Teaching Jim

KILLDEE walked home beside the load of wood. In a kind voice he urged Mike on. The sun was going down.

Far across the cotton field it shone red. As Killdee lifted serious eyes to look at it, his lean, gaunt, black face saddened.

The sun that set in Baby Rose’s grave was red, just like this sunset. Red like the fire that burned her tender baby flesh and killed her. He never saw a red sunset without thinking of little Baby Rose.

Now as he thought, his tired eyes filled with tears, and through the tears, the red coppery glow glistened, and flashed and gleamed mockingly before him.

Killdee heaved a deep sigh—a sigh so deep as to be almost a sob. He thought of Baby Jim there at home. Chubby little Baby Jim. Bright-eyed, brown, dimpled, with fuzzy little black wool just beginning to grow on his head.

Little Jim knew his daddy—knew him as well as Rose and Missie did. Jim loved him, too. He always came toddling with funny, uncertain steps to meet him.

Jim had already learned not to fall out of the door any more. He had learned that by falling over and over. He knew how it hurt. When he stood in the doorway, ready to go down the steps now, Rose and Missie laughed at the way Jim’s tiny fingers clutched the door-facing.

Jim laughed with them too. Perhaps he didn’t know why they laughed, but he always tried to join in whatever other people did. Good little Jim!

The thought of Jim cheered Killdee. Jim was his. His son. For Jim he was willing for hard work to crack his very sinews. For Jim’s sake he tried to be careful. Never again would he stir the earth on Green Thursday. Never.

Jim was a part of himself. Jim’s little hands, his funny little words, his stumbling, uncertain little feet, were the most precious things on earth.

Jim thought his old daddy was the greatest thing. The greatest man. Jim thought he was great as God! Jim didn’t know any better.

He liked to play in the fire just as Baby Rose had liked to do. He must be taught not to do it. He must learn that fire burns.

Baby Rose lay yonder in the graveyard in the little pine box Andrew made to fit her, with the heavy red earth piled up on her, all by her little lonesome self, because the thing she loved best to play with had killed her.

He ought to have taken her and shown her how it felt to be burned. She would not forget pain. No. But he didn’t think about it. He thought she would learn by herself.

Why did God make people like the things that would hurt them? Kill them? Why didn’t He let them know danger?

Winter was here. Fire had to burn big and bright in the chimney to keep the cabin warm. All day it must burn and at night be banked deep with ashes so it wouldn’t die out.

Cold weather was here. Even on fair days, Jim would have to stay inside the cabin to keep warm. Rose would be in the field. Missie, too. Rows of brown stalks still held fluffy, white cotton.

Rose and Missie would have to help pick the cotton. Killdee couldn’t gather it by himself. Sometimes nobody would be left at home with Jim.

If Jim were a little older he would be safe, for he’d know that fire burns. But Jim, happy little Jim, did not know it yet. Already he tried to take straws and sticks and hold them in the fire to see them blaze. When Rose or Missie scolded him and made him drop his pretty plaything, Jim didn’t understand why. He’d watch it when they made him drop it on the hearth, and his little lips would quiver because he couldn’t keep it in his hand.

Killdee sighed as he trudged on homeward. The time had come. He must teach little Jim that fire burns! Telling him so did no good. He’d have to show him. To-night he’d have to show him. He and Rose and Missie had talked it over. They had decided. It must be done. Jim must learn that fire burns.

When Killdee got nearer the dusky little cabin by the side of the road, two little black children stood on the doorstep waving at him. Black smoke rushed briskly out of the broad clay chimney. Bright sparks rose with it, shone and died.

A strange thing, fire! Burning inside there, hot, strong, fierce, while Rose cooked the supper. That fire was a good, kind friend that cooked food for them and kept them warm. Yet, it could scorch and kill a baby’s body, too.—Just as it ate up strong wood and turned it to ashes.

When those bright sparks rose and went out, where did they go? Killdee watched them. They sparked, raced, and were gone. Where?

Where did Baby Rose go?

Missie and Jim were coming running to meet him. Killdee stopped Mike and waited. Jim must have a ride. Missie was picking Jim up in her arms to bring him. He walked too slow to keep up with her.

Killdee took Jim from her and set him on the pile of wood in the wagon and put the rope lines into the chubby hands. Missie shouted and laughed when Jim shook the lines and tried to make patient, old Mike go faster.

When Mike stopped with his head at the wide gate of the barnyard, Killdee took Jim down and gave him back into Missie’s arms. He struggled and kicked and screamed to stay with his daddy, but Killdee smiled, and said gently:

“Tek him on een de house, Missie. Night air ain’ good fo’ lil chillen. Jim don’ know no better. Tek him on.”

As Killdee loosened the collar from Mike’s neck, he said to himself:

“Dey’s a lot he don’ know, po’ lil Jim! But I reckon none o’ we don’ know much, atter all.”

When Killdee went into the house, Rose was cooking supper on the open fire.

The chimney’s wide, black, sooty mouth, which stretched across one side of the room, was filled with logs of wood. A great fire licked at them with smacking, hungry tongues. Yellow flames crackled and roared up the chimney, devouring the logs, while red and blue flames played over the coals.

Pot hooks fastened firmly in the stone and clay held black iron pots in the blaze. The sandy hearth held three-legged pots. Pots with handles. Iron kettles. Iron spiders. All had tight-fitting covers. They sat black and comfortable. Missie had just scoured them clean and they were waiting there, ready to be used.

Ashes piled in one corner on the fireplace lay very still, until a puff of steam from underneath raised them like dust, and a fragrant smell went out into the room. Sweet potatoes were roasting there.

In another corner, corn shucks showed through a mound of ashes. Spurts of steam sizzing out made the mound heave like a small volcano. Ash cake was cooking there.

A frying-pan sat on live coals pulled out on the hearth. Slices of fat bacon sputtered and spit and curled around the edges as Rose dropped them on it. Good smells filled the room and streamed out of the open door to where the two little black children sat in the half-light.

They sniffed and laughed and got up and came running inside. Both hurried to the cupboard for a pan. Then to the shelf for a spoon. Little Jim did whatever Missie did. The frying bacon was the supper bell. They knew supper was ready when they smelled it. Killdee, coming in, saw them and smiled wistfully.

When their pans were helped, Missie and Jim sat on the floor to eat. When all the pans were empty, Missie washed them and put them away. Jim crawled up into Killdee’s lap.

“Sonny,” said Killdee, “is you lub you ol’ daddy?”

Jim answered with a bear-like hug.

“Sonny—” Killdee’s voice sounded queer and broken, “wha’ mek you play een de fire?”

Killdee took the baby’s fat fingers and looked at them.

Rose sat by the firelight with her patching.

“Killdee——” She leaned forward. Fear warped her face. “Killdee, wha’ you gwine do?”

“Honey——” Killdee met her eyes, then turned his own to the fire. Jim sat up and looked at each of them. Reaching up, he patted Killdee’s rough cheek.

“Ol’ Pa,” he said, laughing mischievously, “Ol’ Pa.”

Killdee looked at Rose. Her face was queer and drawn.

“I can’ ha’dly stan’ fo’ do em, Rose, but looka da fire. S’pose—s’pose——”

The strong oak logs were already crumbling to ashes, turning from fiery red to gray.

“Jim will play een de fire. Nobody can’ stop em. ’E’s a lil, ign’ant, trus’ful baby. ’E is. I better show em how fire kin bu’n. I better. Don’ look at me sorrowful, Rose. It hu’t me clean to my heart.”

Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Killdee kept trying to comfort her.

“People mus’ try fo show dey chillen how t’ings kin pain ’em. An’ kill ’em. Mebbe ef we had a show lil Rose ’bout fire—I dunno. Some t’ings is to be, I reckon. Maum Hannah say Baby Rose’s time was out.

“Tellin’ people don’ do no good. You haffer show em. Suffer em.”

The bright flames rippled innocently. They gave out a warm, kind light.

“You might be right, Killdee,” Rose tried to agree, but her breath caught with a sob.

Killdee turned up Jim’s small brown palm and looked at it. How could he burn it? How? Yet he must.

His strong fingers tightened sternly. He leaned forward and yook up a hot, live coal off the hearth, and laid it on Jim’s tender fingers.

The baby’s scream, the woman’s cry, the man’s groan, sounded all together. Missie came running to see what was wrong. Big tears rolled down her thin cheeks. She looked at Killdee with big, solemn eyes, then turned away without a word and went slowly back to bed in the shed room.

She understood. Little Jim had to be taught his lesson. Killdee had to do it. It was the only way.

Jim sobbed himself to sleep in Killdee’s lap. Sorrow had come to him without warning from the very one he loved best. His hand was burned and his baby heart was cut to the quick.

Killdee gave him to Rose and walked out into the night. He looked up at the stars. They shone up there like sparks that never did go out. He wondered if Baby Rose was up there—up there with them, and God.