To Make My Bread (43 page)

“That you, John?” he asked in a muffled voice.

“Yes,” John spoke very low hoping that Granpap would go back to sleep.

“You taking the gun?” Granpap asked.

“Yes. You go to sleep.”

“And hit the day of rest?”

“There's more to life than resting, Granpap.” It did not concern him that he might hurt Granpap by what he said. If people were so easily hurt, then it was best they should be.

“What is there in life,” Granpap sighed, “but to wait and hope for heaven?”

“I aim t' live a little, Granpap, before I reach the pearly gates.”

“Yes,” Granpap said, and huddled under the bed clothes again. “You're young.”

“Is that you, John?” Bonnie put her head in the doorway between the two rooms.

“Yes,” he slipped the gun under his arm.

“Can you stop a minute?”

“Not now.”

“She wants you,” Bonnie nodded back toward the room. John went in reluctantly. Emma was sitting in a chair. She had on her one dress, a dark brown calico. She sat as she always did when she was up, sideways, dejected and uncomfortable on the edge of the chair.

John glanced at her, and as it never failed to do the sight made him miserable. As always she was picking at her dress, looking down at her hands, rearranging the skirt with patient little gestures.

He put the gun on the bed where she had been lying not long before, and went up to her. Though she had wanted to see him she seemed to have no words to say. She looked up once. He saw her gray hairs and the deep lines on her face. Bonnie came and stood by him. He looked into her eyes and saw on her face that had been so full of grace and fineness, a sickliness, a beginning of wearing out—the lines that in another ten years would make her like an old woman. It seemed for a moment that two old women were before him and that he was old and finished like Granpap. He touched Emma's hand and turned away, strained and impotent. There was an impulse in him to pick up the gun, kill them all, and then himself. The impulse passed, but he was trembling when Bonnie came and stood before him at the door leading on to the porch.

“I'd like to speak with you,” she said. “Zinie was here . . .”

“I can't stop now.”

He turned from her and ran down the steps, and Bonnie closed the door sorrowfully behind him.

S
INCE
John had joined the lodge in the village the authorities of the mill had been especially cordial to him, for some of them belonged to the same lodge, though, like John, they did not attend meetings very often. Then, one day, Superintendent Burnett called John into his office and made him a section boss.

This was an important event. It meant that John was beginning to rise in the world. Only one thing kept him from being contented. Frank and all those with whom he had lived and worked looked at him thoughtfully and questioningly. They wanted to know what he meant to do about this new work. Would he go on the side of those above or stand up for his kin and friends? He knew the answer to that question, but did not speak it to them, for he resented their silent questioning. He would show them that he could be fair, and yet climb higher than others had done.

He was working in the weave room, at the same looms that John Stevens had worked for so many years. John Stevens' bad leg had become worse, for rheumatism had set in, and he had been forced, some months before, to move to Sandersville where there was an opening for a night watchman. It gave John pleasure to stand at the looms where he had seen his friend in the past, and sometimes he thought of John Stevens with a keen pang of recollection.

Recently stories had circulated through the village of a strike in the Sandersville mills. John heard of it and wondered if his friend had taken part in the strike, and then he forgot; for there were other things which took up his attention.

One day word went around in the mill that a young lady had come to organize clubs for girls and women in the village. She was brought there by the mill management, which had one of its houses painted inside and out, sinks and other plumbing put in, and furniture installed. People were invited to a meeting at the school house where the young lady would speak to them. Men were invited, but the girls and women were especially urged to come.

That day John had an appointment with Mr. Burnett at lunch time. He had made the appointment, for there were several matters he wanted to take up with the Superintendent.

All those who had come down from the mountains were having an unhappy experience in the mill. They had been given five and eight dollars as a beginning and had been promised more wages later on when they knew the work better. They had become skillful at their work, but the higher wages were not forthcoming.

Others needed higher wages so that they might, for instance, put screens in their windows. No one ever seemed to have enough money ahead to buy the screens. If there were times when they spent money foolishly instead of on something that was necessary, then it was only natural. For people must have some pleasure. But Ora never spent a cent of money that was not absolutely necessary. Yet it was her baby that died of typhoid, and the doctor had said the disease could have been prevented if there had been screens at the windows.

John wished to present facts like these to Mr. Burnett so the Superintendent would agree to raise the wages of the other workers. So many things could happen to people who did not get enough pay. If they did not have enough food, and enough sleep, and were worn down, they could not do the best work for the mill.

In the office he spoke to Mr. Burnett quietly, referring to a paper in his hand where he had written down the requests he wished to make, and the reasons for making them.

“Well, John,” Mr. Burnett said, “I didn't think, and Mr. Randolph didn't think, when we made you section boss that you would turn on us like this.”

“According to my way of thinking,” John told him, “hit's part of my work t' see what the people who are under me need in the way of things that are necessary to keep them working to the best of their ability.”

“I'm afraid you are very much mistaken in your job, then. Your part is to get work out of those people in there. You get as much as you can—see? The management can take care of the rest. It's none of your business.”

“It's like this, Mr. Burnett. You tell me to care for the machines, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“If a machine gets out of order something must be done right away. And you've said to me, or Mr. Fellows has said every day. ‘See that folks keep their machines in order.' Isn't that so?”

“Yes, and we expect you to do just that.”

“So I figure that it's just as important t' keep a man or woman that's working at the machines in good order, and it's even more important, for they are people, and the machines, they aren't human, and can't feel misery.”

“But you've got the wrong idea, John. You well know a machine costs the management lots of money to replace. We've been watching you, John, and want you to get along. But if you get any such ideas as you have been expounding here into your head, you can't be of use to us.”

He looked at his watch. “Now I've got to get on to lunch. Good-by, John. I won't say anything to Mr. Randolph about this. We'll just forget it.”

They walked together into the corridor that led from the offices into the mill. Mr. Burnett stopped at the doorway. “Now, John,” he said, “those people you're talking about. They're satisfied. Why worry your head about them? You be sensible.”

John's lunch hour was over and he hurried back to the weave room. Standing at his work he felt the emptiness in his belly and an emptiness and sadness in himself, whatever was himself, for he did not know.

At that moment, with the sense that kept alert to what was happening in the room while the rest of him concentrated on the machine, he knew that people's heads were turning toward the door. He saw that Mr. Randolph was standing there, and with him was a young woman. Mr. Randolph beckoned to John.

“This is Miss Gordon,” he introduced them, shouting above the noise. “Show her over the room, then bring her back to the office.”

The young woman smiled at him, but she did not try to speak above the noise.

He stood beside her when Mr. Randolph had gone, and when she looked up expectantly he led the way toward the looms. She stood close to him while he explained the mechanism and when she wished to ask a question raised her mouth to his ear. He felt her breath and once her lips touched his cheek.

As they went through the room some of the men smiled at him. The girls and women kept their eyes down as they always did when there were visitors.

After that on the days when Miss Gordon came to the mill to persuade the girls and women to join her clubs, John watched for her. When she came into the weave room, John Stevens' song that John had repeated under his breath at his looms turned into a song of praise for her. He always left his work to see if there was something he might do. The girls were very ugly about Miss Gordon. Many of them when they saw her coming ducked behind the looms until she passed. Their behavior made him feel a protective interest in Miss Gordon, for he could see that their indifference hurt her badly.

She had left college with the idea of working for the poor, and it was very hard that the people she was working for did not appreciate what she was ready to give. She was glad that John was interested, for if she could get a few or even one to lead she was sure the rest would follow. She had been taught that those who composed the lower elements of society were like sheep and would follow a leader. If John was loyal to her then perhaps his sister might become so, and his other relatives.

Miss Gordon invited John to visit the club rooms and after the first visit he found that there were many ways in which he could help her there. So he became a constant visitor on club nights, and stayed afterwards to straighten up the place, and lock the doors for Miss Gordon.

During the week John was happy with his new friend. Robert and the others were astonished at his desertion and tried vainly to make him return to his evenings with them. Minnie sent word that he must come back to see her. He had an interest that was greater than anything they could offer.

But Sundays were a torture to him. He was without companionship now, for Zinie kept away from him, and Young Frank and the others at last left him alone. When he told Miss Gordon about the lonely Sundays she gave him books to read. With these he could stay at home on Sunday afternoons and write down the words that were unfamiliar, so that he would have an excuse to detain his friend in the club rooms after the few women who came to the meetings had left. They would sit before a fire in the dining-room and he would spell out the words, while she corrected his pronunciation and told him the meaning of the word he did not understand.

He was reading one of the books Miss Gordon had lent him one Sunday afternoon. Bonnie came into the kitchen with the baby in her arms and settled down in a chair opposite him. There was an uneasy silence, for he thought his sister had come in for a purpose. He was preparing to leave her there, when she spoke to him.

“Will you sit down again, John?”

“Have you got something t' say?”

“Yes. I would like to talk with you.”

“Then say it.” He did not sit down as she had asked.

“Is it true you're going with Miss Gordon?”

“I'm helping her at the club.”

“You're hanging around just like Lessie Hampton that boot licks all the higher-ups.”

“I'm not bootlicking, and I'm sorry to hear ye say that of me.”

“Well, hit looks like that, John.”

“Is it any of your mind?”

“In a way. Because I don't think it right. I don't like the club . . . .”

“Why don't you go up and try it once?”

“I did try it at first,” Bonnie said quietly. “But it seemed no use. She says, ‘You must never have fried food,' as if hurrying home from the mill at dinner time a woman or little gal can do anything but throw together something in the frying pan, and at night with the men and the young ones so hungry and you tired, what can you do but the same?

“She tells us, ‘You must feed your children milk every day and plenty of eggs, for otherwise young ones will get pellagra.' ”

“That is true.”

“Of course it's true . . . .” Bonnie stopped speaking. She took one hand from the baby. “Of course it's true,” she repeated. There was a silence, and John knew his sister was crying.

“I'd like the best food,” she said. “And everything for my young one . . . but how to get them . . . . I don't know.”

B
ECAUSE
he lived at home John could not keep away from Bonnie entirely. But he came in late every night and never gave her another opportunity to speak with him intimately.

Miss Gordon gave him a key to the club rooms, and he went there on Sunday afternoons to read. The room there was better than the kitchen at home. It was comfortable. He could build himself a fire and sit in one of the comfortable chairs to read. And if he grew tired of reading he could think of Ruth Gordon.

Like Kirk he had been accustomed to make love to girls and have them like it. With Miss Gordon he was not so sure of himself. He asked himself, “What are you afraid of? She can't kill ye.”

This question was in his mind one evening after club hours when Ruth Gordon came into the living-room of the club house where he was sitting. The women had gone but it was still very early.

“Sit down,” she said when he got up ready to help her close the house.

She sat in a chair near him. Together they looked in the fire. He raised his eyes and saw that she was deep in thought. Her fair skin was reddened by the fire toward which she was leaning. He thought how blue her eyes would be if she looked up. When her cheeks were flushed the red in them always accentuated the blueness of her eyes.