Mudbound

by Hillary Jordan

  I was weaving a basket out of a river birch trunk, trying to take my mind off the itching, when I heard a infernal noise and I looked out the window and seen Henry McAllan driving up on that tractor. He turned it off and got down.

  “Hap?” he called out.

  “Over here,” I called back.

  He come to the bedroom window and looked in. We how-dyed and he asked how I was feeling.

  “Whole lot better, thanks to that doctor Miz McAllan brung me,” I said. “Sure am grateful to her for fetching him.”

  “I expect you are,” he said. He lit a cigarette. “How much longer you gonna be in that cast?”

  Behind him off in the distance I could see Florence and the children out plowing. I mean to tell you, setting there jawing with Henry McAllan while my family was toiling in the hot sun hurt me a lot worse than my leg. “Another month or so is all,” I said.

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Yessuh.”

  “You know, I broke my leg in the Great War. As I recollect, it was a couple of months before the cast came off, and longer than that before I could do any real work.”

  “I’m a fast healer, always have been,” I said.

  He took a drag off his cigarette. I waited, knowing what was coming. “The thing is, Hap, it’s the second week of April,” he said. “Y’all ought to be well into planting by now but you haven’t even gotten your fields laid off.”

  “Soil has to be rebroke first on account of the rain.”

  “I’m aware of that. But if they were using a mule they’d be done in no time. As it is it’ll be the end of the week before they even start fertilizing, much less getting that seed in the ground. There’s just the three of them, Hap. I can’t afford to wait any longer. You’re a farmer, you understand that.”

  “It won’t take that long. We got Lilly May helping too.”

  “A crippled little girl’s not going to make the difference and you know it.” He flicked his cigarette into the dirt. “You tell one of your boys to come fetch that mule after dinner today.”

  Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labor that I had labored to do: and behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.

  “Yessuh,” I said. The word stuck in my throat, but wasn’t nothing else I could say. That’s it, Hap, I told myself, you a sharecropper again now, might as well get used to it.

  When Florence come in for dinner with the children I didn’t even have to tell her, she took one look at my face and said, “He sending that mule, ain’t he.”

  “Yeah. Starting this afternoon.”

  “Well,” she said, “it’ll make the plowing go faster anyway.”

  We set down to eat. It wasn’t much of a meal, just fatback and grits one of the sisters from church had brung by earlier, but I said the blessing like always. When I was through Florence kept her head bent for a good long while. I knew what she was praying for. It was the same thing I’d been asking Him for every day since I fell off a that ladder: for Ronsel to come home and deliver us.

  II.

  LAURA

  HENRY STAYED MAD at me, and he showed it by ignoring me in our bed. My husband was never an especially passionate man, but he’d always made love to me at least twice a week. In the first months of our marriage I’d felt awkward and reluctant (though I never refused him—I wouldn’t have dreamed of it). But eventually we settled into an intimacy that was sweet and familiar, if not entirely fulfilling. He liked to do it at night, with one lamp on. At Mudbound it was one candle. That was his signal: the sound of the match head rasping against the striker. Joined with Henry, his body shuddering against mine, I felt very close to him and miles distant from him at the same time. He was experiencing sensations I wasn’t, that much was plain to me, but I didn’t expect ecstasy. I had no idea it was even possible for a woman. I hadn’t always enjoyed Henry’s lovemaking, but it made me feel like a true wife. I never realized how much I needed that until he turned away from me.

  If my bed that April was cold, my days were hot, sweaty and grueling without Florence to help me. Henry hired Kester Cottrill’s daughter Mattie Jane to come and clean for me, but she was slovenly and a chatterbox to boot, so after the first day I restricted her to laundry and other outdoor tasks. I saw Florence mostly from a distance, bent over a hoe, chopping out the weeds that threatened the tender cotton plants. Once I ran into her in town and started to complain about Mattie Jane. Florence gave me a look of incredulous scorn —This is your idea of a problem?—that shamed me into silence. I knew I should be grateful I wasn’t spending twelve or more hours a day in the cotton fields, but it was poor consolation.

  One Saturday at the end of April, the five of us went into town to do errands and have dinner at Dex’s Diner, famed for its fried catfish and the sign outside that read:

  JESUS LOVES YOU

  MONDAY - FRIDAY 6:00-2:00

  SATURDAYS 6:00-8:00

  After we ate we stopped at Tricklebank’s to get the week’s provisions. Henry and Pappy lingered on the front porch with Orris Stokes and some other men, and the girls and I went inside to visit with the ladies. While I chatted with Rose, Amanda Leigh and Isabelle ran off to play with her two girls. Alice Stokes was there, radiantly pregnant, buying a length of poplin for a maternity dress. Wretched as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to begrudge her happiness. We’d been chatting for a few minutes when a Negro soldier came in the back door. He was a tall young man with skin the color of strong tea. There were sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and a great many medals on his chest. He had a duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder.

  “Howdy, Miz Tricklebank,” he said. “Been a long time.” His voice was sonorous and full of music. It rang out loudly in the confines of the store, startling the ladies.

  “Is that you, Ronsel?” Rose said wonderingly.

  He grinned. “Yes, ma’am, last time I looked.”

  So this was Florence’s son. She’d told me all about him, of course. How smart he was, how handsome and brave. How he’d taken to book-learning like a fish to water. How he drew people to him like bees to honey, and so on. “Ain’t just me talking mama nonsense,” she’d declared. “Ronsel’s got a shine to him, you’ll see it the minute you lay eyes on him. The gals all want to be with him, and the men all want to be like him. They can’t help it, they drawn to that shine.”

  I had thought it was mama nonsense, though I hadn’t said so. What mother doesn’t believe her firstborn son has more than his fair share of God’s gifts? But when I saw Ronsel standing there in Tricklebank’s, I understood exactly what she meant.

  He dipped his head politely to me and the other ladies. “Afternoon,” he said.

  “Well, I declare,” said Rose. “Aren’t you grown up.”

  “How you been doing, Miz Tricklebank?”

  “Getting along fine. You seen your folks yet?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “Bus just got in. I stopped to buy a few things for em.”

  I studied him as Rose helped him with his purchases. He looked more like Hap, but he had Florence’s way of filling up a room, and then some. You couldn’t help but watch him; he had that kind of force. He glanced over at me curiously, and I realized he’d caught me staring. “I’m Mrs. McAllan,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Your parents work on our farm.”

  “How do,” he said. His eyes only met mine briefly, but in those few seconds I had the feeling I’d been thoroughly assessed.

  “Do Hap and Florence know you’re coming home?” I said.

  “No, ma’am. I wanted to surprise em.”

  “Well, I know they’ll be mighty glad to see you.”

  His forehead wrinkled in concern. “Are they all right?”

  He didn’t miss much, this son of Florence’s. I hesitated, then told him about Hap’s accident, emphasizing the positive. “He’s using crutches now, and the doctor said he should be walking again by June.”

  “Thank God for tha
t. He can’t stand to be idle. He’s probably driving Mama crazy, being underfoot all day.”

  Uneasily, I looked away from him. “What is it?” he asked.

  I realized suddenly that the other women had gone dead silent and were watching us, making no effort at discretion. Some looked shocked, others hostile. Rose looked concerned, and her eyes held a warning.

  I turned back to Ronsel. “Your parents lost their mule,” I said, “and then we had a spell of bad weather. They’re using our stock now. And your mother’s working in the fields with your brothers.”

  His jaw tightened and his eyes turned cold. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. The ironic emphasis on the first two words was impossible to miss. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Alice Stokes.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Ronsel. “I have shopping to do.”

  As I walked away from him, I heard him say, “I’ll come back for that cloth later, Miz Tricklebank. I better get on home now.”

  He paid Rose hurriedly and headed for the front door with his purchases and his duffel bag. Just before he reached the door, it opened and Pappy came in, followed by Orris Stokes and Doc Turpin. Ronsel stopped just short of running into them.

  “Beg pardon,” he said.

  He tried to step around them, but Orris moved to stand in his way. “Well, looky here. A jig in uniform.”

  Ronsel’s body went very still, and his eyes locked with Orris’s. But then he dropped his gaze and said, “Sorry, suh. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Where do you think you’re going, boy?” said Doc Turpin.

  “Just trying to get home to see my folks.”

  The door opened again, and Henry and a few other men came inside, crowding behind Pappy, Orris and Doc Turpin. All of them wore unfriendly expressions. I felt a flicker of fear.

  “Honey,” I called out to Henry, “this is Hap and Florence’s son Ronsel, just returned from overseas.”

  “Well, that explains it then,” drawled Pappy.

  “Explains what?” said Ronsel.

  “Why you’re trying to leave by the front door. You must be confused as to your whereabouts.”

  “I ain’t confused, suh.”

  “Oh, I think you are, boy,” Pappy said. “I don’t know what they let you do over there, but you’re in Mississippi now. Niggers don’t use the front here.”

  “Why don’t you go out the back where you belong,” said Orris.

  “I think you’d better,” said Henry. “Go on now.”

  It got very quiet. The air fairly crackled with hostility. I saw muscles tense and hands clench into fists. But if Ronsel was afraid, he didn’t show it. He looked slowly around the store, meeting the eyes of every man and woman there, mine included. Just go, I pleaded with him silently. He let the moment drag out, waiting until just before the breaking point to speak.

  “You know, suh, you’re right,” he said to Pappy. “We didn’t go in the back over there, they put us right out in front. Right there on the front lines, face-to-face with the enemy. And that’s where we stayed, the whole time we were there. The Jerries killed some of us, but in the end we kicked the hell out of em. Yessuh, we sure did.”

  With a nod to Rose, he turned and strode out the back door.

  “Did you hear what he just said?” sputtered Pappy.

  “Nigger like that ain’t gonna last long around here,” said Orris.

  “Maybe we ought to teach him better manners,” said Doc Turpin.

  Things might have turned ugly, but Henry stepped forward and faced them, hands up and palms out. “No need for that. I’ll have a word with his father.”

  For a moment I was afraid they wouldn’t back down, but then Orris said, “See that you do, McAllan.”

  The men dispersed, and the tension lifted. I did my shopping and rounded up the girls, and we left Tricklebank’s. On the way back to Mudbound, we came upon Ronsel walking down the middle of the road. He moved to one side to let us pass. As we went by him, I traded another glance with him through the open window of the car. His eyes were defiant, and they were shining.

  RONSEL

  HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN, jiggety-jig. Coon, spade, darky, nigger. Went off to fight for my country and came back to find it hadn’t changed a bit. Black folks still riding in the back of the bus and coming in the back door, still picking the white folks’ cotton and begging the white folks’ pardon. Nevermind we’d answered their call and fought their war, to them we were still just niggers. And the black soldiers who’d died were just dead niggers.

  Standing there in Tricklebank’s, I knew exactly how much hot water I was in but I still couldn’t shut my mouth long enough to keep myself from drowning. I was acting just like my buddy Jimmy back in our training days. I told him and told him he’d better humble down if he knew what was good for him, but Jimmy just shook his head and said he’d rather get beat up than act like a scared nigger. And he did get beat up, once in Louisiana and twice in Texas. The last time a bunch of local MPs roughed him up so bad he was in the infirmary for ten days, but Jimmy never did humble down. If we hadn’t shipped out I think they might’ve killed him. When I told him that he just laughed and said, “I’d have liked to seen em try.”

  Jimmy would’ve been proud of me that day at Tricklebank’s, but my daddy would’ve blistered my ears. All he knew was the Delta. He’d never walked down the street with his head held high, much less had folks lined up on either side cheering him and throwing flowers at him. The battles he’d fought were the kind nobody cheers you for winning, against sore feet and aching bones, too little rain or too much, heat and cotton worms and buried rocks that could break the blade of a plow. Ain’t never a lull or a cease-fire. Win today, you got to get up tomorrow and fight the same battles all over again. Lose and you can lose everything. Only a fool fights a war with them kind of odds, or a man who ain’t got no other choice.

  Daddy had aged a considerable bit in the two years since I’d last seen him. There was white in his hair and new worry lines around his eyes. He’d lost weight he didn’t need to lose too, Mama said that was since he broke his leg. But his voice was as strong and sure as ever. The day I got home I could hear it from way out in the yard, thanking God for the food they were about to eat and the sun He’d been sending lately to make the cotton grow, and for the health of all here present including the laying hens and the pregnant sow, and for watching over me wherever in creation I was. Which by that time was standing right in the doorway.

  “Amen,” I said.

  For a minute nobody moved, they all just set there gawping at me like they didn’t recognize me. “Well?” I said. “Ain’t nobody gone offer me some supper?”

  “Ronsel!” yelled Ruel, with Marlon a half second behind him like always.

  Then they were up and hugging me, and Mama and Lilly May were kissing my face and carrying on about how big and handsome I was and asking me how was my trip and when did I get back to the States and how come I hadn’t wrote to tell them I was on my way home. Finally Daddy hollered, “Quit fussing over him now and let him say hello to his father.”

  He was setting there with his leg propped up on a stool. He held out his arms and I went and gave him a big hug, then knelt down by him so he wouldn’t have to look up at me.

  “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I prayed for it, and here you are.”

  “And here you are with your leg in a cast. How’d you manage to do that?”

  “It’s a long story. Why don’t you set down and eat and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. With my daddy, everything’s a long story. I heaped my plate. There was salt pork and beans and pickled okra, with Mama’s biscuits to sop up the juice.

  “I used to daydream about these biscuits,” I said. “I’d be setting on top of my tank eating my C rations—”

  “What’s a sea ration?” said Ruel.

  “Is that some kind of fish?” said Marlon.

  “C like the letter C, not like the ocea
n. It’s Army food. I brought some home so you could try them. They’re in my bag. Go on, you can look.”

  The twins ran over to my duffel bag, opening it and pulling everything out onto the floor. Still a couple of kids, though they were near as tall as me. Made me a little sad to watch them, so young and eager. I knew they wouldn’t stay that way much longer.

  “Anyway,” I said to Mama, “I told all the guys about your biscuits. By the time the Jerries surrendered I had every man in the company dreaming of them, even the Yankee lieutenants.”

  “I dreamed about you,” Mama said.

  “What did you dream?”

  She shook her head, running her hands up over her arms like she was cold.

  “Tell me, Mama.”

  “It don’t matter, none of it come true. You back with us now, safe and sound.”

  “Back where you belong,” Daddy said.

  AFTER DINNER THE two of us were having a jaw on the porch when we seen a truck coming down the road. It pulled up in our yard and Henry McAllan got out.

  “Wonder what that man wants now?” said Daddy.

  I got to my feet. “I reckon he wants to talk to me.”

  “Why in the world would Henry McAllan want to talk to you?” said Daddy.

  I didn’t answer. McAllan was already at the foot of the steps.

  “Afternoon, Mist McAllan,” said Daddy.

  “Afternoon, Hap.”

  “Ronsel, this is our landlord. This here’s my son Ronsel that I been telling you bout.”

  “We’ve met,” said McAllan.

  Daddy turned to me, worried now.

  “I better speak with you alone, Hap,” said McAllan.

  “I ain’t a child, sir,” I said. “If you got something to say, you can say it to my face.”

  “All right then. Let me ask you a question. You planning on staying here and helping your father?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’re not helping him, acting like you did earlier at Tricklebank’s. You’re just helping yourself to a heap of trouble, and your family too.”