Theodosia stood about in the cool of Aunt Deesie’s yard, fascinated by the work that went forward and by the sweet smell of the lye, by the smell of Aunt Deesie’s warm body leaning over the tubs. The baby waked and squirmed on the quilt, working its arms and legs about, and Aunt Deesie stopped her washing to pin a fresh rag about its hips, trying to hide what she did because the rag was old and without a hem. Theodosia saw her slip the soiled rag under the wash-bench and she was fascinated by her shame. The baby was dark brown, a boy child, and the two that ran about under Aunt Deesie’s feet were girls, their heads a tight nap of thin wool. Aunt Deesie would push them gently aside and move from tub to tub, her voice gentle as she worked.
“Why don’t you-all chil’n talk to the white gals. White gals come to see you-all.”
The little negroes would stare with strange dark faces, their mouths going up and down as they chewed at their fingers. Theodosia would watch every move they made, curious, following them, or she would go back to the quilt to watch the baby. She would watch their small dresses, their brown legs, their moving gestures, and she would ask them questions to pretend to an interest in their replies, but her pleasure was in her own sense of superiority and loathing, in a delicate nausea experienced when she knelt near the baby’s quilt.
“Katie, why don’t you pick up the baby’s gum rattler offen the ground and give it to him into his hand,” Aunt Deesie said. “Pick up the baby’s rattler, Katie.”
The child gave the rattle to the baby, and in the act Theodosia knew a sweet loathing of the small dark infant and knew that she herself could not be brought to touch it or to touch Katie. She knew the half-pleasant disgust felt for the young of another kind, a remote species. Their acts sent little stabs of joy over her, sickly stabs of pleasant contempt and pride.
The week at the farm was always full of enhanced being. She would see her grandfather under the wooden pillars of the portico and see him in his joyous encounters with his old friend. Away from home he flowered into some newer intensity, and his rusty clothes were elegant against the rough running landscape. The office of host became Tom Singleton well, and Anthony as guest responded. Doe Singleton’s hostility to her brother did not penetrate his joy or reduce it or shape it in any part. She scarcely existed for it at all, for she seemed unrelated to everything present. The dinner waited until she came, Lucas going and coming, bringing something more, seeming to spread the time of preparation about until she appeared. When she arrived she came hurrying through the door and sat at the head of the board. She seemed to be sitting too far from the table and neglecting her own ease. She handled the cups without routine or precision, but she poured each cup herself and gave it to Lucas, who conveyed it to its place. She would ask Anthony how many spoons of sugar he took, seeming to forget each time that the amount had been established.
“You’re welcome to all the sugar you want. Pass Mr. Anthony the sugar bowl,” she would say to Lucas. “And get Mr. Tom the sharp knife. That’s not the right knife. They say sugar is bad. For grown people, it’s said.” She would not let her hostility extend to any controversy over the food. Sitting after the serving was done, she seemed unrelated to her knife and fork, to her cup, even when her hand lifted it to her mouth to drink.
“When I go next time I think I’ll take nothing along but Blix and Tim and Roscoe,” Tom Singleton said. “I never cared for a big set-to of dogs when I hunt. Give me three or four good dogs. What’s the use?”
“Blix is the smartest dog in the whole lot,” Anthony said. “That dog Blix has got first-rate brains inside his skull. One time....”
“Brains! He’s the stupidest one in the whole pack, the way I look at it,” Miss Doe said. “Blix hasn’t got one grain of sense. Since he was a pup he’s been the stupidest one in that litter.”