“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her. “Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my own color.”
“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.
“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’ ’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des look at you hard, an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”
Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets” (illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.
But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention. Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.
Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her comfort.
“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.
Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.
“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no nigger, like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a w’ite man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”