In the Rogue Blood (12 page)

He staggered back into the room and closed the shutters. The floor was slick with blood. He retrieved the percussion pistol and went to the open doorway and saw that the hall was still deserted. The snores persisted, the sporadic mumblings of sleeptalk. He supposed that screams and the sounds of fracas were so commonplace at The Mermaid Hotel as to rarely attract notice. He closed the door and checked the flintlock and saw that the primer powder was wet. The percussion pistol was still nicely dry.

Maggie was yet unconscious, spreadlegged on her back, her blonde pubic patch glistening, her shimmy bunched above her breasts. Her nakedness
seemed profound. Had he not seen it with his own eyes he would not have believed a woman could be so drunk that she was unaware of being ravished. He gazed on her for a long moment before hastily pushing her legs together and again readjusting the shimmy and covering her thighs with the shirt.

He dismissed the idea of putting her back on his shoulder and going in search of another hotel. If the boniface wanted to even the score for his friend in the alley it would be best to stay put and make the man come to him rather than try to get out of the place while carrying Maggie. Even if the boniface recruited confederates, he knew John was armed. They’d not be likely to rush into the room and risk a ball in the teeth.

He felt a rushing sense of elation that he could not have explained to anyone. He damn sure had a tale to tell Edward.
And where the hell were
you
while I was busy savin our sister’s hide is what I want to know
.

He cleared off the small table and set the lamp beside the bed and then braced the table firmly against the door. He balanced the basin and pitcher at the edge of it so that any jar of the door would topple them to the floor in warning. He took off his sopping coat and shirt and wrung them and put the shirt back on and hung the coat on the bedpost to dry as best it could. Then he got in the bed and sat facing the door and with his back against the wall, the cap pistol in his hand and his leg against Maggie’s flank. The front of his pants was damp and stained with blood. He wanted to take off his boots for comfort but felt readier for trouble with them on. A minute later he thought to blow out the lamp to give himself cover of darkness and make a better target of anyone who might suddenly open the door and frame himself against the light of the hallway.

For the next hour he sat keenly vigilant, his eyes fully adjusted now to the darkness. Lightning sporadically flickered blue-white against the shutter louvers. He heard nothing other than the relentless splash and rumble of the storm. He now felt certain that the boniface would not pursue the fight. He had also become intensely conscious of Maggie’s pressing warmth. He tried to think of other things, of the sights he’d seen between Florida and New Orleans, of his first view of the Mississippi, of anything but Maggie lying beside him in near nakedness. But the harder he tried to ignore the feel of her flesh against his leg the keener his awareness of it.

He looked at the shadowed shape of her, at the easy rise and fall of her breasts. He spoke her name and patted her cheek and gently shook her shoulder. She groaned lowly and rolled onto her side facing away
from him and the shirt fell away from her legs and her bare buttocks snugged against his hip. He said her name again and stroked her hair but she did not move nor alter her breathing. He put his hand over her breast. Caressed it through the smooth satin. Felt the nipple draw tight. He startled himself with his moan.

How many times back in Florida had he sneaked up to the river on warm days when she went there to bathe and watched as she splashed naked in the shallows and lathered her breasts and fingered their pink tips and stood in the thigh-deep water with her eyes closed and slowly soaped herself between her legs? She wasn’t yet thirteen years old the first time he spied on her but he could never afterward be near her without wanting to put hands to her. He had ached to touch her, kiss her, to fondle her little breasts and stroke her pretty legs. To put his face in her hair and rub his cheek on her belly. To kiss her blonde sex.

His self-loathing had nearly consumed him. Only the lowest, sorriest, most worthless son of a bitch on two feet could ever look on his own sister that way, could have such damnable hankerings as his. In the early months of watching her from the bushes with his throbbing cock in his hand his disgust with himself was so great he thought of hanging himself from a stable rafter. He’d pin a note to his chest: “Not fit to live another day.” But over time he’d learned to accommodate his self-disgust by simply enduring it to the point of familiarity. Yet he’d sworn to himself he would never touch her in any such way as he yearned to. Would never behave toward her as anything but a good brother. Would look out for her and protect her as a good brother should.

Liar! Goddamn dirty liar! You ‘re as much a liar as your goddamned mother. It’s the same low blood in both you, low and mean and not worth a rat-damn
.

He laid the pistol by and turned on his side and ran a hand over her hip and caressed her bare rump. He insinuated his fingers between her legs and felt of the fuzzy nestling warmth there, and now the sudden slickness. The ripe smell of her sex closed over him like a net. His erection pulsed painfully in the stricture of his trousers. He cursed himself under his breath and unbuckled his belt, undid his buttons, shoved his pants off his hips. His phallus bobbed free, aching to its roots.

No, goddamnit, don’t! DON’T, you bastard you damned bastard…
.

He might as well have commanded the storm to cease banging at the shutters. He moaned as he entered her from behind, sliding in smoothly and deep, pulling her tightly against him and almost immediately spasming, crying out as if spilling the devil’s own milk….

He clung to her for a time, stupefied with horror.

Then extracted himself and hoisted his pants and buckled his belt and sat up against the wall. She stirred and mumbled slurringly and rolled over and snuggled into him with an arm over his hips.

For a time he sat unmoving, feeling the rhythm of her deep respiration against his leg, his own breath raw and tight in his throat.

God damn me
.

It was his only thought.
God damn me
.

He had no idea how long he’d been dozing when he opened his eyes in the dark and immediately felt the difference in the way she was breathing and knew she was awake. He stared down at the dark shape of her and his heart jumped as she abruptly pulled away from him and said in a strangled voice, “Who’re you?
Who?
”

“Don’t be scared.” It was all he could think to say. The effort of speech pained his throat.

“Who
are
you?” Her voice had a hysterical edge. “Where
is
this?
Where?
”

“Hold on a minute, just hold on.” He reached down and groped alongside the bed and found the lamp and brought it up and dug a box of matches from his pocket and struck four duds before one flamed. He lifted the glass and lit the wick and the room was cast in weak yellow light.

She was huddled at the foot of the bed, staring at him, arms crossed tightly over her breasts, legs folded under her. Her face was puffed and her eyes red and wide and uncomprehending.

“It’s me, Maggie. Johnny.”

Her brow knit as if she’d been asked a strange question.

“
Johnny
,” he repeated. “Your
brother
.” He held the lamp closer to himself.

Her eyes roved over his face, searched his eyes intently, lingered at his mouth. “Johnny,” she said dully. She abruptly put her thumbnail between her teeth and bit on it and immediately pulled it away again and folded her arms tightly once more. Her eyes were on him but somehow did not seem to be truly
looking
at him.

“Maggie, don’t you
recognize
me?” The look in her eyes was frightening. “I’m your brother, goddamnit. Johnny, I’m
Johnny
.”

And then she said “
Johnny
,” almost as an exhalation. And smiled.

His heart leaped. “
Yes!
Oh Jesus, Maggie, I thought
… we
thought you were…. She said … momma, I mean … she said—” He stopped short at her sudden laughter. It was hollow and toneless, as unnatural as the awkward set of her smile and the vague focus of her gaze.

“She said he
killed
you,” she said, smiling unnaturally, crookedly. “She said he killed
both
you all is what she said.”

“Maggie—”

“No, no, she did, she did!” Now her eyes widened and then she leaned toward him and said in a breathless rushing whisper, “She used to talk to me when nobody else was about. She told me he was crazy and beat her awful all the time and was going to kill her and so she was going to run away and did I want to go and I said yes, yes, yes, and she said for me to sneak out at night and take his horse and wait at the place upriver where me and her used to go to get mussels and not to move from there no matter what till she showed up. I took some food and matches and stuff and waited and waited for I don’t know how many days. I was so awful scared at night. I was sure a painter would eat me, or a gator. Finally I couldn’t just wait anymore and I started back to home. Then I saw smoke from over where the house was and I could hear him yellin way off somewhere, yellin and cussin. I was too scared to go look so I went back to where I was spose to wait and I waited and waited I don’t know how long. And then I heard a shot and then another one and I was so scared. And then she finally showed up and she was all beat up and her dress was all tore and she had Foots and Remus and she … she told me …”

Her look seemed to fix upon him clearly for a brief moment and she put her fingers to her mouth.

“What happened?” he asked gently. She looked all around the room. “After she showed up,” he said. “What did you all do then?”

She turned her vacant eyes back toward him and her fingers moved down to her breast. “She said he
killed
you. Both you. Said you went lookin for me and when you got back you all got in a argument and he shot the both you dead. She said we had to get away quick before he found us and killed us too. We rode and we rode. We slept in the woods. She had this big butcher knife. She made me wait in the woods outside Mobile while she went in town and sold one of the mules and then we could pay to sleep in a inn ever now and then and buy us some food.
But mostly we slept in the woods. Ever time we saw somebody comin down the trace we got off into the bushes and hid.”

Now her eyes widened fearfully at some vision in her head and her rasping whisper dropped lower still and he had to lean forward to catch what she was saying. “In Missippi these men come on us in the woods, these three men. He had a number twelve on his eye, the biggest one did. He grabbed her by the arm and she cut at him with the butcher knife and he twisted her hand and her arm cracked just like a stick. He laughed at her and pulled her down on the ground and pushed up her skirt and did it to her. This other one who smelled like dead fish, he did it to me and I hollered it hurt so bad. Then the other one who looked part nigger did it to me. Then the biggest one. He hurt the worst of all. I thought I’d die. She kept tellin me not to cry, not to give em the satisfaction, and all the while they’re takin turns on her too. When they finally quit I couldn’t stand up. I was all bloody. It felt like I was all tore up inside.”

As she spoke she was rocking slightly and cupping her sex with both hands as if holding to a wound, her eyes wide with the envisioned memory. John felt as if his chest might burst with his rage.

“Her hand was twisted funny and all swollen but she never did cry, she never did. They were drinkin and laughin and said they were goin to sell us to a whoreman in Narlens. They put a rope round her neck like a dog and tied me sittin up against a tree. I musta fell asleep cause next thing I knew it was nearly daylight and the one looked part nigger was layin on his back with his pants around his knees. His throat was cut open and the ground was dark red all around his head and between his legs where she’d cut off his thing. The rope leash was lay in there and she was long gone on the best one of their horses. Nobody never heard nothin. The other two cussed a blue streak when they saw what happened and I started to cry cause she’d left me behind. The fishy one started kickin me and cussin me and the big one told him to stop or I wouldn’t be worth nothin in Narlens. But he kept on and said he was gonna make me pay for what she done to Larry who I guess was the nigger one. The big one grabbed him away from me and they started fightin. The big one got the fishy one around the head and twisted it and you could hear his neckbone when it bust.”

“
Damn
him!” John said. “I wish
I’d
killed him, Maggie, I do! The other ones too—all the sonsabitches!” And he thought:
Listen to
you,
you no-good piece of filth
.

She looked at him narrowly and then rubbed her eyes hard with her
fingertips. And then went on, less hurriedly now, her eyes fixed on the space of bed between them. “We rode all day ever day and he said he wouldn’t put his thing in me no more so I could heal up down there and he could get more money for me. But ever night he made me … made me, you know, put my mouth on him. At first I about choked, but after awhile I got so I could do it all right except when he’d let go and I felt like I was drowning. He—” John punched the mattress between them with such sudden ferocity she flinched and gave him a puzzled look. And then she went on: “He give me whiskey. Said it’d make everything easier. The first time, I drunk it down quick just like I’d seen him do and it came right back up through my nose and burned so bad I couldn’t see for the tears. He thought it was real funny. He showed me how to drink it in little bitty sips till I got used to it. He had me drink with him ever night when we made camp, and after a while I guess I got to like the way it burned its way down to my belly and made my lips get all numb and not care about nothin. He’d laugh when I got so I couldn’t walk straight. Sometimes he played on his mouth organ and I’d dance all around the fire.” She paused again, still staring into the space between them, and seemed to smile slightly. “One night I took off all my clothes while I was dancin and he clapped like he was at a show and called me darlin and kissed me on my mouth for the very first time.”

Now she looked up and past him and her face darkened and her words came faster. “Then we got to Narlens and he sold me to Boland for one hundred dollars. Told me he was gonna miss me awful bad and he kissed me goodbye. I was so surprised and all confused because right away I missed him so much I couldn’t hardly breathe. I come to feel like nobody could hurt me when I was with him. When he left I cried and I cried till Boland took a strop to me to make me quit.”

She brushed brusquely at her tears as if they were pestering flies. She stared fuzzily at him for a moment, then showed a twisted smile and said, “Say, you aint got maybe a little somethin to drink?”

He looked at her for a long moment, unable to find words to tell her what he was feeling. “No. Wish to hell I did.”

She yawned hugely and swayed and caught hold of the bedpost. “Jesus,” she said tiredly. She curled up beside him and accommodated herself, nestling her blonde head on his lap.

“What was his name?” John asked. “The one who sold you like you was some slave girl on the block.”

Her words were muffled against his thigh. “Twelve. Big ole twelve on his eye….” And then she was asleep.

His own fatigue weighed heavily on his burning eyes and he lowered the lamp to the floor and settled himself supinely and readjusted Maggie’s head to the hollow of his shoulder. The thunder was now a distant growling and the lightning had ceased flashing against the shutters and the rain had eased to a light patter.

Don’t think on it. Think of how you found her and got her away from there. Think of how she’s all right. She’s all right because you did good. Don’t think on the other. Things just happen sometimes. Aint nobody’s fault. Things just happen. She anyhow don’t even know. Nobody knows. Nobody but you. Leave it be and don’t think on it, you no-good rotten son of a whore bitch…
.