Comparison & Contrast Essay
This week, your written assignment is a short comparison and contrast essay between the two attached stories from your readings from this week to compare and contrast.
In a 3-4 page essay, compare and contrast the two stories. determine a clear and manageable topic you will use as the basis for your comparison and contrast essay.
As you write the essay, stay focused on your chosen topic. Do not attempt to cover too much ground; do not re-hash the obvious. Instead, zero in on a unique point of
comparison/contrast (characters, setting, theme, use of specific details, symbols or images).
Draft a one-sentence thesis statement that argues your point. Then develop that thesis through the paragraphs that follow. The last paragraph should be a conclusion in
which you tie everything together.
Remember always to give focused, specific support as you discuss similarities and differences in the stories’ treatment of the issue you have chosen to write about.
Please refer to the “Comparison and Contrast Essay Instructions” included in the Course Materials for this class as you plan and complete this assignment. The
instructions contain detailed, step-by-step instructions on how to craft an effective comparison and contrast essay.
Comparison & Contrast Essay
Sample Assignment Requirements
1. Discuss similarities and differences in a formal, analytical essay that follows one of the two common comparison and contrast formats (defined below).
2. Use evidence from multiple, academically credible sources. These sources, ideally, should consist of a mixture of at least three to five books, articles,
credible internet sources, and the like. Of course, this is unless the assignment you are completing contains instructions that specify the number of sources you are
required to use; you should always follow the requirements if they are stated.
3. Your comparison/contrast paper needs to be presented in the appropriate essay format, including an introductory paragraph with a thesis statement, a coherent
and well-developed, as well as well-supported body, and a convincing and well-founded conclusion.
Step-by-Step Instructions for Research
1. Conduct research on your comparison/contrast topic.
2. Look at source information about the two stories, poems, authors, etc., that you plan to compare and contrast. In the process, prepare to make an argument
about how they compare. This is an academic paper, not a personal opinion piece. You need to review what experts have said as you construct your own evaluation.
3. Do not use “.com” Internet sources for the three to five required sources for this assignment. Between EBSCO, PALS and other information sources for the
primary materials you have chosen, you should find sufficient academically credible material to use. If you would like to do additional research, feel free to do so.
Be sure to order library materials early if needed and use a variety of sources.
4. Insert quotes for your essay (at least 3 from different sources) and be sure to cite each source correctly in your notes.
5. Summarize information you want to use. Be sure that the information you have found is credible and relevant to the essay assignment. Discard all information
that does not relate to the questions you are supposed to answer.
6. Spend time reading and writing about the author behind each literary text. Who are they? How are their contexts reflected in the pieces you are comparing and
contrasting? What are their objectives? What in their work appeals to you and why?
7. Be sure to take notes as you do your research and to hold on to source information. As you go along, put together a list of all materials you want to use in
your paper. Cite them in correct APA format. (For guidance on APA format, see your Online Library, which you can access through the Resources tab.)
Step-by-Step Instructions for Writing the Essay
1. Write an introductory paragraph with a thesis.
2. Make sure to meet the standards/requirements for the comparison and contrast essay assigned. Tell the reader what it is that you are comparing and contrasting
and which specific points of comparison you will offer.
3. A standard comparison and contrast thesis looks like this:
“While ____ and ____ may appear to be similar because of ______, they are also different with respect to _________.
“On first sight, _______ and _______ appear to be quite different. However, it turns out that they are quite similar with respect to _________.
4. Based on your thesis, proceed to draft supporting evidence for your thesis.
5. Comparisons can follow one of two patterns:
o A/B Pattern – Discuss one author and his or her work completely (A), then go on to the next author and discuss him or her completely (B). Finally compare the
two in the concluding section (A/B).
o ABABABAB Pattern – Discuss both texts at the same time and move point by point (concept by concept as in ABABABAB). Always use supporting evidence to back up
your claims.
6. Aim for 5–7 solid body paragraphs (6-7 sentences per paragraph are standard). Note: If your assignment specifies a page requirement, you will need to complete
the number of pages required. Dedicate the same amount of space to each item discussed.
7. Craft a conclusion that sums up your main points. Leaves the reader with a memorable thought
If you are following the A/B pattern (discussing one text first, then the other):
• Dedicate a paragraph or two to each point of comparison/topic of discussion.
• In each paragraph, back up your discussion of how the author/artist approaches the particular point with quotations or other evidence you have selected to
illustrate your point.
• When you are finished covering 2 to 3 relevant points of comparison, move on to the second author and their treatment of the same topic.
If you are following the ABABABAB pattern (going point by point):
• Dedicate a paragraph or two to comparing how each author approaches one topic.
• Use examples to illustrate your point.
• When you have covered the concept and show how both authors/artists approach it in sufficient depth, move on to the next concept/topic and follow the same
routine.
• Use the supporting evidence you have already drafted to work toward a complete draft of your essay.
• Flesh out all body paragraphs that need more work. Make sure you have used enough evidence and you have incorporated it well (quotations, paraphrases,
summaries)
• Document all outside sources you have used in correct format, both in text – Author last name, page number – and on your APA style works cited page.
Final revision: Revise your essay into a final draft based on peer feedback or, if applicable, your instructor comments. Finalize your draft.
Petrified Man
“Reach in my purse and git me a cigarette without no powder in it if you kin, Mrs. Fletcher, honey,” said Leota to her ten o’clock shampoo-and-set customer. “I don’t
like no perfumed cigarettes.”
Mrs. Fletcher gladly reached over to the lavender shelf under the lavender-framed mirror, shook a hair net loose from the clasp of the patent-leather bag, and slapped
her hand down quickly on a powder puff which burst out when the purse was opened.
“Why, look at the peanuts, Leota!” said Mrs. Fletcher in her marvelling voice.
“Honey, them goobers has been in my purse a week if they’s been in it a day. Mrs. Pike bought them peanuts.”
“Who’s Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher, settling back. Hidden in this den of curling fluid and henna packs, separated by a lavender swing-door from the other
customers, who were being gratified in other booths, she could give her curiosity its freedom. She looked expectantly at the black part in Leota’s yellow curls as she
bent to light the cigarette.
“Mrs. Pike is this lady from New Orleans,” said Leota, puffing, and pressing into Mrs. Fletcher’s scalp with strong red-nailed fingers. “A friend, not a customer. You
see, like maybe I told you last time, me and Fred and Sal and Joe all had us a fuss, so Sal and Joe up and moved out, so we didn’t do a thing but rent out their room.
So we rented it to Mrs. Pike. And Mr. Pike.” She flicked an ash into the basket of dirty towels. “Mrs. Pike is a very decided blonde. She bought me the peanuts.”
“She must be cute,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Honey, ‘cute’ ain’t the word for what she is. I’m tellin’ you, Mrs. Pike is attractive. She has her a good time. She’s got a sharp eye out, Mrs. Pike has.”
She dashed the comb through the air, and paused dramatically as a cloud of Mrs. Fletcher’s hennaed hair floated out of the lavender teeth like a small storm-cloud.
“Hair fallin’.”
“Aw, Leota.”
“Uh-huh, commencin’ to fall out,” said Leota, combing again, and letting fall another cloud.
“Is it any dandruff in it?” Mrs. Fletcher was frowning, her hair-line eyebrows diving down toward her nose, and her wrinkled, beady-lashed eyelids batting with
concentration.
“Nope.” She combed again. “Just fallin’ out.”
“Bet it was that last perm’nent you gave me that did it,” Mrs. Fletcher said cruelly. “Remember you cooked me fourteen minutes.”
“You had fourteen minutes comin’ to you,” said Leota with finality.
“Bound to be somethin’,” persisted Mrs. Fletcher. “Dandruff, dandruff. I couldn’t of caught a thing like that from Mr. Fletcher, could I?”
“Well,” Leota answered at last, “you know what I heard in here yestiddy, one of Thelma’s ladies was settin’ over yonder in Thelma’s booth gittin’ a machineless, and I
don’t mean to insist or insinuate or anything, Mrs. Fletcher, but Thelma’s lady just happ’med to throw out—I forgotten what she was talkin’ about at the time—that you
was p-r-e-g., and lots of times that’ll make your hair do awful funny, fall out and God knows what all. It just ain’t our fault, is the way I look at it.”
There was a pause. The women stared at each other in the mirror.
“Who was it?” demanded Mrs. Fletcher.
“Honey, I really couldn’t say,” said Leota. “Not that you look it.”
“Where’s Thelma? I’ll get it out of her,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Now, honey, I wouldn’t go and git mad over a little thing like that,” Leota said, combing hastily, as though to hold Mrs. Fletcher down by the hair. “I’m sure it was
somebody didn’t mean no harm in the world. How far gone are you?”
“Just wait,” said Mrs. Fletcher, and shrieked for Thelma, who came in and took a drag from Leota’s cigarette.
“Thelma, honey, throw your mind back to yestiddy if you kin,” said Leota, drenching Mrs. Fletcher’s hair with a thick fluid and catching the overflow in a cold wet
towel at her neck.
“Well, I got my lady half wound for a spiral,” said Thelma doubtfully.
“This won’t take but a minute,” said Leota. “Who is it you got in there, old Horse Face? Just cast your mind back and try to remember who your lady was yestiddy who
happ’m to mention that my customer was pregnant, that’s all. She’s dead to know.”
Thelma drooped her blood-red lips and looked over Mrs. Fletcher’s head into the mirror.
“Why, honey, I ain’t got the faintest,” she breathed. “I really don’t recollect the faintest. But I’m sure she meant no harm. I declare, I forgot my hair finally got
combed and thought it was a stranger behind me.”
“Was it that Mrs. Hutchinson?” Mrs. Fletcher was tensely polite.
“Mrs. Hutchinson? Oh, Mrs. Hutchinson.” Thelma batted her eyes. “Naw, precious, she come on Thursday and didn’t ev’m mention your name. I doubt if she ev’m knows
you’re on the way.”
“Thelma!” cried Leota staunchly.
“All I know is, whoever it is ’ll be sorry some day. Why, I just barely knew it myself!” cried Mrs. Fletcher. “Just let her wait!”
“Why? What’re you gonna do to her?”
It was a child’s voice, and the women looked down. A little boy was making tents with aluminum wave pinchers on the floor under the sink.
“Billy Boy, hon, mustn’t bother nice ladies,” Leota smiled. She slapped him brightly and behind her back waved Thelma out of the booth. “Ain’t Billy Boy a sight? Only
three years old and already just nuts about the beauty-parlor business.”
“I never saw him here before,” said Mrs. Fletcher, still unmollified.
“He ain’t been here before, that’s how come,” said Leota. “He belongs to Mrs. Pike. She got her a job but it was Fay’s Millinery. He oughtn’t to try on those ladies’
hats, they come down over his eyes like I don’t know what. They just git to look ridiculous, that’s what, an’ of course he’s gonna put ’em on: hats. They tole Mrs.
Pike they didn’t appreciate him hangin’ around there. Here, he couldn’t hurt a thing.”
“Well! I don’t like children that much,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Well!” said Leota moodily.
“Well! I’m almost tempted not to have this one,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “That Mrs. Hutchinson! Just looks straight through you when she sees you on the street and then
spits at you behind your back.”
“Mr. Fletcher would beat you on the head if you didn’t have it now,” said Leota reasonably. “After going this far.”
Mrs. Fletcher sat up straight. “Mr. Fletcher can’t do a thing with me.”
“He can’t!” Leota winked at herself in the mirror.
“No, siree, he can’t. If he so much as raises his voice against me, he knows good and well I’ll have one of my sick headaches, and then I’m just not fit to live with.
And if I really look that pregnant already—”
“Well, now, honey, I just want you to know—I habm’t told any of my ladies and I ain’t goin’ to tell ’em—even that you’re losin’ your hair. You just get you one of
those Stork-a-Lure dresses and stop worryin’. What people don’t know don’t hurt nobody, as Mrs. Pike says.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher sulkily.
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, look, you ain’t ever goin’ to lay eyes on Mrs. Pike or her lay eyes on you, so what diffunce does it make in the long run?”
“I knew it!” Mrs. Fletcher deliberately nodded her head so as to destroy a ringlet Leota was working on behind her ear. “Mrs. Pike!”
Leota sighed. “I reckon I might as well tell you. It wasn’t any more Thelma’s lady tole me you was pregnant than a bat.”
“Not Mrs. Hutchinson?”
“Naw, Lord! It was Mrs. Pike.”
“Mrs. Pike!” Mrs. Fletcher could only sputter and let curling fluid roll into her ear. “How could Mrs. Pike possibly know I was pregnant or otherwise, when she doesn’t
even know me? The nerve of some people!”
“Well, here’s how it was. Remember Sunday?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Sunday, Mrs. Pike an’ me was all by ourself. Mr. Pike and Fred had gone over to Eagle Lake, sayin’ they was goin’ to catch ’em some fish, but they didn’t a course. So
we was gettin’ in Mrs. Pike’s car, it’s a 1939 Dodge—”
“1939, eh,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“—An’ we was gettin’ us a Jax beer apiece—that’s the beer that Mrs. Pike says is made right in N.O., so she won’t drink no other kind. So I seen you drive up to the
drugstore an’ run in for just a secont, leavin’ I reckon Mr. Fletcher in the car, an’ come runnin’ out with looked like a perscription. So I says to Mrs. Pike, just to
be makin’ talk, ‘Right yonder’s Mrs. Fletcher, and I reckon that’s Mr. Fletcher—she’s one of my regular customers,’ I says.”
“I had on a figured print,” said Mrs. Fletcher tentatively.
“You sure did,” agreed Leota. “So Mrs. Pike, she give you a good look—she’s very observant, a good judge of character, cute as a minute, you know—and she says, ‘I bet
you another Jax that lady’s three months on the way.’ ”
“What gall!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Mrs. Pike!”
“Mrs. Pike ain’t goin’ to bite you,” said Leota. “Mrs. Pike is a lovely girl, you’d be crazy about her, Mrs. Fletcher. But she can’t sit still a minute. We went to the
travellin’ freak show yestiddy after work. I got through early—nine o’clock. In the vacant store next door. What, you ain’t been?”
“No, I despise freaks,” declared Mrs. Fletcher.
“Aw. Well, honey, talkin’ about bein’ pregnant an’ all, you ought to see those twins in a bottle, you really owe it to yourself.”
“What twins?” asked Mrs. Fletcher out of the side of her mouth.
“Well, honey, they got these two twins in a bottle, see? Born joined plumb together—dead a course.” Leota dropped her voice into a soft lyrical hum. “They was about
this long—pardon—must of been full time, all right, wouldn’t you say?—an’ they had these two heads an’ two faces an’ four arms an’ four legs, all kind of joined here.
See, this face looked this-a-way, and the other face looked that-a-way, over their shoulder, see. Kinda pathetic.”
“Glah!” said Mrs. Fletcher disapprovingly.
“Well, ugly? Honey, I mean to tell you—their parents was first cousins and all like that. Billy Boy, git me a fresh towel from off Teeny’s stack—this ’n’s wringin’
wet—an’ quit ticklin’ my ankles with that curler. I declare! He don’t miss nothin’.”
“Me and Mr. Fletcher aren’t one speck of kin, or he could never of had me,” said Mrs. Fletcher placidly.
“Of course not!” protested Leota. “Neither is me an’ Fred, not that we know of. Well, honey, what Mrs. Pike liked was the pygmies. They’ve got these pygmies down
there, too, an’ Mrs. Pike was just wild about ’em. You know, the teeniniest men in the universe? Well, honey, they can just rest back on their little bohunkus an’ roll
around an’ you can’t hardly tell if they’re sittin’ or standin’. That’ll give you some idea. They’re about forty-two years old. Just suppose it was your husband!”
“Well, Mr. Fletcher is five foot nine and one half,” said Mrs. Fletcher quickly.
“Fred’s five foot ten,” said Leota, “but I tell him he’s still a shrimp, account of I’m so tall.” She made a deep wave over Mrs. Fletcher’s other temple with the comb.
“Well, these pygmies are a kind of a dark brown, Mrs. Fletcher. Not bad lookin’ for what they are, you know.”
“I wouldn’t care for them,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “What does that Mrs. Pike see in them?”
“Aw, I don’t know,” said Leota. “She’s just cute, that’s all. But they got this man, this petrified man, that ever’thing ever since he was nine years old, when it goes
through his digestion, see, somehow Mrs. Pike says it goes to his joints and has been turning to stone.”
“How awful!” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“He’s forty-two too. That looks like a bad age.”
“Who said so, that Mrs. Pike? I bet she’s forty-two,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Naw,” said Leota, “Mrs. Pike’s thirty-three, born in January, an Aquarian. He could move his head—like this. A course his head and mind ain’t a joint, so to speak,
and I guess his stomach ain’t, either—not yet, anyways. But see—his food, he eats it, and it goes down, see, and then he digests it”—Leota rose on her toes for an
instant—“and it goes out to his joints and before you can say ‘Jack Robinson,’ it’s stone—pure stone. He’s turning to stone. How’d you liked to be married to a guy
like that? All he can do, he can move his head just a quarter of an inch. A course he looks just terrible.”
“I should think he would,” said Mrs. Fletcher frostily. “Mr. Fletcher takes bending exercises every night of the world. I make him.”
“All Fred does is lay around the house like a rug. I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up some day and couldn’t move. The petrified man just sat there moving his
quarter of an inch though,” said Leota reminiscently.
“Did Mrs. Pike like the petrified man?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
“Not as much as she did the others,” said Leota deprecatingly. “And then she likes a man to be a good dresser, and all that.”
“Is Mr. Pike a good dresser?” asked Mrs. Fletcher sceptically.
“Oh, well, yeah,” said Leota, “but he’s twelve or fourteen years older’n her. She ast Lady Evangeline about him.”
“Who’s Lady Evangeline?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
“Well, it’s this mind reader they got in the freak show,” said Leota. “Was real good. Lady Evangeline is her name, and if I had another dollar I wouldn’t do a thing
but have my other palm read. She had what Mrs. Pike said was the ‘sixth mind’ but she had the worst manicure I ever saw on a living person.”
“What did she tell Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
“She told her Mr. Pike was as true to her as he could be and besides, would come into some money.”
“Humph!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “What does he do?”
“I can’t tell,” said Leota, “because he don’t work. Lady Evangeline didn’t tell me enough about my nature or anything. And I would like to go back and find out some
more about this boy. Used to go with this boy until he got married to this girl. Oh, shoot, that was about three and a half years ago, when you was still goin’ to the
Robert E. Lee Beauty Shop in Jackson. He married her for her money. Another fortune-teller tole me that at the time. So I’m not in love with him anymore, anyway,
besides being married to Fred, but Mrs. Pike thought, just for the hell of it, see, to ask Lady Evangeline was he happy.”
“Does Mrs. Pike know everything about you already?” asked Mrs. Fletcher unbelievingly. “Mercy!”
“Oh, yeah, I tole her ever’thing about ever’thing, from now on back to I don’t know when—to when I first started goin’ out,” said Leota. “So I ast Lady Evangeline for
one of my questions, was he happily married, and she says, just like she was glad I ask her, ‘Honey,’ she says, ‘naw, he idn’t. You write down this day, March 8,
1941,’ she says, ‘and mock it down: three years from today him and her won’t be occupyin’ the same bed.’ There it is, up on the wall with them other dates—see, Mrs.
Fletcher? And she says, ‘Child, you ought to be glad you didn’t git him, because he’s so mercenary.’ So I’m glad I married Fred. He sure ain’t mercenary, money don’t
mean a thing to him. But I sure would like to go back and have my other palm read.”
“Did Mrs. Pike believe in what the fortune-teller said?” asked Mrs. Fletcher in a superior tone of voice.
“Lord, yes, she’s from New Orleans. Ever’body in New Orleans believes ever’thing spooky. One of ’em in New Orleans before it was raided says to Mrs. Pike one summer
she was goin’ to go from State to State and meet some grey-headed men, and, sure enough, she says she went on a beautician convention up to Chicago. . . .”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Oh, is Mrs. Pike a beautician too?”
“Sure she is,” protested Leota. “She’s a beautician. I’m goin’ to git her in here if I can. Before she married. But it don’t leave you. She says sure enough, there was
three men who was a very large part of making her trip what it was, and they all three had grey in their hair and they went in six States. Got Christmas cards from
’em. Billy Boy, go see if Thelma’s got any dry cotton. Look how Mrs. Fletcher’s a-drippin’.”
“Where did Mrs. Pike meet Mr. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher primly.
“On another train,” said Leota.
“I met Mr. Fletcher, or rather he met me, in a rental library,” said Mrs. Fletcher with dignity, as she watched the net come down over her head.
“Honey, me an’ Fred, we met in a rumble seat eight months ago and we was practically on what you might call the way to the altar inside of half an hour,” said Leota in
a guttural voice, and bit a bobby pin open. “Course it don’t last. Mrs. Pike says nothin’ like that ever lasts.”
“Mr. Fletcher and myself are as much in love as the day we married,” said Mrs. Fletcher belligerently as Leota stuffed cotton into her ears.
“Mrs. Pike says it don’t last,” repeated Leota in a louder voice. “Now go git under the dryer. You can turn yourself on, can’t you? I’ll be back to comb you out.
Durin’ lunch I promised to give Mrs. Pike a facial. You know—free. Her bein’ in the business, so to speak.”
“I bet she needs one,” said Mrs. Fletcher, letting the swing-door fly back against Leota. “Oh, pardon me.”
A week later, on time for her appointment, Mrs. Fletcher sank heavily into Leota’s chair after first removing a drug-store rental book, called Life Is Like That, from
the seat. She stared in a discouraged way into the mirror.
“You can tell it when I’m sitting down, all right,” she said.
Leota seemed preoccupied and stood shaking out a lavender cloth. She began to pin it around Mrs. Fletcher’s neck in silence.
“I said you sure can tell it when I’m sitting straight on and coming at you this way,” Mrs. Fletcher said.
“Why, honey, naw you can’t,” said Leota gloomily. “Why, I’d never know. If somebody was to come up to me on the street and say, ‘Mrs. Fletcher is pregnant!’ I’d say,
‘Heck, she don’t look it to me.’ ”
“If a certain party hadn’t found it out and spread it around, it wouldn’t be too late even now,” said Mrs. Fletcher frostily, but Leota was almost choking her with the
cloth, pinning it so tight, and she couldn’t speak clearly. She paddled her hands in the air until Leota wearily loosened her.
“Listen, honey, you’re just a virgin compared to Mrs. Montjoy,” Leota was going on, still absent-minded. She bent Mrs. Fletcher back in the chair and, sighing, tossed
liquid from a teacup on to her head and dug both hands into her scalp. “You know Mrs. Montjoy—her husband’s that premature-greyheaded fella?”
“She’s in the Trojan Garden Club, is all I know,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Well, honey,” said Leota, but in a weary voice, “she come in here not the week before and not the day before she had her baby—she come in here the very selfsame day,
I mean to tell you. Child, we was all plumb scared to death. There she was! Come for her shampoo an’ set. Why, Mrs. Fletcher, in an hour an’ twenty minutes she was
layin’ up there in the Babtist Hospital with a seb’m-pound son. It was that close a shave. I declare, if I hadn’t been so tired I would of drank up a bottle of gin
that night.”
“What gall,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “I never knew her at all well.”
“See, her husband was waitin’ outside in the car, and her bags was all packed an’ in the back seat, an’ she was all ready, ’cept she wanted her shampoo an’ set. An’
havin’ one pain right after another. Her husband kep’ comin’ in here, scared-like, but couldn’t do nothin’ with her a course. She yelled bloody murder, too, but she
always yelled her head off when I give her a perm’nent.”
“She must of been crazy,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “How did she look?”
“Shoot!” said Leota.
“Well, I can guess,” asid Mrs. Fletcher. “Awful.”
“Just wanted to look pretty while she was havin’ her baby, is all,” said Leota airily. “Course, we was glad to give the lady what she was after—that’s our motto—but I
bet a hour later she wasn’t payin’ no mind to them little end curls. I bet she wasn’t thinkin’ about she ought to have on a net. It wouldn’t of done her no good if she
had.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Yeah man! She was a-yellin’. Just like when I give her perm’nent.”
“Her husband ought to make her behave. Don’t it seem that way to you?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “He ought to put his foot down.”
“Ha,” said Leota. “A lot he could do. Maybe some women is soft.”
“Oh, you mistake me, I don’t mean for her to get soft—far from it! Women have to stand up for themselves, or there’s just no telling. But now you take me—I ask Mr.
Fletcher’s advice now and then, and he appreciates it, especially on something important, like is it time for a permanent—not that I’ve told him about the baby. He
says, ‘Why, dear, go ahead!’ Just ask their advice.”
“Huh! If I ever ast Fred’s advice we’d be floatin’ down the Yazoo River on a houseboat or somethin’ by this time,” said Leota. “I’m sick of Fred. I told him to go over
to Vicksburg.”
“Is he going?” demanded Mrs. Fletcher.
“Sure. See, the fortune-teller—I went back and had my other palm read, since we’ve got to rent the room agin—said my lover was goin’ to work in Vicksburg, so I don’t
know who she could mean, unless she meant Fred. And Fred ain’t workin’ here—that much is so.”
“Is he going to work in Vicksburg?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “And—”
“Sure. Lady Evangeline said so. Said the future is going to be brighter than the present. He don’t want to go, but I ain’t gonna put up with nothin’ like that. Lays
around the house an’ bulls—did bull—with that good-for-nothin’ Mr. Pike. He says if he goes who’ll cook, but I says I never get to eat anyway—not meals. Billy Boy,
take Mrs. Grover that Screen Secretsand leg it.”
Mrs. Fletcher heard stamping feet go out the door.
“Is that that Mrs. Pike’s little boy here again?” she asked, sitting up gingerly.
“Yeah, that’s still him.” Leota stuck out her tongue.
Mrs. Fletcher could hardly believe her eyes. “Well! How’s Mrs. Pike, your attractive new friend with the sharp eyes who spreads it around town that perfect strangers
are pregnant?” she asked in a sweetened tone.
“Oh, Mizziz Pike.” Leota combed Mrs. Fletcher’s hair with heavy strokes.
“You act like you’re tired,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Tired? Feel like it’s four o’clock in the afternoon already,” said Leota. “I ain’t told you the awful luck we had, me and Fred? It’s the worst thing you ever heard
of. Maybe you think Mrs. Pike’s got sharp eyes. Shoot, there’s a limit! Well, you know, we rented out our room to this Mr. and Mrs. Pike from New Orleans when Sal an’
Joe Fentress got mad at us ’cause they drank up some home-brew we had in the closet—Sal an’ Joe did. So, a week ago Sat’-day Mr. and Mrs. Pike moved in. Well, I kinda
fixed up the room, you know—put a sofa pillow on the couch and picked some ragged robbins and put in a vase, but they never did say they appreciated it. Anyway, then I
put some old magazines on the table.”
“I think that was lovely,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“Wait. So, come night ’fore last, Fred and this Mr. Pike, who Fred just took up with, was back from they said they was fishin’, bein’ as neither one of ’em has got a
job to his name, and we was all settin’ around their room. So Mrs. Pike was settin’ there, readin’ a oldStartling G-Man Tales that was mine, mind you, I’d bought it
myself, and all of a sudden she jumps!—into the air—you’d ’a’ thought she’d set on a spider—an’ says, ‘Canfield’—ain’t that silly, that’s Mr. Pike—‘Canfield, my God
A’mighty,’ she says, ‘honey,’ she says, ‘we’re rich, and you won’t have to work.’ Not that he turned one hand anyway. Well, me and Fred rushes over to her, and Mr.
Pike, too, and there she sets, pointin’ her finger at a photo in my copy of Startling G-Man. ‘See that man?’ yells Mrs. Pike. ‘Remember him, Canfield?’ ‘Never forget a
face,’ says Mr. Pike. ‘It’s Mr. Petrie, that we stayed with him in the apartment next to ours in Toulouse Street in N.O. for six weeks. Mr. Petrie.’ ‘Well,’ says Mrs.
Pike, like she can’t hold out one secont longer, ‘Mr. Petrie is wanted for five hundred dollars cash, for rapin’ four women in California, and I know where he is.’ ”
“Mercy!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Where was he?”
At some time Leota had washed her hair and now she yanked her up by the back locks and sat her up.
“Know where he was?”
“I certainly don’t,” Mrs. Fletcher said. Her scalp hurt all over.
Leota flung a towel around the top of her customer’s head. “Nowhere else but in that freak show! I saw him just as plain as Mrs. Pike. He was the petrified man!”
“Who would ever have thought that!” cried Mrs. Fletcher sympathetically.
“So Mr. Pike says, ‘Well whatta you know about that’, an’ he looks real hard at the photo and whistles. And she starts dancin’ and singin’ about their good luck. She
meant our bad luck! I made a point of tellin’ that fortune-teller the next time I saw her. I said, ‘Listen, that magazine was layin’ around the house for a month, and
there was the freak show runnin’ night an’ day, not two steps away from my own beauty parlor, with Mr. Petrie just settin’ there waitin’. An’ it had to be Mr. and Mrs.
Pike, almost perfect strangers.’ ”
“What gall,” said Mrs. Fletcher. She was only sitting there, wrapped in a turban, but she did not mind.
“Fortune-tellers don’t care. And Mrs. Pike, she goes around actin’ like she thinks she was Mrs. God,” said Leota. “So they’re goin’ to leave tomorrow, Mr. and Mrs.
Pike. And in the meantime I got to keep that mean, bad little ole kid here, gettin’ under my feet ever’ minute of the day an’ talkin’ back too.”
“Have they gotten the five hundred dollars’ reward already?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
“Well,” said Leota, “at first Mr. Pike didn’t want to do anything about it. Can you feature that? Said he kinda liked that ole bird and said he was real nice to ’em,
lent ’em money or somethin’. But Mrs. Pike simply tole him he could just go to hell, and I can see her point. She says, ‘You ain’t worked a lick in six months, and
here I make five hundred dollars in two seconts, and what thanks do I get for it? You go to hell, Canfield,’ she says. So,” Leota went on in a despondent voice, “they
called up the cops and they caught the ole bird, all right, right there in the freak show where I saw him with my own eyes, thinkin’ he was petrified. He’s the one.
Did it under his real name—Mr. Petrie. Four women in California, all in the month of August. So Mrs. Pike gits five hundred dollars. And my magazine, and right next
door to my beauty parlor. I cried all night, but Fred said it wasn’t a bit of use and to go to sleep, because the whole thing was just a sort of coincidence—you know:
can’t do nothin’ about it. He says it put him clean out of the notion of goin’ to Vicksburg for a few days till we rent out the room agin—no tellin’ who we’ll git this
time.”
“But can you imagine anybody knowing this old man, that’s raped four women?” persisted Mrs. Fletcher, and she shuddered audibly. “Did Mrs. Pike speak to him when she
met him in the freak show?”
Leota had begun to comb Mrs. Fletcher’s hair. “I says to her, I says, ‘I didn’t notice you fallin’ on his neck when he was the petrified man—don’t tell me you didn’t
recognize your fine friend?’ And she says, ‘I didn’t recognize him with that white powder all over his face. He just looked familiar,’ Mrs. Pike says, ‘and lots of
people look familiar.’ But she says that ole petrified man did put her in mind of somebody. She wondered who it was! Kep’ her awake, which man she’d ever knew it
reminded her of. So when she seen the photo, it all come to her. Like a flash. Mr. Petrie. The way he’d turn his head and look at her when she took him in his
breakfast.”
“Took him in his breakfast!” shrieked Mrs. Fletcher. “Listen—don’t tell me. I’d ’a’ felt something.”
“Four women. I guess those women didn’t have the faintest notion at the time they’d be worth a hundred an’ twenty-five bucks apiece some day to Mrs. Pike. We ast her
how old the fella was then, an’s she says he musta had one foot in the grave, at least. Can you beat it?”
“Not really petrified at all, of course,” said Mrs. Fletcher meditatively. She drew herself up. “I’d ’a’ felt something,” she said proudly.
“Shoot! I did feel somethin’,” said Leota. “I tole Fred when I got home I felt so funny. I said, ‘Fred, that ole petrified man sure did leave me with a funny feelin’.’
He says, ‘Funny-haha or funny-peculiar?’ and I says, ‘Funny-peculiar.’ ” She pointed her comb into the air emphatically.
“I’ll bet you did,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
They both heard a crackling noise.
Leota screamed, “Billy Boy! What you doin’ in my purse?”
“Aw, I’m just eatin’ these ole stale peanuts up,” said Billy Boy.
“You come here to me!” screamed Leota, recklessly flinging down the comb, which scattered a whole ashtray full of bobby pins and knocked down a row of Coca-Cola
bottles. “This is the last straw!”
“I caught him! I caught him!” giggled Mrs. Fletcher. “I’ll hold him on my lap. You bad, bad boy, you! I guess I better learn how to spank little old bad boys,” she
said.
Leota’s eleven o’clock customer pushed open the swing-door upon Leota’s paddling him heartily with the brush, while he gave angry but belittling screams which
penetrated beyond the booth and filled the whole curious beauty parlor. From everywhere ladies began to gather round to watch the paddling. Billy Boy kicked both Leota
and Mrs. Fletcher as hard as he could, Mrs. Fletcher with her new fixed smile.
Billy Boy stomped through the group of wild-haired ladies and went out the door, but flung back the words, “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?”
1941
The Man Who Was Almost a Man
Dave struck out across the fields, looking homeward through paling light. Whut’s the use talkin wid em niggers in the field? Anyhow, his mother was putting supper on
the table. Them niggers can’t understan nothing. One of these days he was going to get a gun and practice shooting, then they couldn’t talk to him as though he were a
little boy. He slowed, looking at the ground. Shucks, Ah ain scareda them even ef they are biggern me! Aw, Ah know whut Ahma do. Ahm going by ol Joe’s sto n git that
Sears Roebuck catlog n look at them guns. Mebbe Ma will lemme buy one when she gits mah pay from ol man Hawkins. Ahma beg her t gimme some money. Ahm ol ernough to
hava gun. Ahm seventeen. Almost a man. He strode, feeling his long loose-jointed limbs. Shucks, a man oughta hava little gun aftah he done worked hard all day.
He came in sight of Joe’s store. A yellow lantern glowed on the front porch. He mounted steps and went through the screen door, hearing it bang behind him. There was a
strong smell of coal oil and mackerel fish. He felt very confident until he saw fat Joe walk in through the rear door, then his courage began to ooze.
“Howdy, Dave! Whutcha want?”
“How yuh, Mistah Joe? Aw, Ah don wanna buy nothing. Ah jus wanted t see ef yuhd lemme look at tha catlog erwhile.”
“Sure! You wanna see it here?”
“Nawsuh. Ah wans t take it home wid me. Ah’ll bring it back termorrow when Ah come in from the fiels.”
“You plannin on buying something?”
“Yessuh.”
“Your ma lettin you have your own money now?”
“Shucks. Mistah Joe, Ahm gittin t be a man like anybody else!”
Joe laughed and wiped his greasy white face with a red bandanna.
“Whut you plannin on buyin?”
Dave looked at the floor, scratched his head, scratched his thigh, and smiled. Then he looked up shyly.
“Ah’ll tell yuh, Mistah Joe, ef yuh promise yuh won’t tell.”
“I promise.”
“Waal, Ahma buy a gun.”
“A gun? What you want with a gun?”
“Ah wanna keep it.”
“You ain’t nothing but a boy. You don’t need a gun.”
“Aw, lemme have the catlog, Mistah Joe. Ah’ll bring it back.”
Joe walked through the rear door. Dave was elated. He looked around at barrels of sugar and flour. He heard Joe coming back. He craned his neck to see if he were
bringing the book. Yeah, he’s got it. Gawddog, he’s got it!
“Here, but be sure you bring it back. It’s the only one I got.”
“Sho, Mistah Joe.”
“Say, if you wanna buy a gun, why don’t you buy one from me? I gotta gun to sell.”
“Will it shoot?”
“Sure it’ll shoot.”
“Whut kind is it?”
“Oh, it’s kinda old . . . a left-hand Wheeler. A pistol. A big one.”
“Is it got bullets in it?”
“It’s loaded.”
“Kin Ah see it?”
“Where’s your money?”
“What yuh wan fer it?”
“I’ll let you have it for two dollars.”
“Just two dollahs? Shucks, Ah could buy tha when Ah git mah pay.”
“I’ll have it here when you want it.”
“Awright, suh. Ah be in fer it.”
He went through the door, hearing it slam again behind him. Ahma git some money from Ma n buy me a gun! Only two dollahs! He tucked the thick catalogue under his arm
and hurried.
“Where yuh been, boy?” His mother held a steaming dish of black-eyed peas.
“Aw, Ma, Ah just stopped down the road t talk wid the boys.”
“Yuh know bettah t keep suppah waitin.”
He sat down, resting the catalogue on the edge of the table.
“Yuh git up from there and git to the well n wash yosef! Ah ain feedin no hogs in mah house!”
She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him. He stumbled out of the room, then came back to get the catalogue.
“Whut this?”
“Aw, Ma, it’s jusa catlog.”
“Who yuh git it from?”
“From Joe, down at the sto.”
“Waal, thas good. We kin use it in the outhouse.”
“Naw, Ma.” He grabbed for it. “Gimme ma catlog, Ma.”
She held onto it and glared at him.
“Quit hollerin at me! Whut’s wrong wid yuh? Yuh crazy?”
“But Ma, please. It ain mine! It’s Joe’s! He tol me t bring it back t im termorrow.”
She gave up the book. He stumbled down the back steps, hugging the thick book under his arm. When he had splashed water on his face and hands, he groped back to the
kitchen and fumbled in a corner for the towel. He bumped into a chair; it clattered to the floor. The catalogue sprawled at his feet. When he had dried his eyes he
snatched up the book and held it again under his arm. His mother stood watching him.
“Now, ef yuh gonna act a fool over that ol book, Ah’ll take it n burn it up.”
“Naw, Ma, please.”
“Waal, set down n be still!”
He sat down and drew the oil lamp close. He thumbed page after page, unaware of the food his mother set on the table. His father came in. Then his small brother.
“Whutcha got there, Dave?” his father asked.
“Jusa catlog,” he answered, not looking up.
“Yeah, here they is!” His eyes glowed at blue-and-black revolvers. He glanced up, feeling sudden guilt. His father was watching him. He eased the book under the table
and rested it on his knees. After the blessing was asked, he ate. He scooped up peas and swallowed fat meat without chewing. Buttermilk helped to wash it down. He did
not want to mention money before his father. He would do much better by cornering his mother when she was alone. He looked at his father uneasily out of the edge of
his eye.
“Boy, how come yuh don quit foolin wid tha book n eat yo suppah?”
“Yessuh.”
“How you n ol man Hawkins gitten erlong?”
“Suh?”
“Can’t yuh hear? Why don yuh lissen? Ah ast yu how wuz yuh n ol man Hawkins gittin erlong?”
“Oh, swell, Pa. Ah plows mo lan than anybody over there.”
“Waal, yuh oughta keep yo mind on whut yuh doin.”
“Yessuh.”
He poured his plate full of molasses and sopped it up slowly with a chunk of cornbread. When his father and brother had left the kitchen, he still sat and looked again
at the guns in the catalogue, longing to muster courage enough to present his case to his mother. Lawd, ef Ah only had tha pretty one! He could almost feel the
slickness of the weapon with his fingers. If he had a gun like that he would polish it and keep it shining so it would never rust. N Ah’d keep it loaded, by Gawd!
“Ma?” His voice was hesitant.
“Hunh?”
“Ol man Hawkins give yuh mah money yit?”
“Yeah, but ain no usa yuh thinking bout throwin nona it erway. Ahm keepin tha money sos yuh kin have cloes t go to school this winter.”
He rose and went to her side with the open catalogue in his palms. She was washing dishes, her head bent low over a pan. Shyly he raised the book. When he spoke, his
voice was husky, faint.
“Ma, Gawd knows Ah wans one of these.”
“One of whut?” she asked, not raising her eyes.
“One of these,” he said again, not daring even to point. She glanced up at the page, then at him with wide eyes.
“Nigger, is yuh gone plumb crazy?”
“Aw, Ma.”
“Git outta here! Don yuh talk t me bout no gun! Yuh a fool!”
“Ma, Ah kin buy one fer two dollahs.”
“Not ef Ah knows it, yuh ain!”
“But yuh promised me one.”
“Ah don care whut Ah promised! Yuh ain nothing but a boy yit!”
“Ma, ef yuh lemme buy one Ah’ll never ast yuh fer nothing no mo.”
“Ah tol yuh t git outta here! Yuh ain gonna toucha penny of tha money fer no gun! Thas how come Ah has Mistah Hawkins t pay yo wages t me, cause Ah knows yuh ain got
no sense.”
“But, Ma, we needa gun. Pa ain got no gun. We needa gun in the house. Yuh kin never tell whut might happen.”
“Now don yuh try to maka fool outta me, boy! Ef we did hava gun, yuh wouldn’t have it!”
He laid the catalogue down and slipped his arm around her waist.
“Aw, Ma, Ah done worked hard alla summer n ain ast yuh fer nothin, is Ah, now?”
“Thas whut yuh spose t do!”
“But Ma, Ah wans a gun. Yuh kin lemme have two dollahs outta mah money. Please, Ma. I kin give it to Pa . . . Please, Ma! Ah loves yuh, Ma.”
When she spoke her voice came soft and low.
“What yuh wan wida gun, Dave? Yuh don need no gun. Yuh’ll git in trouble. N ef yo pa jus thought Ah let yuh have money t buy a gun he’d hava fit.”
“Ah’ll hide it, Ma. It ain but two dollahs.”
“Lawd, chil, whut’s wrong wid yuh?”
“Ain nothing wrong, Ma. Ahm almos a man now. Ah wans a gun.”
“Who gonna sell yuh a gun?”
“Ol Joe at the sto.”
“N it don cos but two dollahs?”
“Thas all, Ma. Just two dollahs. Please, Ma.”
She was stacking the plates away; her hands moved slowly, reflectively. Dave kept an anxious silence. Finally, she turned to him.
“Ah’ll let yuh git tha gun ef yuh promise me one thing.”
“Whut’s tha, Ma?”
“Yuh bring it straight back t me, yuh hear? It be fer Pa.”
“Yessum! Lemme go now, Ma.”
She stooped, turned slightly to one side, raised the hem of her dress, rolled down the top of her stocking, and came up with a slender wad of bills.
“Here,” she said. “Lawd knows yuh don need no gun. But yer pa does. Yuh bring it right back t me, yuh hear? Ahma put it up. Now ef yuh don, Ahma have yuh pa pick yuh
so hard yuh won fergit it.”
“Yessum.”
He took the money, ran down the steps, and across the yard.
“Dave! Yuuuuuh Daaaaave!”
He heard, but he was not going to stop now. “Naw, Lawd!”
The first movement he made the following morning was to reach under his pillow for the gun. In the gray light of dawn he held it loosely, feeling a sense of power.
Could kill a man with a gun like this. Kill anybody, black or white. And if he were holding his gun in his hand, nobody could run over him; they would have to respect
him. It was a big gun, with a long barrel and a heavy handle. He raised and lowered it in his hand, marveling at its weight.
He had not come straight home with it as his mother had asked; instead he had stayed out in the fields, holding the weapon in his hand, aiming it now and then at some
imaginary foe. But he had not fired it; he had been afraid that his father might hear. Also he was not sure he knew how to fire it.
To avoid surrendering the pistol he had not come into the house until he knew that they were all asleep. When his mother had tiptoed to his bedside late that night and
demanded the gun, he had first played possum; then he had told her that the gun was hidden outdoors, that he would bring it to her in the morning. Now he lay turning
it slowly in his hands. He broke it, took out the cartridges, felt them, and then put them back.
He slid out of bed, got a long strip of old flannel from a trunk, wrapped the gun in it, and tied it to his naked thigh while it was still loaded. He did not go in to
breakfast. Even though it was not yet daylight, he started for Jim Hawkins’ plantation. Just as the sun was rising he reached the barns where the mules and plows were
kept.
“Hey! That you, Dave?”
He turned. Jim Hawkins stood eying him suspiciously.
“What’re yuh doing here so early?”
“Ah didn’t know Ah wuz gittin up so early, Mistah Hawkins. Ah wuz fixin t hitch up ol Jenny n take her t the fiels.”
“Good. Since you’re so early, how about plowing that stretch down by the woods?”
“Suits me, Mistah Hawkins.”
“O.K. Go to it!”
He hitched Jenny to a plow and started across the fields. Hot dog! This was just what he wanted. If he could get down by the woods, he could shoot his gun and nobody
would hear. He walked behind the plow, hearing the traces creaking, feeling the gun tied tight to his thigh.
When he reached the woods, he plowed two whole rows before he decided to take out the gun. Finally, he stopped, looked in all directions, then untied the gun and held
it in his hand. He turned to the mule and smiled.
“Know whut this is, Jenny? Naw, yuh wouldn know! Yuhs jusa ol mule! Anyhow, this is a gun, n it kin shoot, by Gawd!”
He held the gun at arm’s length. Whut t hell, Ahma shoot this thing! He looked at Jenny again.
“Lissen here, Jenny! When Ah pull this ol trigger, Ah don wan yuh t run n acka fool now!”
Jenny stood with head down, her short ears pricked straight. Dave walked off about twenty feet, held the gun far out from him at arm’s length, and turned his head.
Hell, he told himself, Ah ain afraid. The gun felt loose in his fingers; he waved it wildly for a moment. Then he shut his eyes and tightened his forefinger. Bloom! A
report half deafened him and he thought his right hand was torn from his arm. He heard Jenny whinnying and galloping over the field, and he found himself on his knees,
squeezing his fingers hard between his legs. His hand was numb; he jammed it into his mouth, trying to warm it, trying to stop the pain. The gun lay at his feet. He
did not quite know what had happened. He stood up and stared at the gun as though it were a living thing. He gritted his teeth and kicked the gun. Yuh almos broke mah
arm! He turned to look for Jenny; she was far over the fields, tossing her head and kicking wildly.
“Hol on there, ol mule!”
When he caught up with her she stood trembling, walling her big white eyes at him. The plow was far away; the traces had broken. Then Dave stopped short, looking, not
believing. Jenny was bleeding. Her left side was red and wet with blood. He went closer. Lawd, have mercy! Wondah did Ah shoot this mule? He grabbed for Jenny’s mane.
She flinched, snorted, whirled, tossing her head.
“Hol on now! Hol on.”
Then he saw the hole in Jenny’s side, right between the ribs. It was round, wet, red. A crimson stream streaked down the front leg, flowing fast. Good Gawd! Ah wuzn’t
shootin at tha mule. He felt panic. He knew he had to stop that blood, or Jenny would bleed to death. He had never seen so much blood in all his life. He chased the
mule for a half a mile, trying to catch her. Finally she stopped, breathing hard, stumpy tail half arched. He caught her mane and led her back to where the plow and
gun lay. Then he stooped and grabbed handfuls of damp black earth and tried to plug the bullet hole. Jenny shuddered, whinnied, and broke from him.
“Hol on! Hol on now!”
He tried to plug it again, but blood came anyhow. His fingers were hot and sticky. He rubbed dirt into his palms, trying to dry them. Then again he attempted to plug
the bullet hole, but Jenny shied away, kicking her heels high. He stood helpless. He had to do something. He ran at Jenny; she dodged him. He watched a red stream of
blood flow down Jenny’s leg and form a bright pool at her feet.
“Jenny . . . Jenny,” he called weakly.
His lips trembled. She’s bleeding t death! He looked in the direction of home, wanting to go back, wanting to get help. But he saw the pistol lying in the damp black
clay. He had a queer feeling that if he only did something, this would not be; Jenny would not be there bleeding to death.
When he went to her this time, she did not move. She stood with sleepy, dreamy eyes; and when he touched her she gave a low-pitched whinny and knelt to the ground, her
front knees slopping in blood.
“Jenny . . . Jenny . . .” he whispered.
For a long time she held her neck erect; then her head sank, slowly. Her ribs swelled with a mighty heave and she went over.
Dave’s stomach felt empty, very empty. He picked up the gun and held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. He buried it at the foot of a tree. He took a stick
and tried to cover the pool of blood with dirt—but what was the use? There was Jenny lying with her mouth open and her eyes walled and glassy. He could not tell Jim
Hawkins he had shot his mule. But he had to tell something. Yeah, Ah’ll tell em Jenny started gittin wil n fell on the joint of the plow. . . . But that would hardly
happen to a mule. He walked across the field slowly, head down.
It was sunset. Two of Jim Hawkins’ men were over near the edge of the woods digging a hole in which to bury Jenny. Dave was surrounded by a knot of people, all of whom
were looking down at the dead mule.
“I don’t see how in the world it happened,” said Jim Hawkins for the tenth time.
The crowd parted and Dave’s mother, father, and small brother pushed into the center.
“Where Dave?” his mother called.
“There he is,” said Jim Hawkins.
His mother grabbed him.
“Whut happened, Dave? Whut yuh done?”
“Nothin.”
“C mon, boy, talk,” his father said.
Dave took a deep breath and told the story he knew nobody believed.
“Waal,” he drawled. “Ah brung ol Jenny down here sos Ah could do mah plowin. Ah plowed bout two rows, just like yuh see.” He stopped and pointed at the long rows of
upturned earth. “Then somethin musta been wrong wid ol Jenny. She wouldn ack right a-tall. She started snortin n kickin her heels. Ah tried t hol her, but she pulled
erway, rearin n goin in. Then when the point of the plow was stickin up in the air, she swung erroun n twisted herself back on it . . . She stuck herself n started t
bleed. N fo Ah could do anything, she wuz dead.”
“Did you ever hear of anything like that in all your life?” asked Jim Hawkins.
There were white and black standing in the crowd. They murmured. Dave’s mother came close to him and looked hard into his face. “Tell the truth, Dave,” she said.
“Looks like a bullet hole to me,” said one man.
“Dave, whut yuh do wid the gun?” his mother asked.
The crowd surged in, looking at him. He jammed his hands into his pockets, shook his head slowly from left to right, and backed away. His eyes were wide and painful.
“Did he hava gun?” asked Jim Hawkins.
“By Gawd, Ah tol yuh tha wu a gun wound,” said a man, slapping his thigh.
His father caught his shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled.
“Tell whut happened, yuh rascal! Tell whut . . .”
Dave looked at Jenny’s stiff legs and began to cry.
“Whut yuh do wid tha gun?” his mother asked.
“Whut wuz he doin wida gun?” his father asked.
“Come on and tell the truth,” said Hawkins. “Ain’t nobody going to hurt you . . .”
His mother crowded close to him.
“Did yuh shoot tha mule, Dave?”
Dave cried, seeing blurred white and black faces.
“Ahh ddinn gggo tt sshooot hher . . . Ah ssswear ffo Gawd Ahh ddin. . . . Ah wuz a-tryin t sssee ef the old gggun would sshoot.”
“Where yuh git the gun from?” his father asked.
“Ah got it from Joe, at the sto.”
“Where yuh git the money?”
“Ma give it t me.”
“He kept worryin me, Bob. Ah had t. Ah tol im t bring the gun right back to me . . . It was fer yuh, the gun.”
“But how yuh happen to shoot that mule?” asked Jim Hawkins.
“Ah wuzn shootin at the mule, Mistah Hawkins. The gun jumped when Ah pulled the trigger . . . N fo Ah knowed anythin Jenny was there a-bleedin.”
Somebody in the crowd laughed. Jim Hawkins walked close to Dave and looked into his face.
“Well, looks like you have bought you a mule, Dave.”
“Ah swear fo Gawd, Ah didn go t kill the mule, Mistah Hawkins!”
“But you killed her!”
All the crowd was laughing now. They stood on tiptoe and poked heads over one another’s shoulders.
“Well, boy, looks like yuh done bought a dead mule! Hahaha!”
“Ain tha ershame.”
“Hohohohoho.”
Dave stood, head down, twisting his feet in the dirt.
“Well, you needn’t worry about it, Bob,” said Jim Hawkins to Dave’s father. “Just let the boy keep on working and pay me two dollars a month.”
“Whut yuh wan fer yo mule, Mistah Hawkins?”
Jim Hawkins screwed up his eyes.
“Fifty dollars.”
“Whut yuh do wid tha gun?” Dave’s father demanded.
Dave said nothing.
“Yuh wan me t take a tree n beat yuh till yuh talk!”
“Nawsuh!”
“Whut yuh do wid it?”
“Ah throwed it erway.”
“Where?”
“Ah . . . Ah throwed it in the creek.”
“Waal, c mon home. N firs thing in the mawnin git to tha creek n fin tha gun.”
“Yessuh.”
“Whut yuh pay fer it?”
“Two dollahs.”
“Take tha gun n git yo money back n carry it t Mistah Hawkins, yuh near? N don fergit Ahma lam you black bottom good fer this! Now march yosef on home, suh!”
Dave turned and walked slowly. He heard people laughing. Dave glared, his eyes welling with tears. Hot anger bubbled in him. Then he swallowed and stumbled on.
That night Dave did not sleep. He was glad that he had gotten out of killing the mule so easily, but he was hurt. Something hot seemed to turn over inside him each
time he remembered how they had laughed. He tossed on his bed, feeling his hard pillow. N Pa says he’s gonna beat me . . . He remembered other beatings, and his back
quivered. Naw, naw, Ah sho don wan im t beat me tha way no mo. Dam em all! Nobody ever gave him anything. All he did was work. They treat me like a mule, n then they
beat me. He gritted his teeth. N Ma had t tell on me.
Well, if he had to, he would take old man Hawkins that two dollars. But that meant selling the gun. And he wanted to keep that gun. Fifty dollars for a dead mule.
He turned over, thinking how he had fired the gun. He had an itch to fire it again. Ef other men kin shoota gun, by Gawd, Ah kin! He was still, listening. Mebbe they
all sleepin now. The house was still. He heard the soft breathing of his brother. Yes, now! He would go down and get that gun and see if he could fire it! He eased out
of bed and slipped into overalls.
The moon was bright. He ran almost all the way to the edge of the woods. He stumbled over the ground, looking for the spot where he had buried the gun. Yeah, here it
is. Like a hungry dog scratching for a bone, he pawed it up. He puffed his black cheeks and blew dirt from the trigger and barrel. He broke it and found four
cartridges unshot. He looked around; the fields were filled with silence and moonlight. He clutched the gun stiff and hard in his fingers. But, as soon as he wanted to
pull the trigger, he shut his eyes and turned his head. Naw, An can’t shoot wid mah eyes closed n mah head turned. With effort he held his eyes open; then he squeezed.
Bloooom! He was stiff, not breathing. The gun was still in his hands. Dammit, he’d done it! He fired again. Blooooom! He smiled. Blooooom! Blooooom! Click, click.
There! It was empty. If anybody could shoot a gun, he could. He put the gun into his hip pocket and started across the fields.
When he reached the top of a ridge he stood straight and proud in the moonlight, looking at Jim Hawkins’ big white house, feeling the gun sagging in his pocket. Lawd,
ef Ah had just one mo bullet Ah’d taka shot at tha house. Ah’d like t scare ol man Hawkins jusa little . . . Jusa enough t let im know Dave Saunders is a man.
To his left the road curved, running to the tracks of the Illinois Central. He jerked his head, listening. From far off came a faint hooof-hoooof; hoooof-hoooof;
hoooof-hoooof. . . . He stood rigid. Two dollahs a mont. Les see now . . . Tha means it’ll take bout two years. Shucks! Ah’ll be dam!
He started down the road, toward the tracks. Yeah, here she comes! He stood beside the track and held himself stiffly. Here she comes, erroun the ben . . . C mon, yuh
slow poke! C mon! He had his hand on his gun; something quivered in his stomach. Then the train thundered past, the gray and brown box cars rumbling and clinking. He
gripped the gun tightly; then he jerked his hand out of his pocket. Ah betcha Bill wouldn’t do it! Ah betcha. . . . The cars slid past, steel grinding upon steel. Ahm
ridin yuh ternight, so hep me Gawd! He was hot all over. He hesitated just a moment; then he grabbed, pulled atop of a car, and lay flat. He felt his pocket; the gun
was still there. Ahead the long rails were glinting in the moonlight, stretching away, away to somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man . . .
1939, 1961
