cold.
“I ain’t gonta marry you this fall,” she said.
“That ain’t too soon,” pled Budge. “Course if you’d rather wait, till Christmas, say—”
“I ain’t gonta marry you no time,” said Corrie May.
“You ain’t—what? You done said—”
“Yeah, but I’m saying it over. I been thinking. I ain’t gonta have to work hard and mess around my whole life. I’m gonta be somebody, Budge Foster, you hear me? I’m gonta be somebody and have me some clothes to wear and have folks speak to me on the street.”
“After all you done told me—”
“I take it back.”
“Me loving you and hanging around all this time for you—”
“Oh Lord, I’m awful sorry, Budge.” There was a quaver in Corrie May’s voice.
“Say, you look ahere,” said Budge threateningly. “You’ll get in a peck of trouble if you start carrying on like that.”
“No I won’t,” she retorted. “You just see.”
“You think you’s too good for a man that wanted to marry you honest and look out for you—” his words caught and he became hurt and pleading. “Corrie May, honey, I been loving you so much. Don’t you start going on.”
“You shut up,” said Corrie May.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “you talk to me like I was a nigger!”
“Lord no,” said Corrie May vehemently. “You ain’t no nigger! You’s so white you wouldn’t touch a nigger. You’s a heap sight different from a nigger, you are!”
“Sho I’m different from a nigger. What do you—”
“I’ll tell you how different,” she cried with sudden fury. “You get up at the bust of dawn and work cotton, like a nigger; you wear overalls with a patch in the seat of the breeches, like a nigger; you waddle home so tired you can’t see, like a nigger; and when you dies you ain’t got no more’n you had the day you was born, like a nigger. But you ain’t a nigger. You’s white. You get sick one day and can’t tend to your cotton and who takes care of you? Your crop fails one year and who feeds you just the same? Who keeps your roof patched so the rain can’t come in? Who cares if you starve to death? Nobody. And that’s the difference in you and a nigger, Mr. Budge Foster, and you can’t tell me nothing else.”
Budge was too astounded to form an answer. Corrie May rushed on.
“Suppose I got married to you. Suppose I worked my hands off, cooking and picking cotton and raising young uns. Then suppose a mule kicked you and you died. What would I do? I couldn’t pay rent so I’d get turned offn that piece of ground. And could I work for somebody? Could I sew or scrub or take in washing? Who do you know that’s gonta pay a white woman for doing them things when there’s niggers doing ’em for nothing? I ain’t gonta marry you. I’ll be double-damned if I am. I’d rather be a nigger than po’ white trash.”
Chapter Three
1
D enis privately suggested to Jerry that he would like to see Ann home after supper, so Jerry, who had more wisdom in these matters than one would have guessed from his gargoylesque face, good-naturedly invented an errand in town. As they drove toward Silverwood Denis asked Ann for the fourth time if she would marry him. For the fourth time Ann lowered her eyes enough to let him appreciate the length of her eyelashes, and answered, “Honestly, Denis, I don’t know. Please give me time to think. I can’t dispose of my whole life in five minutes!”
Denis was both amused and exasperated. He was wise enough in the ways of women to be fairly sure Ann was going to tell him yes, but he was inordinately in love with her and wanted to be sure. He turned and looked at her. In the dusk of the carriage she was like a warm shadow, provokingly scented with vetivert.
“Ann,” he said, “why do you keep teasing me so?”
“But I’m not teasing you!” Ann protested. “I really don’t know.”
It was too dark for him to distinguish the full expression of her face. He could not tell whether she was in earnest
“I ain’t gonta marry you this fall,” she said.
“That ain’t too soon,” pled Budge. “Course if you’d rather wait, till Christmas, say—”
“I ain’t gonta marry you no time,” said Corrie May.
“You ain’t—what? You done said—”
“Yeah, but I’m saying it over. I been thinking. I ain’t gonta have to work hard and mess around my whole life. I’m gonta be somebody, Budge Foster, you hear me? I’m gonta be somebody and have me some clothes to wear and have folks speak to me on the street.”
“After all you done told me—”
“I take it back.”
“Me loving you and hanging around all this time for you—”
“Oh Lord, I’m awful sorry, Budge.” There was a quaver in Corrie May’s voice.
“Say, you look ahere,” said Budge threateningly. “You’ll get in a peck of trouble if you start carrying on like that.”
“No I won’t,” she retorted. “You just see.”
“You think you’s too good for a man that wanted to marry you honest and look out for you—” his words caught and he became hurt and pleading. “Corrie May, honey, I been loving you so much. Don’t you start going on.”
“You shut up,” said Corrie May.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “you talk to me like I was a nigger!”
“Lord no,” said Corrie May vehemently. “You ain’t no nigger! You’s so white you wouldn’t touch a nigger. You’s a heap sight different from a nigger, you are!”
“Sho I’m different from a nigger. What do you—”
“I’ll tell you how different,” she cried with sudden fury. “You get up at the bust of dawn and work cotton, like a nigger; you wear overalls with a patch in the seat of the breeches, like a nigger; you waddle home so tired you can’t see, like a nigger; and when you dies you ain’t got no more’n you had the day you was born, like a nigger. But you ain’t a nigger. You’s white. You get sick one day and can’t tend to your cotton and who takes care of you? Your crop fails one year and who feeds you just the same? Who keeps your roof patched so the rain can’t come in? Who cares if you starve to death? Nobody. And that’s the difference in you and a nigger, Mr. Budge Foster, and you can’t tell me nothing else.”
Budge was too astounded to form an answer. Corrie May rushed on.
“Suppose I got married to you. Suppose I worked my hands off, cooking and picking cotton and raising young uns. Then suppose a mule kicked you and you died. What would I do? I couldn’t pay rent so I’d get turned offn that piece of ground. And could I work for somebody? Could I sew or scrub or take in washing? Who do you know that’s gonta pay a white woman for doing them things when there’s niggers doing ’em for nothing? I ain’t gonta marry you. I’ll be double-damned if I am. I’d rather be a nigger than po’ white trash.”
Chapter Three
1
D enis privately suggested to Jerry that he would like to see Ann home after supper, so Jerry, who had more wisdom in these matters than one would have guessed from his gargoylesque face, good-naturedly invented an errand in town. As they drove toward Silverwood Denis asked Ann for the fourth time if she would marry him. For the fourth time Ann lowered her eyes enough to let him appreciate the length of her eyelashes, and answered, “Honestly, Denis, I don’t know. Please give me time to think. I can’t dispose of my whole life in five minutes!”
Denis was both amused and exasperated. He was wise enough in the ways of women to be fairly sure Ann was going to tell him yes, but he was inordinately in love with her and wanted to be sure. He turned and looked at her. In the dusk of the carriage she was like a warm shadow, provokingly scented with vetivert.
“Ann,” he said, “why do you keep teasing me so?”
“But I’m not teasing you!” Ann protested. “I really don’t know.”
It was too dark for him to distinguish the full expression of her face. He could not tell whether she was in earnest
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