“Death’s goin’-a lay his cold, icy han’ on me....”
He heard their full rich voices repeat the somber message over and over. The slow, majestic movement of the chant rising and surging over them like a flood of melody, lifting their emotional souls to heights of poignant ecstasy.
But what made them keep on telling Tempe about what Death was going to do? Gussie asked himself; deliberating whether he would go in or wait until the song was finished.
Tempe didn’t need to know anything more about Death.... Tempe was sitting up in the house of death now. And she could tell a heap more about what was going on yonder than anybody sitting up in the church, singing about it.... But maybe they were trying to tell their own self something about Death.... The way Death was going to come up on them when their time came for crossing over....
“Hell! I don’ feel like goin’ up in yonder an’ lissen at dat kind o’ thing,” he suddenly concluded. “I’m goin’ set hyuh on de step till dey raise some yuther ballet mo’ sattafyin’ to de feelin’s,” he went on, looking about for a dry spot to sit down. “Dey oughta try an’ sing somh’n mo’ pleasin’ over Tempe. ’Stead o’ keep tellin’ ’uh w’at Death goin’ do; after Gawd done seen fit to snatch ’uh away from hyuh so haphazzud.”
After a while the melodious flowing wave began to recede; growing fainter and fainter, until the subdued lament faded away into a low murmuring hum. It was soothing and pleasant, Gussie thought; and he sat listening indolently.
Very soon he heard the velvety sound of a woman’s vibrant contralto voice intone a line of another ballet. One by one the members took up the somber burden, proclaiming the simple words with full-voiced exultation.
Getting up to go in, Gussie stopped suddenly, as the last lines came to him....
“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass,