Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (21 page)

“Did he now?”

“He sure did. I’m a little worried about those two, though. They ain’t nothin’ but pocket players. They were checking out my new car real fine. You know how much that car means to me. I saved a long time for that vintage classic, and I’ll be damned if anyone tries to steal it. If they put one scratch on it…I just don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll go mad, that’s what.”

“They must’ve been stalking you something steady, baby, to even know you got a new car. You park it in the garage most of the time.”

“I should’ve never left the top down. They wouldn’t have even known it was me.”

“Why? Can you tell me?” There was a pause, a voice in the back going a mile a minute, denying any involvement in the question that was just presented without a just cause. “Figures. None of you can answer why.” A long breath whooshed across the receiver. “Just for once in my life, I’d like a man to be straight, you know? A man that can really give me what I need. I thought I had it once, but then I opened my eyes and realized I was giving it to myself. Just once, is it too much to ask for my eyes to roll behind my head? I guess what they always say is true, when you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”

“
Woo hoo
,” they said in unison.

“Damn, Pis, you’re always getting us in compromising situations.”

“Just don’t let ’em tie your hands behind your back. That’s never any fun.”

“They’d have to catch me first.” Pistol could just sense the big grin on the other end of the line.

“
Woo hoo
,” they went again.

Then the call went dead.

H
ank had had a long day. That night, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep. After a period of peaceful stillness, the vision came in a vivid way. In his dream, he was dueling with a bug crawling on his nose. He kept swatting it away, begging it to stop,
just go away, dammit
, but it wouldn’t. He fought with it for a while, but he kept losing. Having enough of the villain bug, he slapped himself so hard it drew him out of the battle with a start.

Hank opened his bleary eyes in a dazed rush, caught something fuzzy coming toward him, the thing going straight for his nose. When he looked up, Delilah stood over him, a fishing pole in her hand. She was wearing a light gold thermal and old cut-off overalls. The dull leather of the cowgirl boots on her feet caught the peeking light sneaking in from the hall. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and soft baby pieces were falling around her face.

“Get up, Hank. We’re going someplace special.”

“We are?” he croaked and scratched at his nose.

“Come own now, if we don’t get, we’ll miss our dinner.”

“Why are you talking so very country all of a sudden?”

“
Hank & Delilah
. I’m playing my part, baby.”

He really had to stop sleeping around her. “Where are we going?”

Delilah dangled the pole. “I’m taking you night fishin’.”

“Oh, Delilah, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Oh, Hank, whyever not?”

“I’m cursed. I truly am. I have what my friends call the equivalent of a black thumb, except it goes toward fishin’. They call it ‘Hank’s black hook.’ If you want fish for dinner, I’ll buy you some.”

“All right.” She took her pole and started moving toward the door. “I’ll see you in the mornin’. Night, Hank Rivers.”

“Wait!” Hank shot up. “Are you still going?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She grinned.

At least she had the decency not to laugh at him. “All right.” Hank stood up and went for his clothes. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Hurry up then, slow poke. Molasses won’t be moving up-hill forever, now will it?”

Hank met Delilah on the back porch. He had to walk past a rowdy bunch of women playing poker and drinking Blue Pabst beers out of cans first. The smell of beer and strong perfume wafted from his clothes when he closed the door behind him.

Delilah was sitting on the steps with Freud. Two fishing poles, a tackle box, a jug of sweet tea, and a small ice chest were leaning against the house next to her. When she heard Hank, she turned around and smiled.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Not really.

Hank grabbed the tackle box and ice chest. Delilah carried their poles and the tea. Freud ran ahead of them, compulsively sniffing as he went.

They walked quietly through the woods—well, Delilah was; Hank was crunching the ground as though his feet were heat to popcorn—as a buttery moon ran through the trees, using its path to touch everything with tender light. Magnolia trees were abundant, their buds in full bloom and lustrous white, glowing in the dark. Chinaberry trees were ripe with plumping heat, the fruits of all their labors just as buttery as the moon sharing its hypnotizing gleam.

Hank could smell deep scented gardenia and honeysuckle. It percolated through the air so thick and heavy, it smelled like it was stewing in a cast-iron pot.

As soon as their feet touched a field filled with overgrown grass, the moon seemed to claim the sky, blasting the night risers with energy and vigor. Crickets were singing, croaking bullfrogs were complaining. A slow, warm wind was blowing. Lightning bugs rose and fell like they were made of helium, in and out of the stalks of flourishing grass.

An owl fluttered in a tree nearby, a soft
whoo whoo
floating above them every so often. A deer flashed before them, galloping in a frenzy to get away from Freud, who had suddenly become deathly still, using his paw to point in the fleeing animal’s direction. Delilah ticked her mouth and he was off again, running in the opposite direction.

Now that’s self-control.

It was Delilah’s turn to stop walking. She leaned over and collected a few of the golden honeysuckle flowers, saving them in her pocket with delicacy. The tiny florets were exceptionally crowded and fragrant here, the possible source of the delicious smell perfuming the earth with its tasty nectar. Hank took advantage of the foraging time to reverse his Memphis hat. In case she let him kiss her, it wouldn’t get in the way. After her pockets were full, they strolled on again.

Their pace was unhurried as they walked side-by-side, as slow as the night seemed to be moving. Molasses moved slow, no doubt, but so did butter, it seemed. Hank was thankful for that.

The moonlight showered Delilah, and Hank thought it looked like she was bathing in it. Damn, she had dynamite legs. He’d never seen them this bare, and they seemed silky soft. All of her seemed tender, but capable too.

“I just love nights like these,” Delilah said, her eyes dreamy and her tone matching. “I like moving slow like this. I like feeling like the night will never end. I think that’s what I love most about summer. It feels like it’ll go on forever. The days are stretched and the nights seem to go on and on. The warm air slows everything down. Time moves at a lazy pace. The world gets sleepy.”

The caress of her voice seemed to move over him, seep into his bloodstream with a fierce power, and he was starting to feel summer drunk. “Molasses time,” Hank said, grinning.

“Yes, molasses time. I like that. It feels just like that, doesn’t it? Dark, thick, leisurely moving, sweet and warm.”

Hank hated to do it, but he had to bring it up again. “Delilah, I’m just going to apologize ahead of time. I’m sorry we’re not going to catch anything.”

“It’s all right, Hank. It doesn’t matter. I just like being with you. It feels right.”

“I think that was the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.”

“Really?”

“Truly.” Hank motioned to the tea in her hands. “How come you didn’t bring any fancy cups for us to drink out of?”

“Why, Hank, you sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” she laughed.

“If that’s sweet talking, I must be Romeo.” She laughed again, and he said, “You have the most beautiful laugh. You have the kind of laugh I could live my entire life with. Even when I’m ninety, I would still want to hear it.”

“Now you’re just candy coating it. But I’ll take it. Thank you, Hank. I think that was the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.”

Hank stopped for a moment and so did Delilah.

“How come you never said ‘Dear Lord’ today? I like when you say it. I like to think I’m doing somethin’ right.”

“I never said it because you haven’t smiled at me today.”

Hank smiled.

“Dear Lord,” she said, turning around, walking faster.

“Now you’re just sugar coating it!” He called after her. She laughed again and Hank kept smiling as he easily caught up with her. He’d take that. He’d take every penny of it.

A drowsy silence had settled way down deep inside of them as they made their way toward the river. The kind that makes you feel like you’re floating and nothing is truly real. The Magnolia River was not far up ahead, black as the moonless night and as still as if it were empty, until a gust of wind blew past and rippled the water.

A dogwood in full bloom welcomed them before a massive oak, careening over the pier with Spanish moss gently waving in the wind, rose up from the ground, announcing itself as the keeper of the river. Hank couldn’t help himself from thinking otherwise.

The River Keeper met a long wooden pier at the bank. At the end of the pier was a gazebo. Hank imagined taking shelter there on days when the sun was callous, the heat relentless.

Freud took off after the pier. He stopped in the middle and, as gracious as was possible for an animal of that size, took his rest. He flapped his ears once before he turned his snout in the direction of the moon. Hank couldn’t help but think of all those hand-drawn pictures in Delilah’s house. If there ever was a picture of Freud to be created, the scene before them should have been it.

Instead of following Freud, Delilah walked to the River Keeper and opened a small wooden box, removing a patched quilt. She shook it out real good and then spread it on the ground under the branches of the oak.

“We’re not going on the pier?” Hank looked back and forth between Delilah and Freud.

“Not yet. I like this spot better to start. It’s my honey hole. If they don’t bite from here, we’ll move onto the pier.”

“I hope you’re not planning on catching too many,” Hank said, feeling himself much like the pooper of the party.

Delilah eyed him with what seemed like speculation before she shook her head. “No, we only catch what we can eat. It’s the Law of the Land. Anything else is just gluttonous.”

They laid the things they were carrying next to the blanket. Delilah leaned the poles against the ice chest and took off her boots. She opened the tackle box, whispering sweetly to herself about the best baits to use. Hank took a seat, stretching his legs, watching her in the moonlight as she fiddled with the rod and reel. She opened a container of wiggling worms and pushed them toward him.

“Hank,” she said with a smile, “I thought you were a gentleman? A gentleman never allows a lady to bait her own line.”

“I apologize, ma’am.” Hank took the poles from her and the container of worms. He set the creepers on the tackle box, catching one to use as lure. “With women’s lib and all that, I get a little confused from time to time. I’m not always sure what to do anymore. I didn’t want your union after me for taking away a job I wasn’t supposed to do. And besides that, I’d hate to see you in trouble for larvae murder.” Hank secured the frantic worm and slid the hook right through its body. He did hers first and then started working on his.

“Thank you.” She sat beside him. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Of all the things I could be tried for, larvae murder sounds the worst. I wonder if hanging is the punishment for such a thing?” She laughed into the night, but after she settled, her joy whisked away by silence, the night sounded too quiet, eerie without the sound of her. When she spoke again, the world seemed the ideal place to be.

“That’s true, isn’t it? You guys must be so confused. Do this, don’t do that. I sometimes forget how mysterious we can be.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “But the good boys always find their way. They’re the only ones who care enough to try.”

“It is work, I’ll tell you that. But, you know, it’s the best kind of work. I never found anything that came too easy to be much fun. I like to be challenged, to be able to say that what I have, I work hard for.”

“I think that statement deserves something, Hank. That was deep.” She bent over and opened the ice chest, pulling out two fat, asparagus-colored dill pickles wrapped in wax paper. She pulled the jug of tea over between them and handed Hank a pickle.

“I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.” He smiled, taking it from her. She looked away toward the water when he did. Hank’s mouth was watering from the salty smell. The taste of it so unforgettable, his jaw clenched just from the memory. Hank took a bite and crunched. “Heaven Almighty, this is good. I love when they’re cold.”

“Me too,” Delilah agreed, crunching her own. “I like them with sugary tea. It’s like a bittersweet meal.”

Delilah pulled her arm back and cast her line. It went zipping through the air and landed with a tiny plunk. Hank followed her and they sat together, eating their pickles, taking sips of tea out of the jug, all while holding their poles.