he owe her at least that much? No, he told himself; I can’t do anything that I don’t have faith in. I don’t have faith in her church any more, and I won’t pretend that I do. He picked up a book and tried to read, but that was impossible.

  When Charlotte returned from church about three hours later, he heard her walking by his door as though she were trying to hear whether he was still awake. Mary Louise was with her. He could hear them talking very softly not to disturb him if he were asleep. Mary Louise left the house, and a few minutes later he heard his aunt saying her prayers and getting ready for bed. He still lay wide awake—as awake as he had been all day. He knew he would not be able to sleep at all, and when he thought his aunt was no longer awake, he got up and went out into the quarters. This was the first time he had been out of the yard since Tuesday, and he felt as though he had been let out of a prison.

  He stopped to look at the Carmiers’ house when he came up even with the gate. The house was dark and quiet. The big oak and pecan trees surrounded the house like sentinels. He wondered what he would do if she suddenly came to the window. She did not, and he went on.