Black Water (6 page)

Cob leaned for’ard and casually passed a death sentence. “She got th’tissick. Don’t know ‘bout th’shits, though. Might just be th’shits.”

“I’s told that, ‘bout the tissick, but nobody knows what t’do ‘bout it. I’s hopin’ you c’d help.” He continued wringin’ his hat in his bony hands and kept a wary eye on the dog, which was still eye-locked on him like he was o’ slab a somethin’ tasty and it was just waitin’ for the signal to pounce.

The old woman took another couple of thinkin’ sucks on the pipe, snorted up another slug, and spat. She hadn’t leaned over far enough or given it enough push. Some of it ended up on her chin and the rest on her dress. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and then it on the dress. “I got th’cure, fer sure, if you ain’t awready waited too long.”

“I’s told you’s a body could do just about anything,” Roach said with a mite more cocky than he actually felt. “Maybe I’s tol’ wrong.”

She gave him a look and hissed, “You take off yer ol’ hat but ya ain’t got no more mannahs’n t’stand way off outchonder, makin’ me yell, not showin’ no respek, but come scratchin’ ‘round, jerkin yer doodle ‘n beggin’ favohs.”

Roach was at a loss with a comeback because he didn’t want to make her or the dog mad.

“I doubt you got ‘nough t’pay me t’work mir’cles nohow,” she said with a dismissive wave, “’n a mir’cle’s probly what it’d take. Ten dollahs ‘n three bottles o’ good whiskey ‘n I’ll give ya th’cure fer the tissick. But…,” she jabbed a lethal-lookin’ finger in his direction, “you betta b’lieve I know th’dif’ence ‘tween good whiskey ‘n bad.”

Roach shuffled his feet like a kid that had to take a pee. “I ain’t got ten dollahs ‘n I ain’t got one bottle o’ whiskey, good ‘r bad, let alone three, ‘n I don’t know nobody that’d go ’em for me.”

“What ‘bout a book? Got any books?”

“Books?”

“You do know what a book is, doncha?”

“Yes,” he said, haughty, “I know what books is. We got a McGuffey Reader ‘n a Bible.”

“Awready got th’one ‘n don’t want tother. No Mock Twain or Shakespeah?” The look of mass confusion on his face told her everthing she needed to know. “Aw, f’get it.” A low growl gurgled up the dog’s throat and the old woman kicked it in the rump. “I tolju t’wait!” The cur whuffed and lowered its massive head to rest on the knobbly end o’ the bone. She gave a couple more thoughtful pulls on the pipe. “‘At’s awright…’at’s awright, although I p’fer th’money ‘n th’likkah, maybe we c’d work somethin’ else out. Watcha got we c’d bahtah ovah?”

“I ain’t got nothin’. All they is’s me, th’wife, ‘n a youngun, a girl. Times’s been hard…real hard. I’s thinkin’ maybe this one time you c’d give it to me out o’ th’goodness o’ yer heart or maybe I c’d work it off somehow.”

The witch nearly fell off the stump, laughing. “I traded off m’hawt f’a sack o’ p’tatas long’go. They cooked up real good with some onions ‘n a lib’ral pinch o’ peppah.” She finally stopped laughing, wiped her teared-up eyes, and, sucking on the pipe, looked him over, severely. In fact, she looked at him for so long, he didn’t know if the interview was over or what, but, finally, “Tell me ‘bout th’girl. She ain’tchur daughtah?”

“No,” he said, wringin’ his hands, “she’s m’niece, m’brother’s child. We had ‘er so long now, though, she thinks we’re ‘er Ma ‘n Pa. Me ‘n th’wife’s takin’ care of ‘er ‘til they get back on thr’feet. They’s had hard times.”

“Seems t’run in th’family, don’it…hawd times.” She took a pull on the pipe and asked, “Wat’s yr’brotha’s name?”

Roach’s eyes rolled through the back of his head lookin’ for somethin’ and then spat out, “Frank.”

She looked him over, then, quietly, threateningly, “No it ain’t! You ain’t got no brothah. You a lyin’ sack o’ shit, ’n I don’t take kindly t’ bein’ lied to, ‘specially comin’ ‘round with yer hand out, beggin’.” Roach started to say somethin’ but she cut him off. “’At child ain’t no blood o’ yourn or yr’wife’s. Noooo…’n futhamoah, ‘at woman’s notcho wife. Now...,” then, looking like she was soooo proud of herself, “watchu think o’ that?”

Poochie growled again. From the way Cob was talkin’, it hoped she’d finally had enough of the blowhard, and pretty quick he’d get a crack at him. It had no doubt its three legs could outrun his two.

“You don’t know nothin’ o’ th’sort,” Roach told her, puffin’ up and puttin’ on a show. “Yer just guessin’, ‘n I reckon I’ll go now,” and while shivers crawled up his spine, he turned to leave. Putting the hound to his back was probably the bravest thing he’d ever done, but his ragged nerves were payin’ for it. Had the beast barked right then he woulda packed his drawers with the hot and steamy and turned into a pillar of salt.

Before he took his fourth step, she called after him. “Somethin’s wrong...with’at child. Wat is it?”

With fresh shivers up his spine…—
Lord, I hate witches!—‘
n he turned.

She’d dropped her face to hide behind the hat brim.

“What’d make you think anything’s wrong with ‘er?” he demanded, trying his best to sound indignant. He wished he could see her face. As much as those black eyes made him nervous, not seein’ ’em made him even more so.

Cob sucked on the pipe and waited him out. Finally he got flustered enough and said, “She’s struck by lightnin’ ’fore she ‘scaped th’womb ‘n she’s blind in one eye, but other’n ‘at, they ain’t a good…God… Dang…THING wrong with ‘er. She’s a good girl, but I don’t know where ‘at’s any o’ yer business!”

The dog started to rise. Cob put out her hand, and it settled back with one last low, growly, frustrated threat.

“Who’s th’chile’s muthah?” she asked. It sounded like a casual question but it was actually much, much more than idle curiosity.

“Little albino girl, kilt by th’same lightnin’ strike. Why?”

Cob’s heart pounded wildly but she hid it well, her face concealed under the hat brim. “If you ‘n I c’n strike a deal,” she told him, calmly, “you come back in two days ‘n I’ll give ya th’med’cine.”

“I don’t know if th’wife’s got two days,” he said, picturing what Pearl’d looked like when he left.

“If she ain’t got two days left in ‘er…even I cain’t hep ‘er.” Then she lifted her head just enough to make eye contact, “But, until she crosses ovah, there’s a chance….” She trailed off, shrugging her bony shoulders.

“You’d give it to me?” he asked, suspiciously, noting the change in her tone, “‘n what kind o’ deal? I awready tolja, I ain’t got no money ‘n no whiskey ‘n no likely way t’get ’em.”

“Come back in two days...’n bring the girl with ya.”

“The girl? Why’d I do that?”

“If you ain’t no mo’ int’rested in gettin’ th’med’cine’n t’make me yell alla way ‘cross th’yawd, you c’n leave. But…if yoah intrested in workin’ somethin’ out, praps somethin’ ben’ficial t’us both…praps…. come closah ‘n I’ll tell ya how.”

Roach blinked, swallowed hard, and looked at the distorted lump at her feet.

She noticed and jabbed the dog’s rear with her big toe. “Git!”

With the deformed mouth, the cur always looked like it was snarling, and Roach was sure, because of the way the thing looked at him, that its having to go to the trouble of getting up was Roach’s fault, it’d remember the intrusion…and it had a long memory. The monster chomped on the bone, picked it up, and hop-stepped hop-stepped hop-stepped off what it musta felt was distance enough, and with a laborious whump, plopped back on the dusty ground.

Warily, keepin’ his eye on the nasty lookin’ thing, Roach moved closer…

…and the witch made him an offer.

After kickin’ around all the why-he-shoulds and why-he-shouldn’ts about going back to the witch, Roach drug hisself out of bed and, by the feeble light of the coal oil lamp, fixed a bite to eat. After washin’ it down he wished he hadn’t. He worried more about Pearl’s condition ever time he fixed his own eats. Ever time he had to put on the same dirty pants. Ever time he had to traipse to the crick for a bucket of water. He stepped to Lootie’s little cot, pinched her big toe pushing up from her one thin blanket, and shook it. “Lootie, get up, but keep quiet, don’t wake yer mama.”

Lootie mumbled something, sat up, bed-headed and groggy, knuckled her sleepy eyes, and looked out the window. “It’s still dark!”

“I know that. We gotta start early if we wanna beat th’heat.” He pushed her on the shoulder. “Get up. We got a long way t’go.”

She yawned, dropped her chin to her chest for just a second….

“Hey!” Roach snapped the back of his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t go back t’sleep!”

The shack was cold. Lootie scratched her head, crawled off the cot, pulled her nightgown up over her head, tossed it on the cot, picked up her dress, and shivered while she pulled it over her head and down. She wheeled around and sat down with her eyes closed, still half asleep, and put her socks and shoes on.

Roach bent over Pearl’s bed to check on her. He wouldn’t touch her, though. The day before she’d wheezed like her throat was squoze nearly shut, fightin’ for ever breath. Right at that minute, she musta been doin’ better because she wasn’t wheezin’. He thought about rousin’ her up to let her know they were leavin’ but that woulda meant touchin’ her. He justified passin’ on it, convincing hisself she needed the sleep. It didn’t take much convincing. He’d even gone to sleepin’ on a makeshift palette on the floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of wakin’ up to find she’d passed in the night while layin’ next to him. The physical discomfort of the floor wasn’t nearly as great as the thought of layin’ next to a flat-eyed, slack-jawed corpse all night. He stirred up the near-dead embers in the pot-bellied stove and put on a couple more little sticks. He closed the stove door and saw Lootie was dressed, her chin resting on her chest.

“Hey!” he whispered harshly.

“Huh?” Her head snapped up.

“You ready?”

“For what?” she said through a yawn. Then, “I’m hongry.”

“Quiet down. We ain’t got th’time now. We’ll eat later on.”

Scratching her head, she looked at the stove and noticed the pan he’d fixed his eggs. “You et. How come I can’t?”

“I thought I’s bein’ good lettin’ ya sleep ‘n then ya try t’make me feel bad for it. I’m sorry, maybe I shoulda woke y’up, but we ain’t got the time now. You’ll eat later at th’nice lady’s house. She’s fixin’ somethin’ good. Come on now, let’s go!” He pushed her to get up and then out the door into the dew-dripping morning.

All Lootie had on was her thin little dress, underpants, holey socks, and worn-out shoes. She noticed Roach was all bundled up tight in a coat buttoned nearly to his neck with the collar turned up and his hands in the pockets. “I’m cold,” she said, crossing her stick-thin arms to her chest and scrunchin’ up.

“Walk faster. That’ll getcha goin’.”

Cob had also been up since before daybreak, making preparations for the big doin’s. For one thing, she had some baking to do. It was gonna be a busy day, and she’d brewed a cup of strong, dark tea to help get her sluggish blood pushin’ through her veins. She was sittin’ on a three-legged stool lookin’ out the shack’s one greasy, wiggly-paned window, one leg over the other, nervously wagglin’ her ugly foot.

There were shelves on the walls with various sized bottles and jars. Some of ’em had seeds, and others, beans. Gnarled, rooty lookin’ stuff. Critter innards. One had a two-headed terrapin. It looked spooky. That was the intent. She even had a cracked crystal ball stuck in a box somers. It was all foofoo, circus sideshow stuff, meant to impress the easily impressed. Of all her possessions, though, her favorites were the well-worn books stacked up in the corner; thirty-five, maybe forty of ’em, and when business was slow, which was mostly what it was, they helped pass the time.

She took a sip from the chipped china cup and looked over her shoulder. She already had one visitor layin’ in bed and was expectin’ six more before long. Two of ’em bein’ the jittery fella who’d come sneakin’ around, tail-tucked and ears down, and the little girl he’d promised to bring with him. All her thoughts had been on that little girl. Cob wasn’t motherly. In fact, she didn’t like children a’tall—too noisy and too needy—but she was lookin’ for’ard to seein’ this’n. She took another sip and looked out the dirty window, thinkin’ the nubbly-faced fool claimin’ t’ be her father was far too simpleminded to make up the stories he’d told. Other than the one about the child belonging to a brother goin’ through hard times. She saw through that one as easy as the sun through a lace curtain.

But the one about the child bein’ cut from the fresh-dead womb of a lightnin’-struck mother. Better yet, an albino mother. She knew all about her. The one they called Smoke. It all added up. The lightnin’ that killed her mother shoulda killed her. But it hadn’t. Then there was the blind eye. The left. Not the right. Yeah, it all added up, and no, the ignorant blowhard hadn’t the knowledge or the imagination to concoct somethin’ like that. He had no idea what he had.

Cob smiled. She was lookin’ for’ard to this day like she hadn’t in a long time. She, bein’ a witch herself, was a rarity and was lookin’ for’ard to meetin’ a kindred spirit. Then she chuckled at the thought of considering herself a kindred spirit. To that one? Not hardly. No, she had to be honest with herself. She’d spent a lifetime developing her talents, feeble as they were. Her bloodline had been severely watered down over the generations. That’s why she had to practice on the fringe. But, if the child was who…what she believed her to be….

She swallowed hard and waggled her foot, imagining. Slowly, another idea was takin’ shape. She looked in the cup and swirled around what little dark tea remained. The corners of her mouth rose and she started laughin’ so hard the tears coursed down the gullies of her wrinkled old face. Then she remembered her slumbering guest and looked over her shoulder, hopin’ she hadn’t disturbed her, but other than the faint rise and fall of her sunken chest, she hadn’t moved. She doubted there was anything left there more than the body. No, there’d be no more sunrises for that one.

Her eyes rolled over the shelf and stopped at one of the small, seed-filled vials. She set the cup on the floor, reached up and pulled the little bottle off the shelf, twisted the cork stopper off, and shook the seeds out on the floor. Then she leaned over and picked up her tea cup.