Free Jonah's Gourd Vine by Zora Neale Hurston Page B

lady people. Uh man is crazy tuh do dat—when he know he got tuh submit hisself tuh ’em. Ahm gittin’ sleepy. B’lieve Ah’ll turn in.”
    Bully went away whistling, and John made to go inside to bed.
    â€œJohn!” in a soft whisper from around the corner of the house. “Come heah, John.”
    John stepped to the corner, “Who dat callin’ me?”
    â€œAw, you come see,” the voice retreated into the shoulder-high cotton. John followed.
    â€œWhut you want wid me, M’haley?”
    â€œLook lak you ain’t glad youse back.”
    â€œYes Ah is, M’haley, but ’tain’t lak de fust night Ah come. Ah reckon all de new done wore off de plantation.”
    â€œâ€™Tain’t de plantation. Dat’s jes’ de same. Ah reckon you jes’ ain’t got time tuh strain wid us quarters niggers now. You sings on de choir at Macedony.”
    â€œWhut’s singin’ notes got tuh do wid it? It jus’ ’tain’t new no mo’.”
    â€œNaw, you jes’ stuck on dat li’l’ ole Lucy Ann, and she ain’t nothin’ but uh baby. She ain’t but leben years ole.”
    â€œShe twelve now, goin’ on thirteen. She had her birth night de day befo’ mines. Her’n on December 31, and mine’s January 1. Ain’t dat funny?”
    â€œAhm fifteen, so goody, goody, goody.”
    John said nothing. After a while M’haley said, “John, Ah thought once me and you wuz gointer make uh wed.” He stood stolid and silent.
    In the silence she threw her arms about John’s passive neck and swung herself off the ground, then lay still against him.
    â€œJohn.”
    â€œHunh.”
    â€œFeel mah heart. Put yo’ hand right heah. Ain’t it beatin’ hard? Dat’s ’cause Ahm so glad youse back. Feel it again. Myheart is rearin’ and pitchin’ fur you lak uh mule in uh tin stable. John, Ah loves you, Ah swear Ah does. You so pretty and you ain’t color-struck lak uh whole heap uh bright-skin people. John?”
    â€œHunh.”
    â€œJohn, hug me till mah dress fit tight.”
    The next day John whitewashed Pheemy’s chimney, and wrote Lucy’s name in huge letters across it, and on Sunday he was at church far ahead of anybody else, with a three-cornered note in his hymn-book.
    â€œHope ole big-mouf M’haley don’t come pukin’ her guts ’round heah,” he thought aloud. This was another day and another place. Pearson’s quarters and M’haley had no business here. His eye wandered out of the window and down the dusty road. A bunch of girls approached in starchy elegance. “Lawd, dat look lak M’haley now—comin’ heah tuh bull-doze and dominize.”
    John fell to his knees and prayed for cleansing. He prayed aloud and the empty house threw back his resonant tones like a guitar box.
    â€œDat sho sound good,” John exulted. “If mah voice sound dat good de first time Ah ever prayed in de church house, it sho won’t be de las’.” He arose from his knees and before the drove of girls had reached the steps John had forgotten all about his sins and fears, but he retreated to the choir-stand out of M’haley’s reach.
    As soon as Lucy took her seat before him he leaned forward and thrust his hymn-book into her hand. She coyly dropped hers, and he picked it up and pretended to search for a song. Lucy slyly did the same and read:
    Dere Lucy:
    Whin you pass a mule tied to a tree,
    Ring his tail and think of me.
    Your sugger-lump,
    J OHN
    John read:
    Long as the vine grow ’round the stump
    You are my dolling sugar lump.
    Mama whipped me last night, because Bud told her we was talking to each other.
    Your sweet heart,
    L UCY A NN
    John was so sweetly distracted by this note that he was blind and deaf to his surroundings. Bud Potts had rapped loudly and importantly and had gestured with his