Catfish

KILLDEE came home from the Cross-roads store one Saturday afternoon and his black face was bright with enthusiasm.

“Rose,” he said, taking a chair and putting it up close to the hearth where an iron pot simmered industriously with catfish stew, “I got a good plan. A good one. Lemme tell you ’bout em.”

Rose looked up from her sewing.

“Wha’ e is?” she asked with interest.

“I dunno wha’ you gwine t’ink ’bout em. We can’ hab much catfish fo’ eat ef I do em.”

Killdee breathed in the appetizing smell thoughtfully.

“Wha’ you duh talk ’bout, Killdee?” Rose asked, puzzled indeed.

He laughed and said teasingly:

“Guess wha’ e is.”

“Oh, go on an’ tell me,” she urged him.

“Well, dis is it. A man sellin’ futilizer wuz at de sto’ dis ebenin’. I heah him talkin’ ’bout de crops an’ t’ing. ’E say fish-scrap is de bes’ futilizer een de bunch. It’ll mek cawn an’ cotton grow off faster dan anyt’ing. De futilizer man say de factory meks de pure, naked fish into fish-scrap.”

Rose forgot all about the fish-stew in the pot there on the coals while Killdee described to her what he had heard. How big boats go on the ocean with wide, long nets, which they spread around schools of fish. How the fish are caught and carried to a place where they are ground up and sacked and sold to farmers for high prices.

“Lawd, Rose, ef I could mek my own futilizer! Ef I didn’t hab to buy none! We’d hab mo’ money dan we’d know wha’ fo’ do wid.”

Rose listened thoughtfully. It sounded wonderful indeed.

“But you ain’ got nuttin’ fo’ grind up de fish wid, Killdee.”

“No. Da’s so. But de fish don’ haffer be grind up. I could easy put dem een de groun’ an’ dey’d rot befo’ you know it. I gwine try em.”

Before many days passed, Killdee had fish traps made of split hickory strips set all along the bank of the tawny river. He used corn meal cooked into thick lumps for bait.

Every morning by daylight he was there at his traps getting out the fat catfish.

“How-come you goes to de ribber so reglar, son?” Maum Hannah asked him one morning, as he passed her cabin.

“I’m a-tryin’ fo’ git catfish,” he answered.

Maum Hannah thought he had a guilty look. She wondered what Killdee was doing back there on the river every day. Maybe he had a still.

“Better mine,” she warned, “you gwine ketch de fever. Too much o’ ribber swamp ain’ good. You better not be mekkin’ whiskey back dere. Mine! I heah you been gittin’ a lot o’ cawn mek eento meal, too. Mine!”

Killdee kept on patiently, persistently, until every stalk of corn in his field had a catfish right at its root. When those fish rotted, what a crop of corn he would have! His crop would be ahead of all the other crops, and he’d have no fertilizer bill to pay.

His fingers were often sore with poison from the catfish fins, and it did take a lot of meal for the bait, but Killdee felt he’d more than make it all back.

In the Fall he’d have more corn than he needed. He’d sell some. The barn would be full. The mule fat. The hogs would make bacon enough to last all year. Killdee was happy over the good work he was doing.

When every stalk was fed with a fish at its roots, he decided to go over and tell Maum Hannah all about it. He’d give her a load of the corn when it was made. She was so good to his folks. Now would be his chance to do something for her.

That night when supper was over, he took the path across the field and went to her cabin. His heart and step were light.

“How you dis ebenin’, Auntie?” he greeted her, as he walked right in through the open door.

“Come een, son. You had supper yet? I’m des’ now sta’tin’ fo’ eat.”

Maum Hannah was always glad to see him. She pointed to a chair.

“Yes’m, I done eat. You go on. Don’ stop. I des’ come fo’ talk wid you a lil, an’ fo’ see how you do.” His face was beaming. Maum Hannah’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she rallied: “I’d do better to-night ef I had catfish stew fo’ eat wid my bread. How-come you don’ bring me catfish no mo’?”

Killdee grinned.

“Da’s de bery t’ing I come fo’ talk wid you ’bout,” he said.

“I don’ see no fish een you han’, dough,” she answered.

“No’m, but I come fo’ tell you wha’ I duh do wid all dem catfish I catch. I feeds my cawn fiel’ on dem fish, ’stead o’ you an’ Rose an’ de chillen.” Killdee laughed heartily at his joke.

“Yes’m. Da same cawn fiel’ out yonder is got a catfish to eby stalk. You wait tell it rain. Da’s gwine be de fines’ piece o’ cawn een dis country. Da’s de reason I been gwine to de ribber so reg’lar. I been baitin’ fish wid all da meal.”

Maum Hannah grunted.

“Whe’ you heah o’ sich a t’ing, son?”

Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.

“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.

“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger—somehow, a nigger don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I hope e is.”

Killdee was confident.

“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.

“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”

“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.

When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between short puffs she said:

“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid you wuz doin’ dat.”

“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’ Christmus.”

Maum Hannah said gayly:

“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep em een. It spiles too quick.”

“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,” Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”

He got up to go. It was getting late.

“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and went to bed.

Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of the river swamp?

There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?

She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.

She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn, swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were digging up the fish.—Fighting over them.—And the smell of those catfish! Poor Killdee!

There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the path to her cabin.

She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think. She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not stop until every fish was eaten.

Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.

Men take trouble harder.—Harder.

The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.

She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.

“Auntie——” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.—Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’ is ruin’!—Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem catfish.”

His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.

“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now—now—dem Gawd-damn dawgs——”

Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.

She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy shoulder.

“Son—son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.

“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby. But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty—fo’ eat.—Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”

It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there, bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when she added:

“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een Him. Haffer!”

Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He laughed boisterously.

“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”

He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.