Black Water (31 page)

“No, I ain’t, I’m desp’rate! I wanna man that acts like, one ‘n maybe I shouldn’t tell ya this ‘cause it’d give ya th’big head, butchu more ‘n fit th’bill! Got a weiner like a horse, and I love it you’cn keep from goin’ off short o’ the finish line.” She let her housecoat fall to the floor, stood naked but for her panties, and gripped his lapels. “I ain’t been worked over like last night in a long time ‘n I betchu got ideas in yer pants I ain’t never thought of, ‘n I wantchu t’do’m t’me!”

“I ain’t int’rested. MOVE!” When he tried to get by, she skittered to the back door and planted her palms on either side o’ the doorjamb and anchored her bare feet in the corners.

“I’ll letcha hit me if ‘at’s what starts yer engine,” she purred. He was pushin’ her off when she said, “No! Wait just a God Damn minute! Just answer me one question.”

He stopped and rolled his head in frustration. “What?”

“Tell me who you thoughtchu’s fuckin’ last night.”

“What’s ‘at mean?”

“Who’s Ret?”

“What?”

“I’ll letcha call me anything. I don’t care! Hell, I’ll change m’God Damn name if ya want! Tattoo it on my ass. Come on, tell Ret whatcha want. I’ll give ya anything she can ‘n a lot more.” Excited by his reaction at hearing Ret’s name, she continued, “Last night…y’had me on m’back, remember,” she jiggled her floppy breast, “slappin’ ’em around. That whatcha do? Slap hers ‘round? You didn’ think I’cd take gettin’ fucked ‘at hard, didja? You tried t’hurt me with ‘at big ol’ thing? Huh? Why don’tcha try it again? Maybe bite me? Huh? Make me bleed?”

The words shot a lightnin’ bolt through his brain and he shoved her into the wall. Her head hit hard ‘nough he thought she’d fall to the ground, out cold. Instead, she bounced back, grabbed both breasts and squeezed so hard even he grimaced. Her fingers dug into the flesh, she looked in his eyes and ordered him, “Come on, you sonovabitch, hurt me.”

He pushed her off and was out the door. She followed him into the backyard. “I’m th’best ride you ever had ‘n you know it,” she exclaimed, gingerly skippin’ after him across the gravelly dirt.

“Yer th’best in thirty years,” he said without lookin’ at her. His hair was standin’ up on end, and for some reason, he didn’t want to look at her. Scared to look at her. “But I’ll do better.” He pulled the Studebaker’s keys from his pocket and opened the door.

“God Damn you, you bastard! Don’t leave me here like ‘is!”

He slid in, closed the door, and started the engine. She moved to the front of the truck, pressing her palms to the hood, figuring to thwart his departure.

“If you ain’t gonna stay then take me with ya!” When she added, “You’cn putchur face under m’dress and gobble gobble gobble,” he could’ve sworn her right eye was black as pitch and the other, slate gray.

He ruined her plans by backin’ the truck up, turnin’ it around, grindin’ it into first, gunnin’ it across the yard, and fishtailin’ onto the main road. She watched him drive off, but, as the truck moved down the road, her demeanor changed, and she calmed. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She drug her fingers through her hair, puttin’ it back. “Run, Hub. Run!”

She looked to her left toward a weedy clump of trees in the lot across the street, then to another on the right, and smiled. “And a good morning t’you, too.”

Then she swooned, threw her arms out to keep her balance, and blinked to clear her vision, surprised to find herself standin’ in her backyard, all but naked. She draped her left forearm over her bruised breast, surprised at how badly they hurt, cupped her right hand to her crotch, and hopped through the gravel to the house.

She plopped in one o’ the dinette chairs, wonderin’ what in the world she’d been doin’ in the yard? Naked? There was a plate and coffee cup on the table and another set on the floor. The cup broken. She looked up at the clock on the wall—7:52. She didn’t remember gettin’ up. Didn’t remember comin’ home. Lockin’ up the café. The last thing she did remember was some fella cuppin’ his face to look in the Studebaker window.

Hub drove through the streets of Oledeux and took in the changes made in three decades. Paved roads, traffic lights, neon signs. The Meeting Hall at what used to be the edge o’ town was gone, replaced by a store that sold ‘lectric ice boxes, washin’ machines, and televisions. Radio with pictures. A couple o’ old men stood on the sidewalk lookin’ at ’em. Another quarter mile up the road, he came on an Army and Navy store claimin’ truckloads o’ World War II and Korean surplus stuff and pulled into the parking lot. Half an hour later, he exited with two bags, nudged ’em tightly in the corner o’ the bed by the cab, got in, and pulled out, headin’ for the swamps.

Ever mile he drove reminded him o’ somethin’ missed all those years, an energy that was infusing his body and mind once again. It came from the smell mostly. A Looziana blackwater swamp smelled like nothin’ else in the world. Decay and rot, both tangy and sweet. To a body raised in it, it was heaven. It was like cow shit to a rancher or the farty stench o’ spent diesel to a trucker. To Hub Lusaw, the swamps meant freedom and home.

Finally, he came to the end o’ the dirt road he’d taken off the main. He pulled to a stop, got out, and looked around. From that point on, he’d be on foot. Ten minutes later, he was decked out in new duds from the Army and Navy, more appropriate for swamp sloggin’, with a large knife, sharp on one edge and a sawblade on the other, hangin’ from his belt. He adjusted a backpack and checked his bearings with a new compass. Satisfied, he started into the back country, hoping for salvation.

Shit! The elephant was back. His gut seized up like the fist o’ God, driving him to his knees. A goathead inside him was tryin’ to dig its way out, scratchin’, stretchin’, flexin’ its spiny self. When it got to where he could breathe again, he pulled out Ball’s pill bottle and shook one out, his third for the day. He popped it in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow from his canteen. He was soaked in clammy sweat. Definitely the worst bout yet. Ball had told him the pain would increase gradually for two or three months? And what about the last month?

The last month, Hub, you won’t die quick enough.

He sat down until the pain let up. When he felt a little better, he made camp. It was too late to keep going, anyway. The pain had weakened him so much he fell into a deep sleep seconds after he laid down. Lootie and the Little Rets let him sleep for a change.

The sun was up on the second day, and—fortified with a hearty breakfast of cold Spam, one of Ball’s pills, and a few swallows o’ water—he was off again. It was fairly smooth going, and along about noon he came on what was left of an old cabin, not much more than a few river rocks of what used to be a fireplace and chimney and some o’ the flooring. Time and the elements had eaten away the walls and the roof, weeds and mice now being the only tenants, but even so, there was no mistaking it. It was the same cabin he’d sketched and plastered his cell wall with.

He pulled out his compass, checked his bearings, and started off again. A mile and a half futher, he spied a huge tree and, running to it, fingered a thirty-year-old hatchet scar in the shape of an arrowhead, deep in the bark. Another of his etchings. He looked in the direction the arrow pointed, verified it with his compass, and started off again. Thirty minutes later, he found hisself in a clearing. Somethin’ wasn’t right, though. He knew he was in the right place, had to be, but where was….

Off about fifty yards, he saw another tree, but this one was layin’ on its side, propped up by some stouter branches, like a body layin’ on the floor, the side of their head resting on their palm. From its condition, he determined a storm had probably felled it years before. He ran his hands over the rough bark, inspecting ever inch. There was a mark, but from what little of it he could see, it was possibly a natural occurrence…but maybe, just maybe, part of another arrowhead. If it was, though, most of it was buried under the trunk. He jiggled his backpack off, pulled out a WWII surplus folding camp shovel, got down on his knees, and dug under the trunk.

Hot Damn! It was the arrowhead, but with the tree layin’ on the ground, which way had the marker pointed? He stood up and carefully, methodically, looked all around the root system wrested from the ground and splayed out like dozens of desiccated, arthritic fingers. He was trying to determine, when it went down, if it’d twisted around or fallen straight over. Noticing that many o’ the roots on the side o’ the trunk on the ground, although dead, still remained in the soil, givin’ him his answer—it had fallen straight over. He imagined the trunk upright, and, when he finally thought he had it figured out, headed off. He remembered approximately how far it should be to the next position, and knowing that, calculated how long he’d be trav’lin’ before finding it. If he had miscalculated, he’d have to come all the way back to the tree and try another direction.

He hadn’t gone fifty yards, though, when he felt it comin’. He fell to his all-fours, emptied his guts on the ground, and washed down another pill. Not good. That was the third for the day, and it was only late afternoon. He’d also taken three the day before. He was reminded of Ball’s warning about the danger of taking more than two in a day. He’d been so fucked up worryin’ about “you won’t die fast enough” he hadn’t thought to ask what that danger was. He took a few minutes for his stomach to settle down, got to his feet, and started off again.

Just under an hour later, he came on a small hillock. Another o’ the drawings. Pushing through the sparse trees, he saw a mound at the top, scampered up the grade, and, when he got to it, wriggled out o’ the backpack, tossed it aside, and dropped to his knees. He brushed the decayed leafy material from the mound to reveal a pile o’ stones. The marker! What they called a
cairn
. It was still there! Ever stone, exactly as he’d left it. Thirty years! He was as excited as a kid jerkin’ off for the first time and removed all the stones to the bare ground. He pulled the shovel from his backpack, unfolded it, and started diggin’ like a crazy man.

With dirt flyin’ in all directions, the shovel finally slipped over a lump of rotted cloth. Canvas. God Damn! He’d completely forgotten about the canvas. All this stuff was comin’ back to him! He was amazed to think that he’d had the presence of mind then to even think o’ the canvas.

He was coming out o’ the Komes’ shack after killin’ George and Matthew, when he saw the big leather satchel settin’ just to the right o’ the door on the porch. If he hadn’t looked in that direction, if George’d left it on the other side of the door—or in the truck— he never woulda seen it.

He dug a trench around the bundle and tried to pry it out, but the cloth disintegrated in his fingertips. He dug the trench deeper and wider, then laid the shovel aside, and ripped through multiple layers of rotten material until he reached somethin’ stable enough to pull on. Rockin’ it back and forth, he wrestled the object from the hole and greedily peeled away the cloth. And there it was. The satchel. He caressed it like it was a woman’s silky thigh, delicately pickin’ off any tiny errant dirt speck, and unlatched the buckle.

Then he stopped.

Before he opened it, he wanted to take a minute, stretch it out. He’d waited for this moment for thirty long years. He wanted to remember it, wallow in it like a hot bath.

He sat on his butt, wrapped his arms around his knees, and looked around. It was quiet. The solitude, startling. Nothin’ but trees and rocks and sky and swamp. He was all by hisself, and he had fifty thousand bucks tucked between his legs. The money’d waited for him. No one had put their grubby hands on it since his buryin’ it. He looked at the satchel and thought how funny a thing time was. Ever day in prison had been an eternity. Yet now, here he was, and it seemed it’d been only hours, maybe even minutes ago, that he’d dug the hole and buried the satchel.

Finally, he couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted the flap and pulled open the bag’s mouth. It smelled kinda rank, but he passed it off to time. He reached in and pulled out a pack o’ bills. Hundred-dollar bills. Then another, and another, and another. They were crisp. They were perfect. Thirty years old and brand-spankin’ new. Next he pulled out a small hatchet and two guns. George and Matthew’s guns. He didn’t remember their bein’ in there, but at the time he’d been in a hurry. Then another smaller package. Another .38. His. He didn’t remember puttin’ it in the bag either. He musta really been fucked up that night.

He picked up all three, one at a time, wrapped his hand over the grips and his finger over the triggers to see what they felt like. His hand liked his own the best. He snapped the cylinder open and rolled it on his forearm to check the load. It was full. He snapped it back and set it aside. He giggled, barely controlling his excitement. What an incredible experience. Everthing was exactly how he’d left it! It was like magic. Regardless of how well he’d buried it, he’d worried. He knew that however remote, there was the possibility that somebody, somehow, coulda stumbled on it and everything woulda been lost. But it hadn’t. He rummaged back in the satchel and noticed another somethin’, a page of newspaper rolled up. He pulled it out and unrolled it. It stunk. Bad! It was the same smell he’d detected when he first opened the satchel, but about a thousand times worse. He looked at what it’d helt for thirty years. What the Hell….

Then he spidered out o’ the way. Bumps ran up his spine and he wiped his hands on his pants leg like he’d just shaken hands with a syphilitic leper. Now he knew why it smelled so bad.

Peckers! Two of ’em!

Not that he’d studied the subject at any great length, but actually having one of his very own, he knew a dick when he saw one, and they appeared to be human. Two uncircumcised human peckers! Hairy nut sacks and all! This was Matthew’s shit. It reeked of him. But, where in Hell had they come from?

After he got over the initial shock, another thought entered his mind. Not wantin’ to touch the things with his fingers, he picked up a couple of little sticks, and in the fading light, carefully rummaged through the grisly remains. He was lookin’ for somethin’ else. As much as the peckers had withered, he knew what he was lookin’ for wouldn’t be very big. Definitely no bigger than a cashew. Probly more like a raisin. It wasn’t there. Disappointed, he tossed the detached, blackened duo off to the side.