VI
“You fool, you idiot, marrying a blind man, a man with nothing, practically dead.”
“He is not! He is not!”
“What do you call him then? Aunt Callie Nelson was here the other day saying that the white folks had killed him.”
“You know nigger talk doesn’t mean anything. They probably wouldn’t let her worry him, so she says he—”
“Nonsense. Aunt Callie has raised more children than I can count. If she says he is sick, he is sick.”
“I don’t care. I am going to marry him.”
Mrs. Saunders sighed creakingly. Cecily stood before her, flushed and obstinate. “Listen, honey. If you marry him you are throwing yourself away, all your chances, all your youth and prettiness, all the men that like you: men who are good matches.”
“I don’t care,” she repeated, stubbornly.
“Think. There are so many you can have for the taking, so much you can have: a big wedding in Atlanta with all your friends for bridesmaids, clothes, a wedding trip. … And then to throw yourself away. After your father and I have done so much for you.”
“I don’t care. I am going to marry him.”
“But, why? Do you love him?”
“Yes, yes!”
“That scar, too?”
Cecily’s face blanched as she stared at her mother. Her eyes became dark and she raised her hand delicately. Mrs. Saunders took her hand and drew her resisting on to her lap. Cecily protested tautly but her mother held her, drawing her head down to her shoulder, smoothing her hair. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to say that. But tell me what it is.”
Her mother would not fight fair. She knew this with anger, but the older woman’s tactics scattered her defenses of anger: she knew she was about to cry. Then it would be all up. “Let me go,” she said, struggling, hating her mother’s unfairness.
“Hush, hush. There now, lie here and tell me what it is. You must have some reason.”
She ceased to struggle and became completely lax. “I haven’t. I just want to marry him. Let me go. Please, mamma.”
“Cecily, did your father put this idea in your head?”
She shook her head and her mother turned her face up. “Look at me.” They stared at each other and Mrs. Saunders repeated: “Tell me what your reason is.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“I can’t tell you.” She slipped suddenly from her mother’s lap but Mrs. Saunders held her kneeling against her knee. “I won’t,” she cried, struggling. The other held her tightly. “You are hurting me!”
“Tell me.”
Cecily wrenched herself free and stood. “I can’t tell you. I have just got to marry him.”
“Got to marry him? What do you mean?” She stared at her daughter, gradually remembering old rumors about Mahon, gossip she had forgot. “Got to marry him? Do you mean that you—that a daughter of mine—with a blind man, a man who has nothing, a pauper—?”
Cecily stared at her mother and her face flamed. “You think—you said that to—Oh, you’re not my mother: you are somebody else.” Suddenly she cried like a child, wide-mouthed, not even hiding her face. She whirled running. “Don’t ever speak to me again,” she gasped and fled wailing up the stairs. And a door slammed.
Mrs. Saunders sat thinking, tapping her teeth monotonously with a fingernail. After a while she rose, and going to the telephone, she called her husband downtown.