Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick

by Zora Neale Hurston

  And he was wrathful but he wagged the head and said, “I pay now, but after the trial I shall pay no more. He that laughest last is worth two in the bush.” * * *

  And entered he boldly into the courts of law and sat down at the trial. And his wife and her lawyer came also. * * *

  But he looked upon the young man and laughed, for Miles Paige had yet no beard and the husband looked upon him with scorn, even as Goliath looked upon David. * * *

  And the judge sat upon the high seat and the jury sat in the box and many came to see and to hear, and the husband rejoiced within his heart for the multitude would hear him speak and confound the learned doctors. * * *

  Then called he witnesses and they did testify that the wife was an flirt. And they sat upon the stand again and the young Pharisee, even Paige questioned them, and verily they were steadfast. * * *

  Then did the husband rejoice exceedingly and ascended the stand and testified to his great goodness unto his spouse. * * *

  And when the young lawyer asked no questions he waxed stiff necked for he divined that he was afraid. * * *

  And the young man led the wife upon the stand and she sat upon the chair of witnesses and bear testimony. * * *

  And she gladdened the eyes of the jury and the judge leaned down from his high seat and beamed upon her for verily she was some brown. * * *

  And she turned soulful eyes about her and all men yearned to fight for her. * * *

  Then did she testify and cross the knees, even the silk covered joints, and weep. For verily she spoke of great evils visited upon her. * * *

  And the young Pharisee questioned her gently and the jury leaneth forward to catch every word which fell from her lips. * * *

  For verily her lips were worth it. * * *

  Then did they all glare upon the husband; yea the judge and jury frowned upon the wretch, and would have choked him. * * *

  And when the testimony was finished and she had descended from the stand, did the young man, even Miles Paige, stand before the jury and exhort them. * * *

  Saying, “When in the course of human events, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou and how come what for?” And many other sayings of exceeding wiseness. * * *

  Then began the jury to foam at the mouth and went the judge into centrance. Moreover made the lawyer many gestures which confounded the multitude, and many cried, “Amen” to his sayings. * * *

  And when he had left off speaking then did the jury cry out “Alimony (which being interpreted means all his jack) aplently!” * * *

  And the judge was pleased and said, “An hundred shekels per month.” * * *

  Moreover did he fine the husband heavily for his cruelties and abuses and his witnesses for perjury. * * *

  Then did the multitude rejoice and say, “Great is Miles Paige, and mighty is the judge and jury.” * * *

  And then did the husband rend his garments and cover his head with ashes for he was undone. * * *

  But privately he went to her and said, “Surely, thou hast tricked me and I am undone by thy guile. Wherefore, now should I not smite thee, even mash thee in the mouth with my fist?” * * *

  And she answered him haughtily saying, “Did I not say that thou wast a dumb cluck? Go to, now, thou had better not touch this good brown skin.” * * *

  And he full of anger spoke unto her, “But I shall surely smite thee in the nose—how doth old heavy hitting papa talk?” * * *

  And she made answer unto him, “Thou shalt surely go to the cooler if thou stick thy rusty fist in my face, for I shall holler like a pretty white woman.” * * *

  And he desisted. And after many days did he recieve a letter saying, “Go to the monkeys, thou hunk of mud, and learn things and be wise.” * * *

  And he returned unto Alabama to pick cotton.

  SELAH

  The Country in the Woman

  Looka heah Cal’line, you oughta stop dis heah foolishness you got. Youse in New Yawk now—you aint down in Florida. Thaas just what Ah say—you kin git a woman out de country, but you can’t git a country out de woman.”

  The woman, Caroline Potts, in sloppy clothes and run-down shoes, was standing arrogantly akimbo at Seventh Avenue and 134th Street. She was standing between her husband, Mitchell Potts, and a woman, heavy built and stylish in a Lenox Avenue way.

  The woman was easing on down 134th Street away from the threatening black eyes of Caroline. Mitchell wanted to vanish, too, but his wife was blocking his way. He didn’t know whether to run, to fight or to cajole, for Caroline was as temperamental as Mercury. Nobody ever knew how she would take things. Back in the Florida village from which they had migrated, Caroline Potts and her doings were the chief topics of conversation. Whatever she did was original. Mitchell was always having a side gal and Caroline was always catching him. No one besides her husband believed that she was jealous. She had an uncultivated sense of humor. She enjoyed the situation. Men and women behave so queerly when caught red-handed at anything. Sometimes when they expected fight she laughed and passed on. Sometimes she thought out ingenious embarrassing situations and engineered the two into them, with all the cruelty of the rural.

  Her body was wiry and tough as nails and she could hold up her end of the argument anytime in a rough and tumble with her husband, so he couldn’t hope to settle things that way. All these things were in Mitchell’s mind as he faced her on Seventh Avenue. He saw a number of people crowding around them and he was eager to be going.

  “Les us g’wan home, Cal’line.”

  “You wuznt headed dat way when ah met you.”

  “Yes, ah wuz, too. Ah just walked a piece of de way wid Lucy Taylor.”

  “You done walked enough ‘pieces’ wid dat ’oman to carry you back down home.”

  Mitchell caught her arm cajolingly. “Aw come on, dese heah folks is all standin’ round trying to git into mine and yo’ bizness.”

  She permitted herself to be led, but before she moved she let out: “Maybe dat hussy think she’s a big hen’s biddy but she don’t lay no gobbler eggs. She might be a big cigar, but I sho kin smoke her. The very next time she gits in my way, I’ll kick her clothes up round her neck like a horse collar. She’ll think lightnin’ struck her all right, now.”

  All of which was very delectable to the ears of the crowd on the street but “pizen” to Mitchell. He led her away to their flat in the “Caribbean Forties” with as much anxiety as if she had been so much trinitrotoluol.

  There she grew as calm as if nothing had happened and cooked him a fine dinner which they still spoke of as supper. After which he felt encouraged to read her a lecture on getting the country out of the woman.

  “Lissen, Cal’line, you oughten ack lak you did today. Folks up heah don’t run after they husbands and carry on cause they sees him swappin’ a few jokes wid another woman. You aint down in de basement no more—youse in New Yawk.”

  “Swappin’ JOKES! So you tryin’ to jerk de wool over MY eyes? New Yawk! Humph! Youse the same guy you wuz down home. You aint one bit different—aint nothin’ changed but you clothes.”

  “How come YOU don’t git YO’SELF some more? Ah sho is tired uh dat ‘way-down-in-Dixie’ look you totes.”

  “Who, me? Humph! Ah aint studying about all dese all-front-and-no-back colored folks up in Harlem. Ah totes de cash on MAH hip. Don’t try to git ’way from de subjick. You better gimme dat ’oman if you don’t want trouble outa me. Ah aint nobody’s fool.”

  Mitchell jumped to his feet. “You aint going to show off on me in Harlem like you useder down home. Carryin’ on and cuttin de fool! I’ll take my fist to you.”

  “Yas, and if you do, ah’ll up wid MAH fist and lamm you so hard you’ll lay an egg. Don’t you git ME mad, Mitchell Potts.”

  “Well, then you stop running down women like Lucy Taylor. She’s a NICE woman. You just keep her name out yo’ mouth. Fack is, you oughter be made to beg her pardon.”

  Caroline turned from the dishpan very cooly. That was just it—NOTHING seemed
to stir her up. Even her anger seemed unemotional—a pretense the effort of a good performer.

  “Ah let Lucy Taylor g’wan home today, an’ didn’t lay de weight of mah hand on her, so her egg-bag oughter rest easy. But don’t you nor her try to bull-doze me; cause if you do, you’ll meet your mammy drunk. Ah ain’t gointer talk no mo.”

  They went to bed that night full of feelings. No one could know what the paradoxical Caroline had stewing inside her, but all who ran might read the heart of Mitchell.

  His body was warm for Lucy Taylor with all the ardor of a new affair. Caroline’s encounter had aroused his protective instinct too. Moreover he was mad clear through because his vanity was injured—all by this dark brown lump of country contrariness that was lying beside him in a yellow homespun nightgown. He wanted to feel his fist crashing against her jaw and forehead and see her hitting the floor time after time. But he knew he couldn’t win that way. She was too tough. Every one of their battles had ended in a draw.

  He thought too of the side gals he had had down in Florida and how his wife had not only worsted them, but had made them all—and HIM—low foolish.

  1. Daisy Miller—he had bought her shoes—that which all rural ladies of pleasure crave—and Caroline had found out and had come out to a picnic where Daisy was fluttering triumphantly and had forced her to remove the shoes before everybody and walk back to town barefoot, while Caroline rode comfortably along in her buckboard with a rawhide whip dangling significantly from her masculine fist. Daisy was laughed out of town.

  2. Delphine Hicks—Caroline had waited for her beside the church steps one First Sunday (big meeting day) and had thrown her to the ground and robbed the abashed vampire of her underthings. Billowy underclothes were the fashion and in addition Delphine was large. Caroline had seen fit to have her pony make the homeward trip with its hindquarters thrust into Delphine’s ravished clothes.

  3. She had removed a hat from the head of Della Clarke and had cleared her throat raucously and spat into it. She had then forced Della to put it back upon her head and wear it all during the big Odd Fellows barbecue and log-rolling.

  Mitchell thought and his heart hardened. Everybody in the country cut the fool over husbands and wives—violence was the rule. But he was in New Yawk and—and—just let her start something!

  Mitchell had changed. He loved Caroline in a way, but he wanted his fling, too. The country had cramped his style, but Harlem was big—Caroline couldn’t keep up with him here. He looked the big town and tried hard to act it. After work, he affected Seventh Avenue corners and a man about town air. Silk Shebas, too; no cotton underwear for him.

  Time went past in weekly chunks and Caroline said nothing more, and so Mitchell decided she had forgotten. He told the men at work about it and they all laughed and confessed the same sort of affairs, but they all added that their wives paid no attention.

  “Man, you oughter make her stop that foolishness; she’s up North now. Make her know it.”

  Mitchell felt vindicated and saw Lucy Taylor with greater frequency. Much silk underwear passed under the bridge and there was talk of a fur coat for Thanksgiving. But he had ceased to meet her in 134th Street. They switched to 132nd, between Seventh and Lenox.

  Whenever they passed his friends before the poolroom at 132nd and Seventh, the men acted wisely, unknowing Caroline would never find out thru them, surely.

  One Saturday near the middle of November, late in the afternoon, Mitchell strolled into the poolroom in the Lafayette building, with a natural muskrat coat over his arm.

  “Hi, Mitch,” a friend hailed him; “I see you got de herbs with you. Must be putting it over on your lifetime loud speaker.”

  “You talking outa turn, big boy. Come on outside.”

  They went out on the sidewalk.

  “Say, Mitch, I didn’t know you had it in you—you’re a real big-timer! Whuts become of your wife lately?”

  Mitchell couldn’t resist a little swagger after the admiration in his friend’s voice. He held up the coat for inspection.

  “Smoke it over, kid. What you think of it? Set me back one hundred smackers—dat.”

  “Boy! It’s there! Wife or your sweet-stuff?”

  “You KNOW it’s for Lucy. Dat wife of mine don’t need no coat like dis. But, man, ah sho done tamed her. She don’t dare stick her paddle in my boat no mo—done got some of dat country out of her.”

  “I’m glad to hear dat ’cause there aint no more like her nowheres. Naw sir! Folks like her comes one at a time—like lawyer going to Heaven.”

  “Well, any of ’em will cool down after I massage their jaw wid mah African soup-bone, yessir! I knocks ’em into a good humor,” Mitchell lied boldly. “Heah come Lucy, now. Oh boy! She sho is propaganda!”

  “I’ll say she’s red hot—she just want don’t for the red light!”

  She came up smiling coyly as she noticed, in the order of their importance to her, the new fur coat, Mitchell’s nifty suit and Mitchell.

  “Well, so long Tweety, see you in the funny papers.”

  “So long, Mitch, I’ll pick you up off the junk pile.”

  Lucy and the fur-bearing Mitchell strolled off down 132nd Street. It was nearly sundown and the sidewalk was becoming crowded.

  About twenty minutes later the loungers were amazed to see a woman on Seventh Avenue strolling leisurely along with an axe over her shoulder. Tweety recognized Caroline and grew cold. Somehow she had found out and was in pursuit—with an axe! He grew cold with fear for Mitchell, but he hadn’t the least idea which of the brownstone fronts hid the lovers. He tried to stop Caroline with conversation.

  “Howdy do, Mrs. Potts; going to chop some wood?”

  Very unemotionally, “Ah speck so.”

  “Ha, ha! You forgot you aint back down South don’t you?”

  “Nope. Theys wood to be chopped up North too,” and she passed on, leaving the corner agog.

  “Somebody ought to have stopped her. That female clod-hopper is going to split Mitch’s head—and he’s a good scout.”

  “We ought to call the police.”

  “Somebody ought to overtake her and take that axe away.”

  “Who for instance?”

  So it rested there. No one felt like trying to take an axe from Caroline. She went on and they waited, full of anxiety.

  A few minutes later they saw her returning just as leisurely, her wiry frame wrapped in the loose folds of a natural muskrat coat. Over her shoulder like a Roman lictor, she bore the axe, and from the head of it hung the trousers of Mitchell’s natty suit, the belt buckle clacking a little in the breeze.

  It was nearly five weeks—long after Thanksgiving—before the corner saw Mitchell again, and then he seemed a bit shy and diffident.

  “Say, Mitch, where you been so long? And how’s your sweet-stuff making it?”

  “Oh Lucy? Aint seen her since the last time.”

  “How come—Y’all aint mad?”

  “Naw, it’s dat wife of mine. Ah caint git de country out dat woman. Lets go somewhere and get a drink.”

  The Gilded Six-Bits

  It was a Negro yard around a Negro house in a Negro settlement that looked to the payroll of the G. and G. Fertilizer works for its support.

  But there was something happy about the place. The front yard was parted in the middle by a sidewalk from gate to door-step, a sidewalk edged on either side by quart bottles driven neck down into the ground on a slant. A mess of homey flowers planted without a plan but blooming cheerily from their helter-skelter places. The fence and house were whitewashed. The porch and steps scrubbed white.

  The front door stood open to the sunshine so that the floor of the front room could finish drying after its weekly scouring. It was Saturday. Everything clean from the front gate to the privy house. Yard raked so that the strokes of the rake would make a pattern. Fresh newspaper cut in fancy edge on the kitchen shelves.

  Missie May was bathing herself in the galvanized washtub in the bedroo
m. Her dark-brown skin glistened under the soapsuds that skittered down from her wash rag. Her stiff young breasts thrust forward aggressively like broad-based cones with the tips lacquered in black.

  She heard men’s voices in the distance and glanced at the dollar clock on the dresser.

  “Humph! Ah’m way behind time t’day! Joe gointer be heah ’fore Ah git mah clothes on if Ah don’t make haste.”

  She grabbed the clean meal sack at hand and dried herself hurriedly and began to dress. But before she could tie her slippers, there came the ring of singing metal on wood. Nine times.

  Missie May grinned with delight. She had not seen the big tall man come stealing in the gate and creep up the walk grinning happily at the joyful mischief he was about to commit. But she knew that it was her husband throwing silver dollars in the door for her to pick up and pile beside her plate at dinner. It was this way every Saturday afternoon. The nine dollars hurled into the open door, he scurried to a hiding place behind the cape jasmine bush and waited.

  Missie May promptly appeared at the door in mock alarm.

  “Who dat chunkin’ money in mah do’way?” she demanded. No answer from the yard. She leaped off the porch and began to search the shrubbery. She peeped under the porch and hung over the gate to look up and down the road. While she did this, the man behind the jasmine darted to the china berry tree. She spied him and gave chase.

  “Nobody ain’t gointer be chunkin’ money at me and Ah not do ’em nothin’,” she shouted in mock anger. He ran around the house with Missie May at his heels. She overtook him at the kitchen door. He ran inside but could not close it after him before she crowded in and locked with him in a rough and tumble. For several minutes the two were a furious mass of male and female energy. Shouting, laughing, twisting, turning, tussling, tickling each other in the ribs; Missie May clutching onto Joe and Joe trying, but not too hard, to get away.