“Mama, for God’s sake,” Ben cried out irritably, “don’t make the kid wear them if they’re too small. I’ll buy him a pair myself if you’re too stingy to spend the money.”
“Why, what’s wrong with these?” said Eliza. She pressed them with her fingers. “Why, pshaw!” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with them. All shoes are a little tight at first. It won’t hurt him a bit.”
But he had to give up at the end of six weeks. The hard leather did not stretch, his feet hurt more every day. He limped about more and more painfully until he planted each step woodenly as if he were walking on blocks. His feet were numb and dead, sore on the palms. One day, in a rage, Ben flung him down and took them off. It was several days before he began to walk with ease again. But his toes that had grown through boyhood straight and strong were pressed into a pulp, the bones gnarled, bent and twisted, the nails thick and dead.
“It does seem a pity to throw those good shoes away,” sighed Eliza.
But she had strange fits of generosity. He didn’t understand.
A girl came down to Altamont from the west. She was from Sevier, a mountain town, she said. She had a big brown body, and black hair and eyes of a Cherokee Indian.
“Mark my words,” said Gant. “That girl’s got Cherokee blood in her somewhere.”
She took a room, and for days rocked back and forth in a chair before the parlor fire. She was shy, frightened, a little sullen — her manners were country and decorous. She never spoke unless she was spoken to.
Sometimes she was sick and stayed in bed. Eliza took her food then, and was extremely kind to her.
Day after day the girl rocked back and forth, all through the stormy autumn. Eugene could hear her large feet as rhythmically they hit the floor, ceaselessly propelling the rocker. Her name was Mrs. Morgan.
One day as he laid large crackling lumps upon the piled glowing mass of coals, Eliza entered the room. Mrs. Morgan rocked away stolidly. Eliza stood by the fire for a moment, pursing her lips reflectively, and folding her hands quietly upon her stomach. She looked out the window at the stormy sky, the swept windy bareness of the street.
“I tell you what,” she said, “it looks like a hard winter for the poor folks.”
“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Morgan sullenly. She kept on rocking.
Eliza was silent a moment longer.
“Where’s your husband?” she asked presently.
“In Sevier,” Mrs. Morgan said. “He’s a railroad man.”
“What’s that, what’s that?” said Eliza quickly, comically. “A railroad man, you say?” she inquired sharply.
“Yes’m.”
“Well, it looks mighty funny to me he hasn’t been in to see you,” said Eliza, with enormous accusing tranquillity. “I’d call it a pretty poor sort of man who’d act like that.”
Mrs. Morgan said nothing. Her tar-black eyes glittered in fireflame.
“Have you got any money?” said Eliza.
“No’m,” said Mrs. Morgan.
Eliza stood solidly, enjoying the warmth, pursing her lips. “When do you expect to have your baby?” said Eliza suddenly.
Mrs. Morgan said nothing for a moment. She kept on rocking.
“In less’n a month now, I reckon,” she answered.
She had been getting bigger week after week.
Eliza bent over and pulled her skirt up, revealing her leg to the knee, cotton-stockinged and lumpily wadded over with her heavy flannels.
“Whew!” she cried out coyly, noticing that Eugene was staring. “Turn your head, boy,” she commanded, snickering and rubbing her finger along her nose. The dull green of rolled banknotes shone through her stockings. She pulled the bills out.
“Well, I reckon you’ll have to have a little money,” said Eliza, peeling off two tens, and giving them to Mrs. Morgan.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mrs. Morgan, taking the money.
“You can stay here until you’re able to work again,” said Eliza. “I know a good doctor.”
“Mama, in heaven’s name,” Helen fumed. “Where on earth do you get these people?”
“Merciful God!” howled Gant, “you’ve had ’em all — blind, lame, crazy, chippies and bastards. They all come here.”
Nevertheless, when he saw Mrs. Morgan now, he always made a profound bow, saying with the most florid courtesy:
“How do you do, madam?” Aside, to Helen, he said:
“I tell you what — she’s a fine-looking girl.”
“Hahahaha,” said Helen, laughing in an ironic falsetto, and prodding him, “you wouldn’t mind having her yourself, would you?”
“B’God,” he said humorously, wetting his thumb, and grinning slyly at Eliza, “she’s got a pair of pippins.”
Eliza smiled bitterly into popping grease.
“Hm!” she said disdainfully. “I don’t care how many he goes with. There’s no fool like an old fool. You’d better not be too smart. That’s a game two can play at.”
“Hahahahaha!” laughed Helen thinly, “she’s mad now.”
Helen took Mrs. Morgan often to Gant’s and cooked great meals for her. She also brought her presents of candy and scented soap from town.
They called in McGuire at the birth of the child. From below Eugene heard the quiet commotion in the upstairs room, the low moans of the woman, and finally a high piercing wail. Eliza, greatly excited, kept kettles seething with hot water constantly over the gas flames of the stove. From time to time she rushed upstairs with a boiling kettle, descending a moment later more slowly, pausing from step to step while she listened attentively to the sounds in the room.
“After all,” said Helen, banging kettles about restlessly in the kitchen, “what do we know about her? Nobody can say she hasn’t got a husband, can they? They’d better be careful! People have no right to say those things,” she cried out irritably against unknown detractors.
It was night. Eugene went out on to the veranda. The air was frosty, clear, not very cool. Above the black bulk of the eastern hills, and in the great bowl of the sky, far bright stars were scintillant as jewels. The light burned brightly in neighborhood houses, as bright and as hard as if carved from some cold gem. Across the wide yard-spaces wafted the warm odor of hamburger steak and fried onions. Ben stood at the veranda rail, leaning upon his cocked leg, smoking with deep lung inhalations. Eugene went over and stood by him. They heard the wail upstairs. Eugene snickered, looking up at the thin ivory mask. Ben lifted his white hand sharply to strike him, but dropped it with a growl of contempt, smiling faintly. Far before them, on the top of Birdseye, faint lights wavered in the rich Jew’s castle. In the neighborhood there was a slight mist of supper, and frost-far voices.
Deep womb, dark flower. The Hidden. The secret fruit, heart-red, fed by rich Indian blood. Womb-night brooding darkness flowering secretly into life.
Mrs. Morgan went away two weeks after her child was born. He was a little brown-skinned boy, with a tuft of elvish black hair, and very black bright eyes. He was like a little Indian. Before she left Eliza gave her twenty dollars.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ve got folks in Sevier,” said Mrs. Morgan.
She