Black Water (23 page)

And here he was, feelin’ silly, talkin’ to hisself, sittin’ on the front porch o’ the house he’s raised in. The one that burned down when he was sixteen. Yeah, sixteen. And Ret was eleven. His mother and father were both dead. In fact, it was the house burnin’ down that forced him and Ret to move in with an aunt and uncle until he got a regular job and was able to pull in enough for him and Ret to move out on their own.

He shaded his eyes and looked up. It seemed to be late mornin’, with the bright sun in a clear blue sky. He felt its warmth. The soft breeze pleasantly wafting over his face also rustled the leaves in the trees. He closed his eyes to feel it. Then he heard a scufflin’ and opened his eyes. Just off the porch aways, not ten feet from him, with her back to him, squattin’ barefoot in the dry, dusty yard, with her knobby knees tucked under her chin, was a skinny little six-year-old girl with dirty, black, shoulder-length hair. Now it was startin’ to feel more like a dream. She hadn’t been there two seconds ago. She wasn’t payin’ him any attention, although he had the impression she knew he was there. And even with her back to him, he knew who she was. He’d seen her just like that, hundreds o’ times. But not recently.

It was Ret. His sister. The dead one.

Then he reminded hisself again, the dead one. But here she was. And she wasn’t dead. And she wasn’t nineteen.

He looked all around the porch, left and right. It was then he noticed all the dust. Dust everwhere, like a thin, fuzzy carpet. He looked to his back, at the screen door behind him, and right of that, to the rough-hewn wooden bench that’d always set there, pushed up tight agin the porch wall. To the rusty old coffee can at the end o’ the bench, its bottom rim duned with dust, that his father’d used as an ash and chewin’-t’bacco-spittin’ can. The rusty nail on the edge o’ the steps that’d been hammered over but still stuck up just enough that it’d caught his toe when he was nine and almost tore the dang thing off. He still had the scar.

It was all there—the thin, worn, faded curtains his mother’d put up just ‘fore she died of female problems; ever board on the porch; ever mark on ever board; the broken, cracked, heavy plank that served as the one step. Everthing, except for all the dust, was exactly the same. Without havin’ to get up, go out back, and look, he imagined the thin cord clothesline would be there, hung between the back o’ the house and the dead tree. The screen door off the kitchen with a notch rubbed into the frame from the spring’s slidin’ back and forth from hundreds o’ thousands of opening’s and slammening’s. The hook/latch with a dark, half-moon stain that looked like the bags under an old man’s eyes, from years o’ swingin’ back and forth. They’d be there, too. He could still hear his father yellin’ “Quit slammin’ that God Damned door” when he or Ret was foolin’ around and runnin’ out of or into the kitchen and forgettin’ to keep it from slammin’ shut.

His mother and father were dead, so they wouldn’t be there. But Ret was dead, so what was she doin’ there? What was she doin’ here? Maybe his folks were there. Here. Then a shiver run up his spine. If his father was there, here, would he remember that Hub’d killed him? He was ashamed of hisself for feelin’ the same old fear.

When he looked back, the Ret child wasn’t sittin’ in the dirt any longer. She was perched right beside him, on the porch, hip to hip, gigglin’ and playin’ with a scruffy little black-and-gray-striped kitten layin’ on its back between her pressed legs, playfully grabbin’ and bitin’ at her finger. But now she had to be ten years old. Her dark hair hung below her waist and over her shoulders, framing her face, like it had at that age. He was reminded of all the time she spent brushin’ it out after acquiring the knowledge that she was pretty. She was wearin’ a pair of worn coveralls and was still barefoot, her feet dirty, a big toe stubbed and scabbed. She’d always hated wearin’ shoes. The kitten bit a little too hard and Ret jumped and slapped her hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle. She hadn’t actually giggled out loud—it was just that she looked like she had. Hub took the chance and baby-talked, “Did he bitecha?”

She hunched up her shoulders like she was fixin’ to get slapped, pinched up her eyebrows like he’d sinned by voicing somethin’ out loud, and pressed her finger to her lips. She looked around, secretively, put her hand on his shoulder, pulled him towards her, and cupped her hand to his ear. He felt her hand at his temple and her lips brush over his ear, and although she seemed to whisper, he didn’t actually hear her say anything. Nevertheless, the message had been conveyed and understood. She wanted him to go into the house. She turned and stuck her dirty little pointin’ finger over her shoulder. He understood she didn’t just want him to go into the house but to go to one specific room, one o’ the two bedrooms. He wanted to ask her why but she just pointed, more forcefully, impatiently, to go. He felt her say,
Don’t ask, just go
.

Nodding to her command, he got up and started for the screen door, then felt her tug on his britches. She helt the kitten to her chest, used his pants leg to help herself up, and crooked her finger, beckoning him down again. When he did, she cupped her hand to his ear and whispered in the same manner as before. He understood he wasn’t to go in the bedroom, but only to peek in the door. When he straightened back up, she winked at him and put her finger to her lips, reminding him he must be quiet.

She back-handed a wave to the door like she was shooin’ gnats, hefted the kitten to her neck, and stepped back for the edge o’ the porch. He pulled the screen door open, and the spring squeaked. He looked to her, expecting to see her finger pressed to her lip again. But it wasn’t. She wasn’t there. He looked down at the steps and noticed the mussed circle his butt’d made in the dust on the porch’s edge, and his footsteps to the door. But there was only the one set. The little girl, and any sign of her, had vanished. He eased the door closed, walked back to the edge o’ the porch, and looked around the yard, but she was nowhere to be seen. He stepped off the porch, crossed the yard to the left o’ the house, and looked around the side. She wasn’t there so he crossed back to the right side. Not there, either.

She’d told him to go in the house, to his old bedroom, and peek in, so he went back to the door, opened it, and stepped into the front room. He allowed the door to close behind him and took the time for his eyes to adjust before he went any futher. He looked around and, other’n all the dust, it was perfect. The same Spartan furniture, same old pictures on the otherwise bare walls, same old worn-out rugs on the floor. Everthing as he’d known it as a child and young man. It even smelled the same.

The house’s construction was simple, a rectangle. The combination front room and dining ran the full length. There was a fireplace at the far left front room wall. The right third was the dining area. One got into the kitchen from there. The two bedrooms were to the left o’ the kitchen; the one at the far left was his parents’, and the one he’d shared with Ret was between it and the kitchen. Both bedroom doors were closed. Before trying the door, he crossed the front room and to the right, entertaining the thought of possibly finding his mother or father in the kitchen, drinkin’ coffee.

He stopped at the kitchen door with his hands on the doorjamb, leaned in, and looked around. No one. The door at the back o’ the kitchen leading to the backyard was open, but the screen door was closed and latched. He looked at the floor. Dust. No footprints. The slight breeze filtered through the screen, and sure enough, he saw the sagging clothesline trailing from the back o’ the house to the dead tree trunk. He pushed off the doorjamb and walked through the kitchen to the screen door, lifted the little hook, unlatching the door, pushed it open, and stepped out to the back porch.

There wasn’t anybody out there, but there was somethin’ he’d forgotten about. Well, he hadn’t exactly forgotten—he just tried not to think about it. Seein’ it now brought back a lot o’ pain. It was another reason he was still afraid o’ seein’ his father. All the little graves. One for each o’ the puppies Paul David’d killed. One ever two, three, maybe four months, until Paul David had a grave marker all his own in the Oledeux Cemetery.

He went back in, closed and locked the screen door, followed his footprints into the front room, and crossed the floor to the bedroom he’d shared with Ret. He stood in front o’ the door a few seconds, apprehensive about what he’d find on the other side. Finally, he took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty hand on his pants leg, wrapped it around the doorknob, and turned. Slowly pushin’ it open, he saw the bed he’d slept his growin’ up years in. Pushin’ futher, he noticed the thin, white curtains hangin’ from the window in the middle o’ the wall between the two beds, billowing gracefully, like they’s breathin’ with the soft, warm breeze passin’ through the room. He pushed the door open futher and saw Ret’s bed.

And she was on it!

On her back, arms drawn up over her head and sound asleep. This newer version was more like twelve years old, and her long, dark hair was splayed out over the pillow. She was wearin’ a thin little dress, and her right leg was drawn up so that the bottom of her foot pressed against the inside of her left knee. Her feet coulda used a good scrubbing, and there was a crusty scab on the outside of her left knee. The hem o’ the dress was bunched halfway up her left thigh.

He looked around the room. No dust. It was clean. He looked at the girl on the bed and his heart pounded, drawn between two frightening thoughts. The first was the recurring,
what’m I doin’ here? What’s she doin’ here
? The second was more a desire, a hunger, a craving, than a thought. He wanted to lift the bottom o’ the dress, but he was afraid. Afraid o’ doin’ somethin’ he knew was taboo, but more, afraid a bein’ caught. That was nothin’ new. Shit no! From the first moment he became aware of the differences between him and Ret, between male and female, he’d been drawn to her. As all men who ever saw her were. Countless times, he’d done as he was doin’ that minute. Sneakin’ looks at her while she slept. While she played. While she sat. When she walked. Ran. Ate.

When he fought with her, most o’ the time, it was an act. Fightin’ and argeein’ proved to everone that he felt no more for her than any annoyed brother did for a bratty little sister. No one knew about the Hell he lived in ever day. Ever hour. Ever minute. Livin’ in the same house with her, and even worse, sharin’ a bedroom. Always lookin’, never touchin’. Wantin’ and never havin’. Hub Lusaw’d never heard the word
obsessed
, but he knew the condition intimately and lived his early years in fear he’d be found out. That same crushing fear rushed over him now. He looked into the front room, half expecting to see somebody, see that he’d been found out. They’d catch him standin’ in the door, lookin’ at her, and his face’d tell it all. There was no one right there, but he couldn’t be sure there was no one else around.

He turned his attention back to the bed and Ret. Should he take another second to look? Should he move closer as he’d done hundreds o’ times to get a better look? Could he bend down enough to look up the dress, catch a glimpse of her underpants? Should he take the chance of movin’ closer, as he had back then…or take the sensible route and leave?

Finally, the fear of bein’ found out won out. He backed away and started to pull the door closed when he felt a sharp tappin’ in the middle of his back. Startled he’d been caught, he turned to see the ten-year-old Ret, the one who’d been playin’ with the kitten on the front porch—the one who’d disappeared—standin’ by his side, kitten ‘n all, shakin’ her head like she was put out. He started to ask her where she’d gone, but before he could, she raised her brows and pressed her finger to her lips.

Takin’ the bull by the horns, she tucked the kitten into her left armpit and pushed the bedroom door open. Then she took his left hand in her right and gently but purposefully pulled him into the room. The next thing he knew, he was standin’ at the foot o’ the bed. She moved to the side and looked from him to the Ret on the bed and back again. When it looked like Hub wasn’t gonna take the hint, she rolled her eyes. She reached over the bed, pinched the hem o’ the dress, pulled it up, and gently laid it on her other her’s belly.

Hub sucked in a lungful. The Ret on the bed wore nothin’ under the dress and there was a dark, downy fuzz poorly concealing her pouty-lipped little slit and the soft curvature of the pubic mound. He wanted to look, but ten-year-old Ret’s presence made him extremely uncomfortable. Then, to his surprise, she scrunched up her shoulders and cupped her hand over her mouth like she was stiflin’ another giggle.

She nodded toward the near naked Ret, and he felt her say, “It’s awright. Look at it. It ain’t gonna bite ‘n I ain’t gonna tell.” He was still reluctant, but the look on ten-year-old Ret’s face told him he was bein’ silly. This was the reason she’d brought him in, and if he wanted to get closer, go ahead. Live it up. When he didn’t, she put the kitten on the floor, leaned over the girl on the bed, and put her face just inches from her older self’s crotch. She turned to Hub and wiggled her eyebrows. Then she closed her eyes, lowered her face just enough that she brushed her lips lightly over the other’s furry down.

Hub jerked when he saw the girl on the bed react to the touch. Her belly tightened, her pelvis kinda pushed out, her toes curled up, and her hands clenched. A second later, she seemed to relax. Then the younger one leaned in and breathed deeply, pullin’ in the scent. She rolled her face to Hub, wrinkled her nose and he heard,
smells like pee pee.

Engrossed, Hub unconsciously breathed along with her, watchin’ one Ret do to another that which he’d dreamed of so many times. She turned to him and ran her eyes over his face, then turned back, closed her eyes, and kissed her vaginal lips. Then, she stood up and chinned to the girl on the bed as if to say,
Go ahead, it’s awright
. When he didn’t, she took the two steps to him, pulled him down by the shoulder so she could whisper another thought, and in the middle of his brain he heard,
She ain’t asleep
.