Water Witch (29 page)

Eyes. . .eyes everywhere now. No . . . not
eyes . . .embers from the fire. I watched them settle over him, saw
him swing the machete up, watched it swoop down and across. It
missed my face by an inch. No doubt the backhand was coming. I felt
it deep in my gut. Knew the next time he’d connect for sure. The
next time it would all be over.

I saw the momentum of his body shift, heard
the call of the blade in motion. With what little strength I had
left, I lifted my left hand, putting up the only barrier I could
between the blade and my face, stretched my fingers to block as
much of the blow as possible.

Whoosh!
The machete swung by . .
.white-hot pain seared through my hand, raced down my hand and into
my chest. My heart shuttered in its fury. I screamed, eyes opening
as wide as the swelling allowed. So much blood pouring from my hand
. . .from . . .from . . . my extra finger was gone! Gone! God, he’d
cut it off! My screams turned into horrified shrieks that raked my
throat raw.
Oh, God . . .god . ..
I dropped my wounded hand
at my side

Over my own screaming, I heard Beeno roar in
fury again, heard him start up the chant, saw that the smoke had
almost obliterated him from view, curling around him.

I caught sight of the blade as he lifted it
high He wasn’t going to come down at an angle this time. He was
aiming straight down, right for my head. He was done with me.
Through. Ready for me to die. I saw it in his eyes. In the snarl on
his face. My mantra would be useless against such madness. Not even
Poochie’s god could stop him now.

I tried lifting my arms to cross them over my
face, but they felt weighted with hundred pound blocks of concrete.
Tears stung my eyes.
Gelle, I’m so sorry . . . Sarah, Nicky . .
. so sorry.
I felt something relax inside me, a giving way of
sorts. I fought against it, didn’t want to give up, wasn’t supposed
to give up. But the night was filled with a billion stars and a
giant moon. I turned my head every so slightly towards that moon
and kept it in my line of sight, focusing on it, willing away the
sound of Beeno’s rage, the hefting grunt in his voice that told me
he was lifting the machete higher. I didn’t have to look to see
what was coming. I didn’t
want
to see.

Any second now . . .
Keep your eyes on the
moon, Dunny
.
You hear, Gelle? Sarah? Nicky? Keep your eyes
on the moon . . .

As I watched, the moon’s soft white face
began to darken . . .like the water I’d nearly drowned in . . .
like the dark found deep in the swamp . . .just when I felt it
ready to envelope me, bright light flashed in my periphery. The
darkness paused then, waiting for me. . .

Although I no longer saw him, I heard Beeno
screech in fury . . . heard the
BLAM!
of a shotgun blast, the
loud thud of something hitting the ground hard.

Then, after a long, silent pause, I heard a
familiar voice suddenly yell in triumph, “Now, take dat you
sumabitch and
suck my dick!
”

Poochie?

Couldn’t be . . . not out here. . . not way
out here . . .

I tried turning my head to see, to make sure,
but nothing on my body would move. The only external body part that
seemed capable of functioning was my ears. I closed my eyes . .
.

Heard . . . an odd sucking sound, like a cork
being pulled from a wine bottle.

. . . a child asking, “Are you Superman?”

. . . a man’s deep, gentle voice . . .“It’s
okay, I’ve got you. . . ”

A woman . . . “Dat’s right! Dat’s right,
sumabitch, I got you!”

Then the stars, the moon, the world went
black. . .

EPILOGUE

At this very moment, the entire town of
Cyler, Texas was vibrating with activity. A parade down Main
Street, children laughing, clapping, parents propping the smaller
ones up on their shoulders—Roman candles spitting out brilliant
red, green, yellow balls, the snap, whistle, and pop of Black Cat
firecrackers and bottle rockets, sparklers that sizzled out far too
quickly—folks chattering on front lawns around barbeque pits that
roasted hotdogs, hamburgers, steaks, or chicken.

The fourth of July had always been one of my
favorite holidays. Not just because it commemorated the adoption of
the Declaration of Independence, but because it celebrated the word
Independence
itself. Freedom from control or influence of
another.

Freedom. How precious a word. How relevant
and powerful its meaning. Even more so to me now than ever
before.

Nearly three months had passed since the
nightmare in Bayou Crow, and so much had changed in my life in
those few short months. I still carried a few stubborn bruises on
my chest from Beeno’s beating, but little more. The surgery I’d had
on my hand to remove the rest of the bone Beeno had missed on my
extra finger had gone well. I sometimes still felt naked and lost
without it, though. Even after three months, I still reached for
gloves before going out to the grocery store, or I’d unconsciously
want to tuck that finger into my palm when I met someone on the
street, then remember it was no longer there. It was a freedom that
took a bit getting used to. The rest of the changes that came my
way, however, I took to immediately. Especially the one before me
now.

Sitting in a recliner, I folded my legs and
tucked them up under me, rested my head on a hand, and studied my
new family. Angelle was sitting on the floor in the middle of the
living room on one end of a Monopoly board, grinning. She’d moved
in with me about a month ago, once we’d finished burying Trevor and
selling her house. She still had night terrors over her husband’s
horrid death, but they were becoming fewer.

“No, no, you can’t have Park Place!” Angelle
said, laughing.

The giggles that followed came from the
little girl sitting on the opposite side of the board. She wore new
jeans and a bright pink t-shirt with flip flops to match. Her toes
were wiggling in delight. The first time I’d taken Sarah Woodard
shopping, the only thing she’d requested was that we not get
dresses or shiny shoes. I was more than happy to oblige. Not only
did we not buy either, we shipped the box of clothes her uncle had
given us before we left Bayou Crow off to the Salvation Army. No
more patent leather—no more dresses.

“Ya gotta hand it over,” Sarah said. “And the
hotels on it, too!” She giggled again, and the sound made my smile
broaden. She, too, still had nightmares, often screaming, “No more
mud! No!” in her sleep. The doctors and counselors said she’d get
better over time, but that the trauma had been so severe, there was
a chance her nightmares might never fully go away. Fortunately, the
only physical scars that remained on Sarah’s body were from the
snakebite, which luckily hadn’t been poisonous. It had healed
beautiful and looked like two small freckles on her cheek.

Rusty Woodard had been more than happy to
release Sarah into my custody, claiming that the
dee
-mons
had invaded his neice and there was no hope of her returning to
normal. The courts agreed . . .that the man was hazard to the
child, and when no mother or father stepped forward to claim Sarah,
the state agreed she’d be better off in my care. I felt a little
guilty because, secretly, I’d been glad when the girl’s parents
didn’t show. Sarah was home now.
We
were her home.

Sarah laughed at the pretend-dismay look on
Angelle’s face and said, clapping, “I’m rich! I’m rich!”

Angelle laughed along with her. “You’re a
hard customer, I’ll tell ya.”

Beside Sarah lay Fritter, still lop-eared and
wiry-haired, a permanent fixture in our home now, and Sarah’s
constant companion. His eyes roamed from Sarah to Angelle, then to
me, and he gave me one of his looks, only this one seemed to say,
“Thank you for letting me be here.”

I heard the soft hum of a motor from the
hallway and glanced over to see Poochie riding into the living room
on her scooter. She was humming
Jambalaya
, an old Hank
Williams tune about crawfish pie and file′ gumbo, and tapping her
fingers to the beat on the arms of the scooter. She winked at me as
she circled around the coffee table to join Angelle and Sarah, and
I winked back.

Poochie hadn’t shouted out a Bingo number in
quite some time. Probably because she now frequented the Bingo hall
in Cyler.Every Wednesday night, I’d drive her out there, and more
times than not she returned home with prizes, money, and big toothy
grin—toothy because Poochie had gotten herself a new set of teeth.
Although she never said,I think the sudden interest in a set of
choppers had something to do with Clayton, some old guy she’d met
at the Bingo hall her first time there.

Poochie’s scooter was new, too, an updated
version with compartments and a front basket for whatever
bric-a-brac she decided to carry around. It hadn’t taken her long
to learn its operation. She zipped and zoomed around the house and
every so often she’d give Sarah and Fritter a ride on it down the
driveway.

So much smiling and laughing now . . .

I turned my attention to the large picture
window that overlooked my front yard, and to the mesquite tree that
Pop Pollack had tended to with such love and care. The lavender
blossoms on the tree were gone, having given way to fruit that
resembled dried green beans—and to multiple pairs of shoes of
various sizes, shapes, and colors. As soon as Poochie moved in,
she’d wasted no time laying claim to her new prayer tree. As far as
I was concerned, Poochie Blackledge could fill every tree branch
with shoes, socks, and gloves if she wanted to. I owed her my
life.

Over the gentle laughter from the Monopoly
game and Poochie’s humming, I heard the crunch of gravel. I sat up
to get a better view of whoever was headed down the driveway.

A black pickup was making its way to the
house, and even from here I could make out the man behind the
wheel. He wore a black Stetson.

“Dere he is,” Poochie said, grinning. She
winked at me again.

The smile on my face broadened.

My sister was smiling, too, although I
wondered if seeing this man made her miss Trevor even more.

I got out of my chair and turned my attention
back to the window . . . to him . . .to Cherokee.

Without a doubt, Cherokee had brought about
the biggest change in me of all.According to Poochie, he’d been her
accomplice at the knoll. That night, he’d shown up at Angelle’s
house, and Poochie told him what we were up to. She said his face
got all dark, not with anger, but concern. She claimed she didn’t
have to convince him that Angelle and I were headed for trouble
because he already knew it. Somehow Poochie had talked him into
taking her along in his boat to look for us. Cherokee’s response to
that had been, “Poochie can be persuasive when she wants to.” To
which Poochie had responded, “Dat’s right.”

Obviously Cherokee was used to the swamps and
had skills for tracking. He said it had been easy to follow the
subtle, and not so subtle, trails that Angelle and I had left
behind. Poochie swore that her prayers had been the biggest help in
finding them. No one disputed that. Either or, the miracle had been
that they’d been found at all.

Cherokee also added that finding us had been
the easy part. What followed, though, had been the weirdest. How
he’d heard Poochie scream in rage, then her grabbing the shotgun
he’d brought along and blasting Beeno with it before he could stop
her . . . not that he would have.

Every time the story was told, Poochie loved
giving the details about how she’d raised that gun, gave Beeno what
for, and had never had a bad thought or bad dream about it since
then. According to Poochie, God had given her peace about the
incident, and she thanked him everyday for giving her a good
aim.

Cherokee had stayed by their sides throughout
the police investigations that followed that night. He helped
retrieve that poor dead woman from the swamp and the bodies of
those charred men. He also stood quietly by, attentive,
ever-watchful during Trevor’s closed casket service. He’d been with
them for the reunion between Nicky and his mother, who they’d found
in a Baton Rouge rehab hospital. Cherokee had told Nicky’s mother
that if she ever felt herself sliding into trouble again to call
him. To which I made sure to add, “And we’ll take good care of
Nicky for you.”

Judging from the frequent phone calls between
here and Louisiana, Nicky and his mother were fairing well. Nicky
still referred to Cherokee as Superman.

When it was time to pack Poochie and
Angelle’s belongings for the move here, Cherokee had been more than
happy to lend a hand. Even helped with the sale of Angelle’s house.
He’d been there every step of the way—quiet, strong. He’d even made
sure Pork Chop got on the straight and narrow so he’d be of decent
help at the Bloody Bucket now that Vern was gone. In the beginning,
Sook had talked about selling the grocery store and bar. She
mourned Vern terribly and didn’t think she’d be able to go on at
the Bucket without him. Last I’d heard, though, the Bucket was
still open, and Sook was still giving Pork Chop hell.

I guessed just like everything else in life,
you can only take one thing at a time. People did the best they
could. Lived and loved and died. But I didn’t want to think about
death now I had life on my mind. And the man parking his truck in
my driveway.

Before I left Louisiana, Cherokee promised
he’d come to Cyler to see me. From the looks of things, he’d kept
his promise. The sight of his strong face made my chest tingle, and
as I watched him get out of the truck and walk towards the
house—tall, straight, confident—the tingling turned to warm butter,
flowing throughout my body. I felt my face flush, and my palms
began to sweat.