Corn sprouted slowly in the thin soil; it grew up dispiritedly and came to maturity stunted as to blade, stalk, and ear. Sweet potatoes yielded generously in new ground; each year a fresh plot was cleared, broken, and planted to these. A patch of sugar cane was always grown for molasses; a portion of this, it was generally conceded, was finally made into “shinny,” since Shug was known to be an adept at its manufacture. Certain it is that he made frequent extended trips away from home with his wagon and yoke of oxen, never troubling to explain the reason for his absence.
It was amid these surroundings, sufficient in themselves, one would have said, to hinder physical, mental, and moral growth, that the girl Selina Jo was born. The occasion was in no sense of the word an event with Shug and Marthy. Since all married people of their acquaintance had children, the baby simply represented, to them, the inevitable. With the birth of the child, though, Marthy became barren.
For the first eighteen months of her existence the baby crawled about the cabin unnamed. Then it occurred to Marthy that their offspring ought to be christened.
“Shug,” she suggested casually, “seems to me we ort to be namin’ that air young ’un.”
Shug, lolling in the shade of a water oak, shifted his quid and spat disinterestedly. “I ain’t objectin’ none,” he replied.
“How ’bout callin’ her ‘S’liny Jo’?” Marthy asked.
“Fittin’ enough name fer her, I reckin,” Shug yawned.
As the child grew up she came to accept her parents as they had long since accepted her—merely as a bald fact. There was never the slightest evidence of parental affection upon the one side or of filial attachment upon the other.
Once Marthy came upon Shug whipping the girl with a switch.
“What you whippin’ her fer?” she asked. Her tone was one of simple curiosity, nothing else.