Black Water (11 page)

…and this time, she had no trouble findin’ the words.

“…go t’Hell.”

Lookin’ into the cold dark woods, she took a deep, steadying breath and dropped her arms to her side. That allowed the blanket to slide off her shoulders and fall to the porch in a crumpled pile at her heels. She waited a couple more seconds, and when lightnin’ didn’t strike her dead like Roach said it had her mother, wearin’ only her thin nightshirt, she stepped off the porch, and melted into the cold, dark night.

Roach’d expected her to come right back in. When she didn’t, he blinked a couple o’ times, got back in bed, pulled up what scant covers that were left and laced his fingers in back of his head.

A quarter hour later, and thoroughly ashamed of herself, having discovered that she was a pitiable coward, Lootie slipped back in the shack and threw the blanket at Roach. She pulled the bottom of her nightshirt up to her waist and got in bed. Her teeth were chattering and her body quivering. She clenched her arms tightly to her side and spread her legs without sayin’ a word. With no pretense of love-making, Roach hiked up her legs, her heels to her butt, got on his knees between ’em, and wrapped his hands around her cold knees. The skin on his pecker was as tight as a drum, ready to romp, but before he could take it any futher, she put her hands on his.

“I ain’t givin’ you nothin’,” she hissed, her lips drawn back. “Yer takin’ it. ‘N I’m allowin’ it only ‘cause I got nowhere else t’go ‘n not ‘cause I owe you anything. As long’s I’m here, you can take it. I’m agreein’ t’all that. But…you stick it in me now, yer agreein’ t’what I say, too.”

He’d never seen this Lootie before and he was some spooked. She was a witch, after all. “T’what?” he asked, lookin’ in that depthless black eye.

Calmly, and without any doubt she meant it, she told him, “You ever say anything nasty ‘bout Pearl again,” she nodded in the direction o’ the table, “that knife over there? I’ll stick it in yer heart…’n I’ll kill you over ‘n over ‘n over.”

“You’d kill yer own papa?”

“You ain’t my papa. Yer old, yer stupid, ya stink, ‘n I’d stick you faster ‘n quicker’n you’cd blink. Even if you was my papa. I got nothin’ t’lose. You awready give ‘way my soul.”

He gave it about three seconds deep thought, and she grimaced in disgust when he rubbed his thumb lightly between her downy little lips, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. “Agreed,” he said, shifted his knees, lifted her hips, and pulled her to him. Just like Lootie’s real father’d done her real mother, Roach was gonna show her who was boss. He licked his thumbs, pulled her little lips apart, and pushed it in with no more purpose than to inflict pain. And he succeeded. She felt somethin’ pop and a fiery bolt shot through her, but she just gripped the covers, grit her teeth, and, like her real mother, took it. Any satisfaction on his part would have to come from him.

He pulled her nightshirt up futher with the intention o’ suckin’ on her nipple. But when he leaned down she grabbed a handful of the hair on the back of his head to steady it, slapped his whiskered face, hard, then yanked the shirt back down. “That wasn’t part o’ th’deal.”

He backed off, rubbed his whiskered cheek, and concluded that for now, he’d leave well enough alone. His pecker was in her. She didn’t look real happy about it, but he knew it was only a matter of time before she learned to like it and crave it as much as he did. He was lookin’ for’ard to watchin’ her squeeze her tits in delight, beggin’ him to suck and bite on ’em. He mighta been stupid, but he had an incredible imagination.

After poundin’ as hard as he could for another seventeen seconds, his lizard spilled its guts and all his fantasies came true. He pulled it out, deflated and blood-smeared, wiped it off on her nightshirt, and rolled off, suckin’ air, spent. He did it three more times before the sun come up.

The only difference between Lootie’s and her mother’s first time…although ugly, Roach had a nose.

Lootie was fourteen.

Roach was fifty-two.

The war was over.

The bad guys won.

Two years later, Lootie was pregnant with her second child. The first was a boy she named George after the only one Pearl carried full term. The one yet to be, if a girl, she’d name her Pearl. If a boy, he’d be called Matthew from one o’ the fellas Pearl read to her about in the Bible. There were nine or ten others. There was a James, a Tom, and a Peter, but she liked Matthew the best. George was cute as the devil, and Lootie thought she understood what Pearl musta felt. Livin’ with Roach, she’d given Pearl as much reason to survive as George gave her. He was a smart little shit. Lootie’d sing and George’d dance. He liked playin’ in the dirt with bugs and chasin’ chickens. He and Roach had an understanding. They both stayed away from the other as much as they could.

Not long after Roach and Lootie made their pact concerning the matin’ process, Roach found it wasn’t anywhere near as exciting as he’d anticipated. He discovered that fantasizin’ about somethin’ he couldn’t have was much more exciting than gettin’ what he could anytime he wanted it. He’d climbed his mountain and found it cold. Now what?

After she swole up big with George, the sight of her belly stretched to its limit didn’t do much for his sexual appetite. In the last few weeks, he resorted to wrappin’ his fingers around it, imagining sneakin’ looks up her dress back when she was eight or nine.

After George slid out, Roach went back to usin’ Lootie, but after a while, the only thrill he got out of it was poundin’ it in her. He wanted to get somethin’ out of it, even if it was nothin’ more than hurtin’ her. What shoulda been his Heaven ended up bein’ his Hell. She’d be doin’ somethin’ in the shack and he’d get the urge, step in back of her and pull his pants down. Lootie gave no more thought about pullin’ her dress up over her back, spreadin’ her legs and bendin’ over with her forearms on the table than she’d give doin’ the dishes. He’d try his damndest to work it up, but most o’ the time it wouldn’t cooperate. Frustrated, he’d try to shove it in limp and she’d look back over her shoulder and laugh at him. Humiliated, he’d shove it back into his pants and stomp out the door. He started thinkin’ again about sendin’ her off. The only reason he didn’t was because her not bein’ there’d drive him crazy. He was addicted to the memory of what she used to do to him.

He finally figured it out. In his mind anyway. She’d hexed him. That explained everthing. She was a witch and she’d made him want her, then she put the hoodoo on his man part so it wouldn’t work. She’d hexed him to Hell on Earth. All the pussy he wanted and no way to get it. It was like a big ol’ plate o’ meat and taters and no mouth to eat it with. That’s why she laughed at him. She’d put a hex on him.

One day when he went to town for supplies, Lootie packed up what few clothes she had in a tote sack, but other than that, all she took was four other things. She wanted something of Pearl’s. She didn’t have a necklace, a ring, a bracelet, or a fancy dress, so she took the shoes she’d worn at her funeral. It wasn’t ‘cause she needed ’em. It was just that they’d been Pearl’s. The second was Roach’s last name. He wouldn’t miss it; it didn’t have any value. The third, George, who Roach didn’t give a whit about, and the fourth, the baby in her belly, who wouldn’t mean any more to him than George did. Then she thought that if it was a girl, she’d probably end up replacing Lootie as Roach’s next slave.

She went out back o’ the shack to say goodbye to Pearl ‘cause she couldn’t think of any reason she’d ever be back. She went back in the shack, slung the tote sack over her left shoulder, cocked George up on her right hip, and left. But then, just as she was leavin’, a strange thing happened. She was no more than twenty feet from the front door when she flat stopped, jolted. It was like a rope was tied ‘round her middle and snapped taut. A voice came in her head—a thin, squeaky little girl voice that said, “Ain’tchu f’gettin’ somethin’?”

The voice had enough weight that she looked around for who mighta said it. Then the image of the knife came in her mind. The thought was so insistent, she went back in the shack, grabbed it, and stuck it in her bag, just as her real mother’d done. It was the only thing she had that both her mothers had touched.

She didn’t know it, but sixteen years earlier, her real mother had left a shabby cabin just like she was doin’. Lootie was less than three years older than Smoke’d been, but she was just as pregnant and just as eager to escape her prison. She didn’t leave a note. Roach couldn’t read nohow. He’d figure it out. She wondered how long he’d spend foolin’ hisself, thinkin’ she’d change her mind and come back. She wondered if he’d know where she was goin’, and if he did, would he have the nerve to come after her.

She had nothin’ to eat but two biscuits and an onion. The biscuits were for George. She set off knowin’ that bein’ pregnant, havin’ to lug George and the tote sack, it’d take most o’ the day to reach her destination.

Pearl and Lootie used to practice writin’ and fig’rin’ numbers in the dirt with a stick. Lootie took to it pretty good. Pearl knew she could only take her so far, though, so early one Fall morning, just a couple o’ years ‘fore she died, Pearl walked Lootie the nearly three miles to a little makeshift schoolhouse. Pearl was already showin’ the early signs o’ the tissick and had to stop ever so often t’catch her breath.

The schoolhouse was a simple, white-washed, one-room affair nailed up to the side of a barn, and the lessons were given by a local farmer’s wife who could read and knew a bit about cipherin’ numbers. It had a little wood stove inside, three long, uncomfortable benches for the students, a chair and homemade desk for the teacher, and a one-holer out back.

More than the education, though, Pearl wanted Lootie to have some little friends to play with. She knew they were up agin it tryin’, but she wanted something better for Lootie than to end up like she had, with a never-gonna-do-nothin’, never-gonna-be-nothin’ wastrel like Roach.

They got to the little schoolhouse before anybody else showed. Pearl thought it’d probably be best if she didn’t come while everbody else was already there, maybe get to know ’em one at a time as they showed up. They also concluded that Pearl wouldn’t stick around like a banty hen protecting her brood. Hampered by the tissick, Pearl only got ‘bout halfway back home when Lootie caught up with her, tears streamin’ down her scarred little face. Pearl picked her up, and despite the tissick, carried her all the way back home, so mad she wanted to hit somethin’. That was the end o’ Lootie’s formal education.

But now, at sixteen, she was about to get it, after all. When she showed up at Cob’s shack, luggin’ a baby on one arm, a tote sack on the other, and another baby packed solidly in her belly, the old witch recognized the scarred face and laughed so hard she peed. “I tolju we’d see one ‘nother agin!” She grabbed the porch post, bent over, and hawked up a gob. She’d lost all her teeth, which made it look like her face had caved in on itself. That same old, three-legged hound was layin’ by the door. Lootie thought dogs must live a long time. Actually, it had a lot to do with who owned ’em.

Lootie thought it was odd that all the way to the shack, she felt less and less like she was leavin’ somethin’, and more and more like she was goin’ to somethin’.

Cob taught Lootie how to read and do her numbers and that the only truth, the only value, was power. She explained that, thanks to her, Lootie’d already been initiated into the world of power, without her even knowin’ it. Initiated the first time she ate sin. And because o’ that initiation, she couldn’t go back. Heaven’s door was closed up tight as a nun’s pussy and never to be opened, so whatever time Lootie had on this miserable orb, she may as well take advantage of it and have herself some fun. She didn’t feel bad about what she’d done to Lootie. Born a witch with a scarred face, Lootie never stood a chance nohow. Cob also taught her what little she could of the dark arts. Lootie only had to be shown something once. In no time, she was beyond Cob’s puny limits.

As Lootie’s reputation grew, Cob became her agent, her familiar, linin’ up the dyin’ sinners like wagons at a cotton gin, and with each loaf consumed, Lootie became stronger and more fearful. She experimented, and through trial and error, gleaned the uses and abuses of various herbs, body parts, and blood. Eventually, Lootie Komes, with her will alone, had the ability to kill off the living and bring the dead back to life.

When Lootie was twenty-seven, Cob’s days came to an end. She was both shittin’ out and coughin’ up blood. The Devil Dog died; just laid its head down one night and stopped livin’. Cob didn’t have the power to keep the beast alive anymore. Just before she died, as her adopted sister, she made Lootie promise one thing. Lootie complied. Cob died. Lootie used the same knife that’d sliced her from her mother’s belly to cut out Cob’s heart and eat it.

Six and a half miles from Cob’s shack, and as many years after George’s little brother, Matthew, slipped out of the womb, another baby was born, but unlike George and Matthew, he had a mother and a father who paid him a lot of attention. The father’s name was Paul David Lusaw and the little boy’s name was Hubert Marshall Lusaw, but everbody called him Hub. His mother’s name was Iva Jane and she loved Hub with everthing she had. He was just the cutest, smartest little baby ever.

Iva Jane lived in the real world and didn’t believe in make-believe. She didn’t believe wishes wished came true—nevertheless, she had one, and she’d wished it many times. She wished with all her heart and soul that Hub had never been born. And the reason was Paul David. Somebody else she wished had never been born.

Paul David Lusaw considered hisself one Hell of a man and was determined to make the same of his son. Not that he wouldn’t’ve anyway, but Paul David wasn’t gonna take any chances. When Hub was old enough to pick up a hoe, Paul David taught him what it was for. Same with a shovel and a muckin’ rake. By age three, Hub’s little hands were padded, thick, full o’ calluses. At four, one of his daily chores was to make sure there was plenty of firewood, which involved swingin’ a double-bit axe. Iva Jane’s jaw clenched with ever swing of the thing, fearful that someday it was gonna eat one o’ his little feet or a finger.