Low Country (28 page)

“I seen him a while ago, but I don’t know where he

got to now. I sho’ don’t.”

I knew that she did know, though. Janie knew where

everybody in the settlement was most of the time.

“We saw Ezra over at my grandfather’s place, too,

and he asked us to come over and meet his auntie,” I

said. Sophia shot a look at me, but I did not return it.

Janie met my eyes and I knew I had found the key.

“Ezra, he down to Miss Tuesday’s,” she said. “I ’spec

Mr. Cassells be there, too. They generally both there

roun’ lunchtime.”

And this time she did smile, just a bit. Ezra Upchurch

was a powerful totem.

I thanked her and we walked out of the store

246 / Anne Rivers Siddons

and down the sandy road that led through Dayclear.

The little houses—shacks, really, leaning badly and

unpainted and tin-roofed—were none of them more

than two or three rooms large, and many had only

one. All sat up on stones or bricks or rotting wooden

posts. There were broken-down chairs on the small

front porches, and a few under the great live oaks in

the neatly swept white-sand yards, but they were empty

on this sharp day. The usual cacophony of chickens

and the sleeping yellow and black dogs were absent,

too. The dogs would be inside, in front of fires along

with their masters. Perhaps the chickens were, too.

Seeing the look of clinical interest and faint distaste on

Sophia Bridges’s face, I hoped that they were. Some

of the panes of the windows that faced the road were

missing and had been replaced with cardboard and

newspaper, but the ones that remained were sparkling

clean. I knew that many pairs of eyes watched our

progress through them.

On the other side of the little road there were cleared

fields and small garden patches, neatly put to bed now

for the winter, where the villagers raised their own

food and the produce they sold to the truck farmers

around the Lowcountry. Fanciful scarecrows tilted in

the bare fields, doing nothing at all to dismay the flocks

of cheeky black crows, and smartly mended rail and

wire fences enclosed each plot. We could see the little

Low Country / 247

lean-tos that housed goats and pigs and a few cows

and the prized mules, but their occupants were inside

like their owners, out of the strong wind. In all of

Dayclear, we saw no one during that walk, but I felt

the eyes of everyone. I wondered what they made of

the elegant Sophia Bridges and her pale princeling.

Janie had said that Ezra Upchurch’s aunt’s house

was the last one in the row before the forest started

again. It looked just like the others, except that there

was a new paint job in progress; the dingy gray boards

were turning a sharp blue-white. Ezra, I thought. From

under the porch a pair of wicked yellow eyes regarded

us.

“Look, Mark, it’s a little pet goat,” I said before he

could see the malevolent gaze and be panicked again.

I hoped it was indeed a small goat, and a pet.

Whatever it was, it did not leave its shelter to investig-

ate us, and Mark did not shy at it. During the entire

time we had been here, he had been silently drinking

in Dayclear with his gray eyes, and they were as large

and lucent now as small frozen ponds.

The front door opened before I could knock, and

Ezra Upchurch stood there. He was clean, and dressed

in a tweed sports coat and gray flannel slacks, and

looked in his shining, tailored blackness like the pres-

ident for life of some ancient, affluent African state.

Behind him, Luis Cassells stood, holding a tray of

something so hot

248 / Anne Rivers Siddons

that it smoked. Both of them were grinning hugely,

near-identical, feral white smiles.

“I would have bet the farm you wouldn’t show,”

Ezra said, “but Auntie said you would. Said she saw it

in the dishwater this morning. She sent me out to pick

collards and dig yams, and I went without a murmur.

Auntie’s dishwater seldom fails her. Come in and meet

her.”

Ezra’s Aunt Tuesday Upchurch was so tiny as to be

almost a dwarf, bent nearly double with arthritis and

nearly blind with cataracts. I wondered how she could

see the dishwater or much of anything else through

the fish-scale films on her eyes. But she trained them

on me intently when Ezra introduced me and smiled.

She had few teeth, and one of those was gold. I

thought she must be ancient beyond imagining.

“You be Mist’ Gerald’s gran’girl, I ’spec,” she said

in her tiny, piping wheeze. “You has the look of him,

yes. Who you bring to see me this cold day, child?”

I thought Ezra had probably told her about Sophia

and Mark, but I presented them as formally and politely

as was due her great age.

“This is Mrs. Sophia Bridges, who is working for my

husband, and her son, Mark. They’ve just moved to

Peacock’s from New York, and wanted to see all there

was to see in the Lowcountry. Thank you for letting

us come, Mrs. Upchurch.”

She cackled.

Low Country / 249

“Hush, girl, I know you come to see this bad Cuban

hire and my big ol’ nephew, but never you mind, you

welcome in my house, and yo’ company, too. Come

here, girl, and let me look at you, and bring that boy

here,” she said, turning the silvery eyes on Sophia and

Mark. They came forward, Sophia pushing Mark ahead

of her. Mrs. Upchurch put out her withered little claw,

and after a moment Sophia took it.

Mrs. Upchurch held Sophia’s hand for a long time,

looking silently into her face. Whether or not she saw

I could not tell, but I had the impression that she was

taking Sophia’s full measure.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Upchurch,” Sophia said

in her cool, clipped New York voice, and the old wo-

man cocked her head. Sophia made as if to withdraw

her hand, but Mrs. Upchurch held it fast.

“What your maiden name, child?” she said finally.

Sophia was silent for so long that I thought she was

not going to answer, but then she said pleasantly,

“McKay. Sophia McKay.”

The old woman nodded slowly, and then looked

down at the boy. He stared back, a fledgling mesmer-

ized by a snake.

“I’m glad you bring this boy to Dayclear,” Mrs.

Tuesday Upchurch said. “We don’t see many younguns

here anymore. This boy be welcome. You bring him

back.”

250 / Anne Rivers Siddons

Still Mark stared.

Just then Estrellita bounded into the room, followed

by her grandfather, who had also changed into a

jacket and slacks, though not so natty or well-tailored

as Ezra’s. The child skidded up to me and threw her

arms around my waist and hugged me hard. I went

still. I had forgotten the feel of small arms just there.

“Caro, Caro, can we go see Nissy and her baby?”

she cried. There was nothing hesitant or unused about

her voice today. I looked at Luis, and he laughed.

“She hasn’t stopped talking since that day,” he said,

ruffling the glossy black hair. “Either you or those

horses are powerful magic. Not today,
cara
. Today is

too cold for the ponies. We’ll go soon; it’ll warm up

again, you’ll see. Maybe Mrs. Venable will take us.

Meanwhile, say hello to Mark Bridges. He and his

mother have just moved down here from New York

City, and I bet you anything he doesn’t know any little

Cuban girls yet.”

Lita swung around to Mark. He edged back behind

his mother. I could sympathize with him; on this

strangest of days, in this strangest of places, surrounded

by this eldritch old woman and the two big men, this

small, dark dynamo must simply be one elemental

force too many.

“Let Mark get his bearings,” I said softly. “It’s hard

to come to such a new and different

Low Country / 251

place all of a sudden, when you’re still small yourself.”

“I know,” she said sympathetically, and I winced.

She did know; she of all people knew. “You’ll get used

to it soon,” she said kindly to Mark. “It doesn’t take

long at all. This place is
paradiso
.”

“That means she thinks it’s a wonderful place, Mark,”

Sophia said, and her son merely looked at her. Who

was kidding who here?

Mrs. Upchurch had cooked collards in a big black

pot on the rusty old iron cookstove and baked sweet

potatoes—she called them yams—in the ashes of the

banked fire. We ate them at a rickety, immaculate,

oilcloth-covered table, and the greens, redolent of

smoky ham, and the potatoes, their jackets still dusty

with ash, were as good as anything I have ever tasted.

We ate hot crackling corn bread with them and drank

strong coffee made in a spatterware pot on the stove.

Mark had a glass of milk that, Mrs. Upchurch said,

had come fresh from the cow that morning. His eyes

bulged at that, but he drank the milk, glancing at his

mother for approval. She nodded, but I could tell she

would far rather it had come fresh and dated from the

supermarket. She herself only picked at the sweet

potato and left the grease-shimmering greens and the

fat crackling bread untouched. She drank a lot of coffee.

Ezra and

252 / Anne Rivers Siddons

Luis and I finished off two helpings of everything. I

would have, even if I had not been hungry. Mrs.

Upchurch nodded serenely, smiling a little, as if she

were falling asleep, in her rocking chair by the stove,

and did not seem to notice that two of her guests did

not seem enthusiastic about her lunch. I would, I

thought, speak to Sophia Bridges about this in no un-

certain terms. She could not hope to accomplish any-

thing in Dayclear if she did not observe the rudiment-

ary rules of etiquette.

After lunch I could tell Sophia was eager to be gone,

but Mrs. Upchurch had moved over to a big armchair

before the fire, and Ezra took his place at her side in

a straight chair. We were obviously expected to stay,

at least through whatever came next. Luis settled him-

self into a chair beside mine and Lita crawled into his

arms and promptly fell asleep in the warm, dim room.

Her small head lolled back onto my arm. Across from

me, Sophia perched on a milking stool in her militant

Armani, looking like a peacock in a hen-house, poised

for flight. Mark, his eyes still huge and translucent,

stood straight and still at her knee.

Ezra cleared his throat.

“Luis and I have a little business in Columbia, but

before we go, Auntie thought you’d like to hear a story.

In a Gullah home”—and he looked at Sophia and then

at Mark—“the host

Low Country / 253

or hostess wouldn’t think of letting a guest leave

without a story. How about it, Mark? You know the

story of Ber Rabbit in the peanut patch?”

I saw Sophia frown and thought, If she says a word

about not wanting Mark to experience the stories told

in black dialect, I’ll snatch her bald-headed right here,

but she fell silent. Her eyes were cast down, though.

Mark’s shone. He nodded his head, staring up at

Ezra.

“Well, then. Here we go. Auntie, you’re on.”

The old lady closed her eyes and began rocking, a

gentle, hypnotic movement. Her lips curved in a beatif-

ic smile. She rocked and rocked. Then she said, “I gon’

tell a short story.”

“
Uh hummm. Tell ’em
.” Ezra Upchurch chanted. He

was rocking, too, and the bright black eyes were closed.

“Tell about the rabbit and the…the man…”

“
Uh hummm! Ber Rabbit! Ber Rabbit
!”

“Now one day the man catch the rabbit in his peanut

patch. Trap ’im in the peanut patch. And he say, ‘Now,

Ber Rabbit, you always sharp! You always got a lot of

scheme! But now, you know what I gon’ do with you?

I gon’ punish you! I gon’ throw you in dat fire!’”

“
Yeah, the fire
!”

“Ber Rabbit, O Lord! I tell you what he do. He say,

‘Old man, throw me in the fire!’

254 / Anne Rivers Siddons

“And the man say, ‘No, you too free!’ Say, ‘I ain’t

gon’ do that! I tell you what I gon’ do with you. I gon’

throw you in that river!’”

“
Yeah! The river
!”

“Ber Rabbit say, ‘I tell you what you do. You throw

me in that river. Let me drown in there. Just throw me

in the river. I want a dead anyhow.’”

“
Uh hummm
!”

“Man say, ‘No-o-o. I ain’t gon’ throw you in there

’cause you too free! You too sharp!’ And he say, ‘I

know! You know what I gon’ do with you, Ber Rab-

bit?’

“Rabbit say, all unconcerned-like: ‘What you gon’

do? What you gon’ do?’

“And the man, he carry ’im to the briarwood patch.

And boy! That briarwood been about high as his head.

“Say, ‘Ber Rabbit, I gon’ throw you in that briar-

wood patch.’

“‘OOOoooo Lord!’ say Ber Rabbit. ‘Pleassseee don’t

throw me in there! Dem briarwood stick me up!’”