Of Love and Dust

by Ernest J. Gaines

  Neither one of them answered her. Louise looked at her and laid her head against Marcus’s chest. Marcus passed his hand over her yellow hair.

  That was Sunday. Wednesday evening Aunt Margaret had to go back again. When she got there Louise told her to make a blackberry pie. So after the dog had barked and Marcus had slipped in the house, Aunt Margaret and Tite went in the kitchen. She made an extra little pie for herself and Tite. After Tite had ate and gone to bed, she went back on the gallery and sat down. Louise came out there and told her to set two places at the table. Aunt Margaret did like she was told, and she had just finished setting the table when Louise and Marcus came back there. Marcus wore a brown silk shirt, dark brown pants, and brown and white shoes. Louise wore a pink dress with a white collar and white lace on the sleeves. Aunt Margaret stood by the stove looking at them. She said her heart started jumping. Not because she was scared, she had got over being scared; she wouldn’t have been scared even if Bonbon had come and found them there. She would have stood her ground and told him, “Go on and kill me, go on and kill me. I know what I was doing was wrong, but I was doing it for your child. If you want kill me for protecting your child, then go right on and kill me.” So her heart wasn’t jumping because she was scared; her heart was jumping because she was mad. Mad because they knew she couldn’t do a thing but what they wanted her to do. Since she hadn’t told on them that first time, they knew she was guilty as they were; and now she had to go along with them no matter how she felt.

  They sat down at the table and started eating. Marcus ate like he hadn’t seen food in a week. Louise only picked at her food. Most of the time she was looking across the table at Marcus. She worshipped him, Aunt Margaret said.

  When Marcus got through eating, he wiped his mouth with the back and the palm of his hand. Then he asked Louise for dessert.

  “Margaret,” Louise said.

  Aunt Margaret didn’t move. She didn’t even look at Louise—she was looking at Marcus. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him more than a second since he came in the kitchen. There was a pan of hot soapy water on the back of the stove to wash dishes in, and she had been thinking about picking it up and dumping the water on Marcus.

  “Margaret,” Louise said. Then she looked at Marcus again. “Want coffee with it, honey?”

  He nodded.

  “Margaret,” Louise said.

  Aunt Margaret served the pie, then the coffee. She said Marcus sucked on his tooth when she was putting the coffee before him. She started to hit him with her fist, but she knew it wouldn’t have done any good. She looked down at him a moment, but he never raised his head. She moved back to the stove to watch them.

  “When you going?” Louise asked him.

  “Tomorrow night if he there.”

  “Jim going with you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I guess so,” he said, blowing in the coffee and sipping it.

  “You taking a chance by yourself, honey,” she said.

  “I got to,” he said. “That’s the only way.”

  “I’m scared,” she said. “If anything happen to you, Marky-poo.”

  “Nothing go’n happen,” he said. “Long as you sure ’bout everything you told me. He been doing all that stealing ’cause Marshall can’t touch him.”

  Louise nodded.

  “And he’s the only one?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “None of his brothers?”

  “No.”

  “And nobody else?”

  “I’m sure he’s the only one.”

  Marcus nodded his head. “He probably is. Marshall couldn’t take that chance if they had somebody else, too.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “I can go to him, tell him us proposition. If he don’t want it, we just figure another way out.”

  “But we’ll go, won’t we, Marky?”

  “We’ll go,” he said.

  Louise smiled. She worshipped Marcus.

  “Honey, you the bravest man in the world,” she said.

  “You pretty sweet, too,” he said.

  She smiled again, showing her teeth and her gum. Aunt Margaret had never seen her so happy before.

  “Like the pie?” Louise asked.

  “It’s pretty good,” Marcus said.

  “Heard that, Margaret?” Louise said. “Maybe when we get up North we’ll send for you.”

  “Y’all ain’t going nowhere,” Aunt Margaret said. “Y’all go’n die right here. ’Specially him there.”

  “Nobody go’n die,” Louise said.

  “Both o’ y’all,” Aunt Margaret said. “ ’Specially him. Right here.”

  “We going, ain’t we, honey?” Louise said.

  “We going,” he said.

  “Y’all going, all right,” Aunt Margaret said. “Both o’ y’all going, all right. Soon’s they find out, y’all sure going.”

  “Shut up, Margaret,” Louise said.

  “You go’n make me shut up, Miss Louise?” Aunt Margaret said.

  “Yes, I’m go’n make you shut up,” Louise said. “Shut up.”

  “Let her talk, honey,” Marcus said. “Let her get it off her chest. We don’t worry ’bout what she think. You starting to worry ’bout what she think?”

  “No,” Louise said.

  “Y’all think y’all children,” Aunt Margaret said. “Y’all think y’all making mud pies in the yard. Not a black and a white child—no, ’cause a black and a white child old enough to make mud pies already know they can’t ever live together. No, y’all act like two black children or two white children playing in the yard. There ain’t nothing to stop y’all from going North ’cause North right round the house. Well, North ain’t right round the house, and y’all ain’t no children. Y’all grown people, and y’all white and y’all black. And there ain’t no North for y’all. There ain’t nothing but death—a tree for him; and as for you …”

  “Honey, come here and kiss me,” Marcus said.

  Louise got up and went to him.

  41

  The next evening, late, Bishop sat in the kitchen shelling dry beans. He dropped the yellow hulls and the white beans in the same pan. After he got through he was going to gather up all the hulls and put them in the trash basket back of the stove; then he was going to pour the beans in the white sack and weigh them on the little kitchen scale. He had about four pounds of beans in the sack that he had already gotten out of the garden that summer, and he figured what he was going to add tonight was going to make it close to five pounds.

  Bishop heard Marshall coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Marshall was drinking bourbon and water. He went by Bishop without saying anything, and Bishop didn’t say anything, either. He had been in the house over twenty years, and he knew better than to speak if Marshall was in one of his bad moods. Marshall went to the door and looked through the screen. He was so big, he nearly hid the door from Bishop. His silver-color hair was too long, his big red neck bulged over his shirt collar. Bishop looked at him and thought, “Poor man, poor man.” Marshall raised the glass to his mouth; then he pushed the door open and went outside. “Wonder what that Cajun done stole now,” Bishop thought. He heard Marshall going down the back stairs; then after a minute or two, Marshall came back inside again. He went by Bishop without even glancing his way. “He done stole something, I’m sure,” Bishop thought. “I didn’t miss any of the hogs, though. Maybe it was some more corn, or maybe one of them young steers …”

  Bishop said Marshall hadn’t left the kitchen more than ten minutes when he heard the back gate slamming. He said at first he thought it was Marshall again, but then he wondered why would Marshall go out in the yard, then come back inside, then go out in the yard again through the front, just to come back inside through the back gate. He said he told himself, “No, it can’t be Mr. Marshall, it must be that Cajun.” Well, if it was, he was going to go right on shelling beans and he was going to let him knock
a while before he got up to see what he wanted. “And he better not walk in here, either, if I don’t tell him to,” Bishop was thinking. He heard him coming up the back stairs, then he heard him knocking. Bishop didn’t move. He heard the knocking again—this time a little bit louder. Bishop still didn’t move. He even picked up another pod of beans and shelled it. Then he started thinking maybe it wasn’t Bonbon, maybe it was somebody else from the quarter. Maybe somebody from down there had taken sick and had sent somebody up here to call the doctor. Or maybe somebody was dead and somebody had come up here to telephone relatives. “But who could be dead?” he asked himself. He had gone to church last Sunday, and nobody had said anything about anybody being very low sick. He set the pan on the table and went to the door.

  “Yes?” he said, pushing the door open.

  He said he moved back when he saw who was standing there, because that was the last person he wanted to see. Marcus had on the same brown silk shirt, dark brown pants, and brown and white shoes he wore at Bonbon’s house the night before.

  “Speak to Marshall,” he said.

  He didn’t say “Mister,” Bishop said. He didn’t say “Can I?” He didn’t say “Is he in?” “Speak to Marshall,” he said.

  “Go back down the quarter, boy,” Bishop said. “Please go back down the quarter.”

  “Nigger, Marshall in that house?” Marcus said.

  “Mr. Marshall’s in there,” Bishop said. “He’s in his library, relaxing. But please, go back down the quarter, boy. Please go.”

  “Tell him I’m out here,” Marcus said. “He’ll know.”

  “I will not,” Bishop said, and he tried to shut the door. But Marcus had expected something like that and stuck his foot in the way. “Boy, move,” Bishop said. “Move. Please move.”

  “Tell him I’m here.”

  “I will not.”

  He said Marcus didn’t look at him like he was mad. He wasn’t mad. Marcus didn’t think enough of him to get mad with him.

  Bishop tried to shut the door. He opened and pulled it and opened and pulled it, but Marcus’s foot was still in the way. Marcus never used his hands to stop the door, he didn’t even try to push his way in the kitchen; his foot did all the work.

  “Maybe if I called the law,” Bishop said.

  “Do that,” Marcus said.

  “And maybe I will,” Bishop said.

  But he didn’t go to the telephone. He said his face, his head, his body, was on fire. He said Marcus just stood there looking at him like he might hit him. No, not because he was mad; but just hit him out of devilment.

  “Please move your foot and go back down the quarter before you start trouble, boy,” Bishop said.

  Marcus didn’t answer him, just looking at him like he might hit him any moment.

  Bishop tried to push Marcus’s foot away from the door with his own foot. At first he pushed on it lightly; then hard; then harder. All the time, Marcus watched him like he might hit him any moment. Bishop leaned over and tried to move the foot with his hands. He said all the time he was leaning over, he could feel his face and his head and his back on fire. He said he pushed and pushed, but to no use. Just as he was about to straighten up again, Marcus drew his foot back.

  “Thank you,” Bishop said. “Thank you ever so much.”

  But Marcus wasn’t looking at him, he was looking by him. Bishop turned around and saw Marshall standing there.

  “I told him you was busy, sir,” Bishop said. “If you go back, I think I can handle it from now on.”

  “Aren’t you the nigger I bailed out of jail?” Marshall said, coming toward the door. He didn’t even look at Bishop.

  “Yes sir,” Marcus said.

  “You take chances.”

  “I tried to get him to come to you; he wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not to be disturbed in the evening.”

  “I just thought we could talk ’bout the field, sir. What we was talking ’bout last Saturday.”

  Bishop said everything was quiet for a moment. The big white man hid the Negro boy completely from Bishop. Bishop could feel his face and head burning.

  “Did we talk last Saturday?” Marshall said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “What about?”

  “Sidney Bonbon.”

  “You mean Mr. Sidney Bonbon, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir. Mr. Sidney Bonbon.”

  “All right, go on and talk.”

  “Can’t we talk in private?” Marcus said.

  “Come in,” Marshall said.

  He turned, letting the door shut on Marcus, but Marcus caught the door before it hit him in the face. Marshall had nearly gone out of the kitchen before Bishop realized what was happening.

  “Mr. Marshall,” he said. Marshall was still walking. “Mr. Marshall,” he said, again, quickly. Marshall was still walking; Marcus was a step behind him. “Mr. Marshall,” Bishop said, reaching out his hand. “Mr. Marshall, Mr. Marshall,” Mr. Marshall …”

  Neither one of them looked back at him.

  42

  I was laying across the bed Saturday evening when I heard somebody coming up on the gallery. I had been thinking about Marcus. Aunt Margaret had already told me what Marcus and Louise had been talking about Wednesday night. He had left the house the following night to go up the quarter, and I was wondering if he had gone to Marshall Hebert. I hadn’t heard anything from Aunt Margaret about it, and I hadn’t said anything to Marcus about it, either. But I couldn’t believe that he would go to Marshall and tell him that he and Louise wanted to leave from here together. I knew Marcus was bold (or crazy), but I didn’t think he was bold (or crazy) enough to take a chance like that. This is what I was thinking about when I heard somebody coming up on the gallery. When I turned my head, I saw Aunt Margaret coming in the room. She didn’t knock. She had been coming there so much lately, she didn’t think she had to knock any more. A step or two behind her was Bishop. I didn’t know who he was at first. I had never seen him this far in the quarter before. I had seen him far as the church, but I couldn’t remember seeing him on this side of the church ever since I had been on the plantation. He was a little man with a shining bald head. He wore steel-rim glasses with thick lenses. He always had on a seersucker suit or a plain white suit. Today he had on the white suit. He had taken off his white straw hat and closed up his umbrella, and now he was carrying both of them in the same hand. He had a folded pocket handkerchief in the other hand. As he came in the door, he passed the handkerchief over his bald head. I stood up when I saw him and Aunt Margaret coming inside.

  “James, you know Brother Bishop,” Aunt Margaret said.

  I nodded to him. I didn’t speak his name because I didn’t think it would have been right for me to just come out and call him Bishop. At the same time, I had never heard anybody call him Mister, and it would have sounded funny to me if I said it now.

  “Take these things from you?” I said.

  I took his hat and umbrella and laid them on the bed. I asked Aunt Margaret if she wanted me to rest her hat, but she didn’t give it to me. She didn’t answer me, either, she just started fanning with it.

  “Would you people care to sit down?”

  Aunt Margaret started back in the kitchen. Bishop was a step behind her, wiping his face and neck with the pocket handkerchief. The pocket handkerchief was wet and dirty, and it was more gray than it was white. I followed them in the kitchen and offered them a glass of lemonade. I wanted a beer instead of lemonade, but I changed my mind and took lemonade, too. I didn’t think drinking a beer around them would have looked right.

  “Brother Bishop say that boy went up there,” Aunt Margaret said. I thought Aunt Margaret looked mad when she first came inside the house, and now I was sure she was. She was sitting on one side of the table, and Bishop was sitting on the other side. I sat in a chair in the middle door. Both the back door and the window were wide open to let air through the house.

  “Yes,” Bishop said, wiping his face and neck.
“He came there Thursday night.”

  Then he told me everything. He told me about him shelling beans, he told me about Marshall walking across the floor drinking. He told how Marshall had gone in the yard and come back inside; how he had heard the gate slamming and thought that Marcus was Marshall at first, then how he thought it might be Bonbon. All the time he was talking he was wiping his face and neck with the handkerchief.

  “He just pushed his foot in there,” Bishop said, looking at me. Bishop’s eyes looked big behind the thick glasses. “The house his great-grandparents built. The house slavery built. He pushed his foot in that door.”

  Aunt Margaret sat on the other side of the table fanning with her big yellow straw hat. She was looking toward the window, not at me or Bishop. But Bishop was still looking at me. He wanted me to know what it meant for Marcus to push his foot through a door that slavery had built.

  “And then?” I said.

  “Mr. Marshall invited him to his library.”

  “He did what?” I said.

  Bishop nodded, wiping his face and neck.

  “Then?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Bishop said. “I was too put out. A few minutes later the boy left the house. I don’t know anything else.”

  “You didn’t hear them?”

  “No sir, they was in the library,” Bishop said. “But I’m sure it was something to do with that Cajun. I’m sure of that.”

  I looked at Aunt Margaret. She was fanning with the straw hat and looking toward the window. She looked like she had given up hope on everything.

  “You said they had some kind of proposition?” I asked her.

  “That’s what they say,” she said, not looking at me.

  Aunt Margaret acted like she didn’t want to talk, so I looked at Bishop again.

  “I’m scared, Mr. Kelly,” he said.

  “I’m sure Marcus’s not that crazy,” I said.

  “No?” Bishop said. “He stuck his foot in that door. That was the house that slavery built.”