Smonk or Widow Town Part 3

The boy listened beatifically. The word wh.o.r.e had risen the devil's tool in his britches.

Smonk didn't notice or if he did didn't say. It was one of them perfect nights, he talked on, smoking. I got on a hot streak and couldn't of lost if I'd wanted to. Done won all they money and then won they pistols and a week of free whoring and a knife and a beefsteak ever day for the rest of my life and the steeple off they church. But it was near four in the morning fore finally I won the bird. And on threes! When I left that parrot was setting right cheer. He tapped his shoulder.

They was waiting for me in the alley, them c.o.o.n-a.s.ses. I shot them I could and s...o...b..d one or two and was about to kick the last one to death fore Ike pulled me off. And the whole time the bird never flew off my shoulder. When I finished it said Bust.

Overhead, Ike made a sound with his lips. A whistle of air.

I know, I know. Smonk winked and ashed his cigar. Brother Isaac here, he whispered to the boy, never did cater to that bird. Used to say don't trust it. Say Let's eat it ever time we got hongry. But I'd always concealed me a weakness for things of the air. I cherish a d.a.m.n hoot owl. The ravens out west. Even yer common finches and spares. Bats, too. Always contained me a soft feeling towards a bat.

The boy wished he had a pet bat. It could fly and fetch things. Nothing big, just bat-size things. Ladies' earrings. A pocket.w.a.tch. Flitter of wings and the tiny shiny objects of the world at your command.

Smonk waited till he was paying attention again.

So I come to enjoy this particular bird's company and let him ride my shoulder ever minute of the day. I remember it could say fart and sang Clementine and it could do any birdcall it ever heard. Squirrels barking. A bobcat. Opera. It was jest a treasure. Then one night I was drunk on some vile potato splo a G.o.dd.a.m.n Irish foisted on me and without a speck of warning that cunning bird reaches over and takes out my G.o.dd.a.m.n eye with his beak, jest like that. Smonk snapped his fingers. Swallered it like a pill.

The boy slapped his own forehead. Dad gum! What ye do?

First thing I done I sobered up right quick, case he meant to go for the other one. Then I plucked him of his feathers and twisted off his little yaller legs and his beak and et him alive.

Dang, said the boy. How'd he taste? Had ye give him a name?

I had. Stan. Such was the name I give him. He jest looked like a Stan to me. And good. He tasted real good to be such a traitor. Somehow he was still tender.

Ike's eyes shrank in their wrinkles, which was how you knew he was smiling, as he studied the horizon for pursuers, and Smonk rubbed his goiter thoughtfully. During all this excitement the mule had wandered up and was pushing its snout against his shoulder, the saddle off center from its run and sweat tracks down its gray sides. Burrs in its tail. Smonk ignored the mule for the wh.o.r.e it was, off with the first little s.h.i.t to put a.s.s to it, and studied the boy.

Didn't I use to hold congress with ye momma?

Sir?

f.u.c.k her, ye twit.

Yessir. I were six year old and a half that last time ye got some. I'm near bout twelve now and this much taller. He held his hand to his throat as a measure. But I remember it real good.

She like it when I nailed her?

Seemed to, yessir. The boy paused and peered into Smonk's eye. Daddy says you a coldblooded killer. He says you ain't like normal folks. Says you of the devil. You gone kill me, too, Mister Smonk?

Smonk glanced at Ike.

Well, he said. I reckon ye daddy would know plenty about the devil. But I done met my quota today, so naw, I ain't gone kill ye. But get the h.e.l.l out of here lest I change my mind.

The boy disappeared into the sugarcane.

Smonk let Ike haul him to his feet where he drank more whiskey, easing the pressure of his goiter with a series of crisp belches. He tossed the jug back and chewed his cigar.

You called it, I, he said. Trap, sure as sin. I'll concede ye that one.

Ike puffed his pipe and his gaze swept the horizon.

Smonk followed where he looked and saw the road he'd just blistered with speed. The red dust still settling. The sugarcane had been baked by the unremitting sun and the stalks if you touched one would crumble in your hand. The sky beyond glaring white while every leaf of every tree or bush had been coated red, the far-reaching sugarcane itself crimson in the distance.

Ike said nothing. He looked behind him where a hawk dropped from the sky into the cane and rose back up, the fieldmouse in its grip still clutching sprigs of straw in its tiny fingers. The lessons the world taught were everywhere.

Mister Smonk?

The boy. Tapping his elbow.

Junior, Smonk said not looking down, if I want any more s.h.i.t outta you, I'll squeeze ye head.

I wondered might I get my balloon back's all. You can keep that dern mule. It kicked me one time.

Smonk looked at the balloon over his shoulder, gray-blue and traced with veins and linked by a string to the mule's ear. He looked at the boy's dirty face, its skewed grin and missing front teeth and dimples and glittering blue eyes.

He reached in his bootleg with a grimace and withdrew a gleam of light that when turned in the air became a pearl-handled Mississippi Gambler stiletto with a groove in the blade for bloodletting.

Eugene, Ike said.

Smonk winked and flipped the knife in his palm and presented the handle. Here.

The boy s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

Now git.

But- Smonk took his cigar out of his mouth and touched its fire to the balloon.

Dad gum, the boy said when it popped. How bout the string, then?

Running west into the dying sun, the boy knew better than to go back to Old Texas. All the men were dead there, including William R. McKissick Junior's daddy, the bailiff. First William R. McKissick Junior's momma taking off after Mister E. O. Smonk and now his daddy the bailiff shot dead by Mister E. O. Smonk.

The boy ran, holding the knife Mister E. O. Smonk had given him. He pretended it was a birthday present from his momma.

His daddy-before he was a bailiff and before Mister E. O. Smonk had shot him dead in Old Texas-had been a paid employee for Mister E. O. Smonk. In Oklahoma or someplace. Whenever Mister E. O. Smonk used to come to see Daddy once or twice a year, it meant him and Daddy would get drunk on Mister E. O. Smonk's licker. Mister E. O. Smonk's giant head would loll and he would slide gold coins over the table at Daddy bribing Daddy to let him go on have a piece of Momma. Sometimes it took a hundred dollars or more but Smonk seemed to think everything had its price. Momma would of been acting peculiar all night anyway, how she bent over pretending to look for dustb.a.l.l.s under the table where the dustb.a.l.l.s had been growing like a beloved crop the entirety of William R. McKissick Junior's life. And her with no drawers on. William R. McKissick Junior used to hide under the table trying to see her nethers, taking out his devil's tool and disobeying the Bible. Then, as coins rasped across the table, Daddy would say Ah h.e.l.l, go ahead to Mister E. O. Smonk and Mister E. O. Smonk would grunt up off the chair unb.u.t.toning his britches with coins falling out of his pockets thumping like hail on the floor and his suspenders falling down one then the other. Momma always chose that moment to pretend not to want none and make a fuss of being dragged in, getting her dress all tore, thigh-leg for all to see and her bottom too. Daddy would grab up the coins and stalk outside in a fury and start kicking the dog across the yard, or William R. McKissick Junior if he caught him under the table. From behind the sheet hung to divide the shack in half, the only thing louder than the bed creaking was Momma squealing.

And ever dern time, after Mister E. O. Smonk come out from behind the sheet, pulling on his suspenders and smelling his fingers, Momma would follow him, all slinky like. Wearing nothing but a shred of undergarment. In a good mood. Tired-looking. All smiley, a certain sweat about her.

Not noticing the menfolk at the table talking about murder, she'd scoop William R. McKissick Junior in her lap and hug and kiss him and smell behind his ear. Her cheeks flushed. Her bosom too. You could see most of em. Just not the nipple parts. William R. McKissick Junior would try to peek down her collar to see the nipple parts and he'd get him a devil's tool in his britches and Momma would feel it on her leg and pop the imprint of her hand into his bottom and say, You stop that. You bad boy! You stop that right this second!

He ran fast, now, the devil stirring in his pants at the memory. He waved his new knife, accelerating to a gallop, more of the air than earth, whooping and wheeling his arms.

For he was going at last to the woman who took in orphans! There were no other children in Old Texas and the boy wanted somebody to play with. Rumor claimed there were no rules in the orphanage ner ch.o.r.es neither and that you ate whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and went to bed when you chose and you could even screw the girls if you had a mind to. William R. McKissick Junior very much wanted to screw a girl. It was all he thought about. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g girls. Now here was his chance for some real cooter. He ran faster than he ever had before saying Cooter, cooter, cooter, cooter, cooter. Then he ran even faster than that, his new knife slicing the air like a curse on its course. If only he had the balloon.

4.

THE CROW HUNTERS.

EARLY THAT SAME SAt.u.r.dAY, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE RIVER town of McIntosh and wild loamy climes north, Evavangeline happened upon a quartet of ancient hors.e.m.e.n in their tattered battle grays all these decades later and bearing long untidy beards the color of war. She'd lost her boots and guns to the Tombigbee's currents and, because of her clothing and short hair, the foursome took her for a barefooted young whippersnapper as folk were wont to do in those simpler times and invited her along on a crow hunt up north ways. It was great fun, they promised, and they had whiskey.

You thank he's too old? she heard one ask another under his breath.

Naw, he replied, then shushed his companion.

What the d.i.c.kens yall shushing about? Evavangeline called.

Don't be so testy, lad, said the man from his horse. You want a ride?

I'd ruther not. I can't abide me a d.a.m.n horse.

You a fool to run.

Best not say nothing like that to me when we tap into that whiskey.

Preciate the warning.

Within half a day the crow hunters and their new young compatriot had arrived at a blind made of corn shucks and cane stalks and positioned in the northwest corner of a dried-out cornfield. The men dismounted as Evavangeline leaned against a tree to catch her wind. One of the crow hunters led the horses out of sight and returned later and they all knelt together and entered the blind and lay waiting, their breath meaty and rank. They told jokes on one another and pa.s.sed the bottle and belched and farted so densely her eyes stung.

You got a extry gun? Evavangeline asked the man nearest her. Faded chevron of a sergeant on his shoulder.

Naw, he said. I jest got my three ones here.

Well, if another one appears by holy miracle in ye waistband or coat pocket or a.s.shole, will ye lend me it a spell?

I will, said the man. He popped her on the rump.

The bottle came her way again. She drank a snort. She could feel it travel the length of her body like a herd of iddy biddy horses. With little naked men mounted upon them. With every swig there were more little horses and more little men.

A hunter told one about his army buddy getting his legs chopped off by mistake and they all laughed and one man spewed whiskey out his nose.

Don't be wastin that, the first hunter said.

It's yer turn, they said to Evavangeline. To tell one.

I ain't got nare.

Got a big ole red scar, one of the men said. On ye neck yonder.

Well, she said, there's a story.

She told about the time she got in a fight with two Irish. She and the Irish were hiding in an alley together. Evavangeline twelve or thereabouts. The potato-eaters, grown men, made fun of her red spot and she told them to go screw they selves. They came at her and she kicked the front one in the b.a.l.l.s and got a fist in the jaw from the other. But his follow-through took him off balance and she uppercut him with her knee and split his lip.

Then I slit both they thoats and rolled em, she said. Did ye like that story?

d.a.m.nation, the hunter cried. I'm a veteran. Ever white man of my generation's been shot. If they ain't ye can't trust em. I meant no offense.

We all got scars, another man said.

In a huff, she climbed out the back to make water.

She was squatted there, her head cottony from the whiskey, when the veteran hooted. He'd stumbled out for a p.i.s.s himself.

Hey fellers! he called. This here high-strung one's a split-tail!

She tried to rise but he grabbed her ankles. He dragged her hollering and bare-a.s.sed and clawing at the turf around to the front of the blind and the others climbed out with the bottle.

This here's a genuine piece of tail, boys, the veteran said. He unfastened his fly and leapt forward. He prized her knees apart and began to hum "On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand" and poke his dong about her thighs.

Boy hidy, said one of the men watching. I call next.

She tried to clamp her knees but he was in there. Then her hand happened upon the pistol he wore backward on his belt. She squeaked the gun from its holster and flipped it in the air like a circus shooter. In quick succession she shot the three men witnessing-gut, chest, neck-who hit the ground dead still holding their p.e.c.k.e.rs before the fellow atop her realized she had the barrel under his chin.

Wait, he grunted, I'm fixing to get a nut- But he didn't.

She shoved him away dead, his member still engorged and purple like an obscene mushroom. She swapt it off with his own bootknife and watched the stump blurt a rope of blood and spume like that fountain they had down in Mobile where men went to meet other men.

Sitting in the dirt, she held her head for a while, then pulled on her pants. Insects were gathering at the edge of the pooling blood like souls needing baptism. She wrenched the boots from the veteran and stabbed her feet into them. She reloaded his revolver and shot him a few more times in the gape where his jaw had been and collected their guns and then, despite her disinclination, she found the horses where they were tied and freed three and for herself chose the tall bay with spotted legs and leapt into the saddle.

In the afternoon the field began to fill up with crows gorging on corn. After a while they came through the stalks and gorged on the eyes of the men, and then their tongues.

Meanwhile, time pa.s.ses. The chase stretches. The men endure. Some forget who they're chasing or why.

But Walton never forgets. They've commandeered a steamship now, chugging upriver, the horses irritable, the men bored.

A river is no place for a man, the Christian Deputy leader thinks, pacing up the deck and back. On the bank he sees a wildcat lift its dripping muzzle from a slain "razorback" hog. Walton flings his hand in the air. There! That is the life for a man. Any moment that a man is not wearing a b.l.o.o.d.y beard he is less than he can be. The leader gave a two-fingered salute. You are manly, n.o.ble wildcat! But not I, not with this, not with this, with this, this, this this this this bull-c.r.a.p!

Lord forgive the profane word I just thought in my head. My flawed human brain! No excuse but my pent-up wrath at this sinner I'm chasing. I won't even say her name. She "galls" me, Lord. This Evavangeline. She tempts me, my Savior. They all think she's a man but I know the truth, O Lord Savior. Mine eyes are better than mine companions' eyes are and I was first in the door, Lord Jesus, and I know that while they are just mites, they are womanly b.r.e.a.s.t.s indeed, Lord Jesus Christ, and what else she had, O G.o.d in Heaven, I won't mention in Your Devine Presence, but You of course know Yourself, don't You, as Your n.o.ble Lucky Hands formed it Themselves, didn't They, Lord? There it was, glistening, O Holy, just for the flick of a second, Lord Jesus Christ Above, and I saw it from behind! Her "cooter," Lord! Her delicious red v.u.l.v.a! Lord my Christ my Healer! And thus I am forever tempted by this woman. Evavangeline. Evavangeline. Hers is the first v.u.l.v.a I have seen other than Mother's, O Lamb of G.o.d O Perfect Prince. Please in the meantime forgive this hapless sinner, Lord. Amen.

Across the deck, on Walton's command, Ambrose was teaching the troops to read. There'd been grousing about having a Negro tutor the men, but Walton had delivered a stirring lecture about the necessity of the races getting along. It was why, he confessed, he'd chosen a Negro as his number two man. When no one seemed moved by their leader's oratory brilliance, however, he had threatened to dock the pay of any bigot. Meanwhile, Walton spotted the tip of a bow among the troops.

Red Man! he called, replacing his hat, securing the cinchcord underneath his chin.

A tall red-skinned man stepped up out of the crowd of students; the bow belonged to him.

You're Cherokee or something, aren't you? Walton said.

Something.

Don't get "riled." Why isn't your hair longer? In a braid? There's not really a C.D. rule about hair length. In fact, it might be fashionable if you were to let it grow- Long hair is vanity.

Ah. Yes. We agree. I've been needing to "get my ears lowered" too. But listen. What's your opinion of, if we're tracking a certain convicted sodomite, and we're on a steamboat, say, forging upriver, and our quarry is probably, you know, on land by now, going really fast, train or horseback, whatever, and we're stuck here on this unholy lurching boat moving about a knot a day which is essentially not moving?

I'm not sure I understand, Mister Walton.