Wicked Temper Part 16

A C O M I N G F O R.

Jake Shea was flummoxed. He was kind and you know the kind. Him that's better than most. d.a.m.n him. Being an outcast preacher himself, he understood a preacher's dilemma, though he'd of liked to forget it. He had a preacher's walk and he walked it. In other words, Jake felt downright able when it came to soothing upset kids. Especially his own. So it pained him quite raucously to find J.Pea weeping and ashiver in the darkest nook of Lizzie's stall. Jake thought he was the only living Shea awake that damp Spring morning when he decided to scrounge baling wire from his barn in the darkling hour before dawn. But instead, he heard his only son sob-busting before he even opened the door; and once inside, Jake found J.Pea holding himself tight, taking little comfort from the mule's fodder he burrowed in.

"What's ailing you son?" Jake asked carefully.

"Oooooh, ooooh, zzzzzz," was all the boy could mewl.

Jake asked again, rephrasing the question, then rephrasing again. Yet this attack fell short, somehow. The boy wouldn't look at Jake or rightly respond. Lizzie kept nosing J.Pea's exposed ear; generally he would have talked to her at least, having taken refuge with her. But J.Pea kept his tailend toward his daddy, and toward his mule who shifted straw with her heavy hoof.

Now, Jake, he will abide him a flummox. Much longer than I. So we'll cut him some slack, how about it?

Jake went back into the house. After a while, J.Pea's mother came out to coax him with a hot bowl of pudding. She quoted Gene Autry at him. He wasn't in a cowboy mood.

"Come on now, darlin, what's got you to ailing so?" Odelaida Shea asked.

"Oooooh, tzzztzzztzzzz," was the only answer, "zeeeezeeezeee....

Odelaida left the pudding outside the stall, then returned to her warming kitchen. Shortly, Old Granmammer got out of her sickbed, wrapped herself in three housecoats and a good wool blanket before venturing out to the barn. She came into the stall with sister Val's red rubber waders protecting her gnarled toes. She minced no words.

"J.Pea, boy, were hit one o'yer caintrips?"

"Whar went, whar went, tzzztzzztzz....."

Suddenly, the witchy boy blinked up at her through the mule's shins, his eyes rimmed with tears.

""J.Pea! Were hit--?" she demanded.

"Oooh, ye know it was Granmammer."

Granmammer leant against the mule for warmth and support. She chilled easy these days. "Whar was ye when hit come?"

"F-fetchin a drank in the kitchen last night. Woke up thirsty, ooh, come downstairs fer a drank I did. Looked out mama's kitchen winder when I heard wings a-flappin on the gla.s.s. Next thing I knowed, ooooh, next thing I knowed I was gone. Lordy, mercy, save me from another caintrip."

"How many took ye this week, child?"

"Six. Used to be two, maybe three a month."

"But this'n scared ye soul?" The old woman's voice rasped like a soft, familiar file working on his heart.

"Yes, ma'am," J.Pea sat up in the straw, one hand sharing Lizzie's warm belly with his grandmother. "Heard them wings a-flappin and looked down in time to see this h'yere barn a-pa.s.sin underneath me, then I flapped harder and spun up through the trees over Cooly Bug Creek. Caught me a stiff header what carried me higher, higher, up into some strange wood this side o'Riddle Top. I was a hootowl fer a fact. A chalk-feathered hootowl."

"White..."

"Uh-huh. Whiter'n King Cotton. So I lit down on a rock in them dark woods, a big ole rock full o'holes n'sich. And pert soon, here come a magpie who sets down beside me."

"Oh me..."

"And the magpie, he don't talk, but Granmammer he tells me plenty, somehow. He tells me enough." J.Pea was trembling deep within, fresh tears stinging his cheeks.

Old Granmammer came around the mule then took the boy's clammy wrist.

"What was. .h.i.t he tole? You kin tell Granmammer."

"A band o'darklin boogies..."

"Yes..."

"Magpie sings, at first. A cackly song, jist one note over and over, swing low, swing low, he sings, a band o'darklin boogies jest a-comin after me..." A horrid pain bleated from J.Pea's lips, he formed the words slowly. "Oooh Lordy, then magpie tole me about a tree. A turrible, turrible treee--"

He wept. Granmammer frowned. With knuckle and spiked thumbnail she turned his face.

"Hesh, hesh now--I was tole about that tree, years gone by. Hit--hit weren't no birdy what tole me, hit were a snipe and I'll be nothin but bones afore I fergit what that snipe tole about that tree. But you kin start fergittin right now, boy. Ye too young to be hainted by sich an affliction. Here, chew on this." Granmammer fished a queer, b.u.t.ton-headed herb from under her housecoats. "Now, you go up thar to that kitchen and you tell yer Daddy Jake to pour ye a snootful of his good likker. You tell him I says. .h.i.t's the only way. You tell him, I want ye drunker'n a piper afore breakfast. Then, J.Pea--are ye a-hearin me proper?--then I want ye to stay tiddly, today, tomorry and ther next day. Plenty o'this herb oughter help ye. But you must do hit. You stay so datblamed tiddly that yer sick fer the rest o'ther week until Sunday-river-meetin. And with any charity at all, yer nog will be so pickled and cured that you'll fergit about cottonback hootowls and hateful trees what ye cain't do nuffin about. Don't believe they is no tree myself. Nope. Ain't no tree. Hit's jist giddy-gaddy nonsense. And from now on we'll try to keep yer conversatin confined to Mizz Lizzy Mule h'yere and that ole c.o.o.nsniffer sleepin under my bed. They got plenty to say without slittin yer gizzards open. I learnt a thang er two about them caintrips. They's some tricks ye kin play, to help yeself out. Now come on in with Granmammer. Is too dang dark and too dang cold fer this Christian woman's nature. Be a while before sunup and I jist might eat a herb with ye, jist to git ye started on ther right foot."

So that's how come Granmammer helped herself to a taste before retiring to her feather bed one barely Spring morn; and that's how come Jake Shea took up the challenge, helping his only begotten son stay lit for three days running.

Y O U S E E, I S E E,.

W H O S E E I C Y S T R I P E S ?.

Behind her sungla.s.ses, Fionuala Starling was nursing her baby when Lovell came home; her lovely arches arched before an electric oscillating fan, heels on a damp tea cloth on a tea table on her porch. And despite its persistence, the fan did not hypnotize away the p.r.i.c.kly discomfort Fionuala had felt all afternoon. She heard Lovell's footsteps coming through the house. He was late getting back from the fiddlemaker. But, late or not, she was glad for his company. The Royale Vic must have overheated again, probably while climbing the pike to Cayuga Ridge. When Lovell opened the backporch screen, she smiled. Just this morning he'd plucked along with the paper rolling through Asta's old pianola. He was practically a one-man band.

Stroking his chin like his devilish Van d.y.k.e still grew there, Lovell sank into the other porch rocker. He took her hand. But his was an unreal, faraway smile.

"What's happened, aelspin dear?" she asked. "Did the anti-coolant geyser again?"

Lovell lay his other hand on the baby's head, quietly, watching her suckle from Fionuala's rosebud.

"Huh? No," he said, like the question was slow getting to him. "How's she goin?"

"Caitlin Fina? She's a Starling princess, heir to the Starling throne. What's she got to burp about? It's her tippity, wilting, naplessly anemic mother who needs attention."

Fionuala could see Lovell was struck, struck as a tuning fork; he was oscillating--albeit, at a higher tension than she. Higher voltage, lower wattage. She gleaned as much. He wasn't looking at the baby, or lending an ear. Lovell was looking at his hand upon the baby. No, he was looking at thin air, about six inches short of his hand and the baby. An island in s.p.a.ce. Fionuala took off her sungla.s.ses. Unbeknownst to Lovell, his thumb gave his little wife's palm an oily workout. Fionuala gave him a couple of minutes, and soon he was talking...

"...so, like always, after Hayden's Crossroad I bop it into low gear and ease down the Run. It's hot..."

"Yes, and not even the solstice yet."

"...and it's still hot where the road cuts next to the river. Just past the old foot bridge I see something in the road. Somebody, I should say. A soldier." His eyes met hers, she was ripe with wonderment. "A frozen soldier." He was nodding already. "I got out and looked that Uncle over good. He was froze, baby. Iced over, head to toe, laying crostways on Six Bucket Run with a long pistol froze in his c.o.c.ked hand. See, it's stranger still--he'uz in uniform, I swear, but it's a snowcaked Yankee blue uniform, like they wore durin the Southern Independence--way, way back, you know? And he's a colored fella, and his eyeb.a.l.l.s look like big hailb.a.l.l.s. I believe I saw a rank stripe er two on his cuff. Darlin, I have not been a-drankin. Well now, what do I do? Tell you what I did. After all, cain't leave him there a-puddlin in the road. I git back in the car, I pull the car around him, gonna put him in the trunk and cart him back to Bull's mebbe. Or to the new doc in Ewe Spring. h.e.l.l, it's a legal matter. Alright, I ain't got a clue what I'm a-gonna do with him, but I pull the car around and back it up close to his stiff carca.s.s. So he's reeeal convenient. Now, listen, now, I set the brake--and before I can get out and load him--I hear a gunshot, a backfire from the tailpipe, I don't know. Somethin loud, I heard. Loud. Out my window. Never knew the Reo to backfire before. But I hear what I hear, so I jump out, jump back, and that frozen soldier ain't with us no more. Nothin but dry dust where I found him. What you think o'that? Frozen soldier. A bluebellied Yankee Tom. I never even got the trunklatch open."

The baby was asleep; Fionuala's breast still winked out of her blouse, her mouth poised open.

"My word, sir," she exasperated at last, "you have been adventuring."

Just then, Lovell's brow went quizzical, both hands withdrew. "Wait, wait. Say that again--"

She didn't understand.

"My word?"

He turned profile, leant an ear toward her. "Again--"

"My word, my word."

He was scaring her. He turned one profile, then the other, making her repeat it. Finally, Lovell snapped his fingers alongside his left ear. Several times. Fully stricken, his fingers stopped popping.

"Oh, hon."

"What, Lovell, what?"

"I just went deeaf in my left ear."

And so he was; the axeman's ear went deaf and stayed deaf. The d.a.m.n thing just up and died on him. From that day forward his was a c.o.c.keared harmony in a c.o.c.keared world. Fionuala raised her voice from time to time, another new experience for Fionuala Brynn, and baby girl was fine, just fine. The Starlings got used to it. It was the big guitar that suffered.

D E A R E S T C O R L I S S.

August 26, 1855, Schoonswyk House.

Dearest Corliss,.

As I sit writing this upon your desk, my husband, I am surrounded by your pipes and ledgers while across the room, our room, you lie sleeping with your new bride, Katrine. Her coppery hair is pressed against your sleeping lips where my own dark strands were once clenched in your teeth. It is only a few hours since you spent yourself inside her belly, as you often tried to seed my belly in repeated carnal fits. You are both so lovely to behold, entangled, enraptured in each others arms. She is a divine creature as you well know. She was my friend. But it is you, dear Corliss, who is the true beauty. Your clefted chin, so familiar to me, catches the candlelight as I pen these words and I am taken once again by the delicate a.s.surance of your face, your long lashes and sinuous arms. Arms that can hold me no more.

Perhaps she will bear you the son you so desire. I could not. Certainly you have sired more than one pickaninny with that precious octoroon who lives beyond the mill pond, the tiny, sad-eyed girl who still does your laundry. But, of course, she could not and can not provide for all your needs. My, my, Corliss, for such a wealthy young heir bred into such privilege and fortune, it has taken so many of us to leave you so unsatisfied.

The hour is late. I can hear the oaken grandfather ticking mournfully outside the locked door, he ticks and tocks, echoing the halls of this great house. I always loved that clock. You said he was mine. But he is still yours, for you never give up anything once you possess it, do you dear husband? Long after person or thing are of little worth to you, you still cannot relinquish that which you deem as yours. So be it. I love you. Will always love you and would never deny you.

Did I deny you when you insisted on ravaging my insides so soon after my last miscarry? Did I deny you when later that very evening you led me to the root cellar and cut the vein in my neck? Did I deny you when you kissed my open eyes, as I whispered your name, sweet Corliss, as death overtook me?

I could not deny my love. And in so many untold ways, you have sent me wandering afar, to vast faraway fields and visions of spiritual wonderment that I never knew in life, muchless within the confines of your manor. For I have seen things, Corliss, visited places that I dare say even you in your travels have never dreamt of. My desires were small, silly, sometimes even petty dreams that belonged to a not unattractive la.s.s who was fatefully spoiled by her kind father, no doubt. A genteel child who only longed for poet's lace and a love that would bind. And so, I was given to you, and you to me.

Can you possibly fathom the worlds that you have opened to me? I have stood atop these mountain peaks in a raging firestorm, and looked out across these heavens while a thousand veils enfolded upon themselves, revealing phantasmic secrets to my thirsting soul. The skies have swum like nectar before me, engulfing me, sworling open like some infinite camera obscura, allowing me to glimpse the unknowable beauties we can never unlock in life. For me, as I walk these hills, there is no daybreak--only eternal twilight betwixt death and redemption. For I am pa.s.sing my love, forever pa.s.sing. And as I go, I meet others like myself who bespeak tales of utter woe, far more beleaguered and horrific than any sorrow I have to tell. We listen, each to the other, then we pa.s.s on. I have met lost children, the grieving mothers who smothered them, and I have visited with soft, gentle souls who are only asking forgiveness for sins they cannot remember, questing in peaceful resignation for an everlasting pa.s.sage to home. We are all going home.

Oh, Corliss, I have so much left to see and learn. And you have given me the time, the means. My heart is full as I watch you cuddling your freshly deflowered bride. We are each so fortunate in our mystery, Katrine, you and I. What will become of her? Will you torture her into submission, will she give you sons, will another Schoonswyck heir make the difference? Surely not for you my husband, surely not for you. I worry that your ravenous charms might consume you before you find the blessings of rest. You shan't harm or corrupt my vessel or hers, only yourself, and the pity you've wrought would be unbearable to those of us in the pa.s.sing.

So I must return, often, to visit you. To a.s.suage your wounds. I will try not to be a bother. The bedroom doors are bolted from the inside, the windows locked. They will still be so in the morning when you arise and find this letter waiting on this desk. You will recognize my handscript but I will have left, for now. But do not vex yourself too harshly, dearest Corliss. We are bound together. My love will never leave you.

Forever yours, Earla Vi.

Little girl, rise and be healed...

Swaggart.

W I C K E D T E M P E R.

Two dominica hens were run low by Matthew Birdnell's pickup, shortly after amen. Night coming, he mowed them down on Skawmarrow Holler Road, or so they say; feathers and blood flew as the singers sat and Preacher Polk took the pulpit. Hosannas rose and fell, every soul joined in the glory, and young Tizzy heard it so clearly, that darkling eve, heard it so datgum well. h.e.l.l, spake the Preacher.

"Brother...my sister....my wretched chilren," he boomed, eyebrows tangling as the truck broke past outside. "I am naming my text this evenin. The Book of Malachi and the Book of Revelation. Chapters four and twenty-two, respectively. Fer behold, the day cometh, that shall burn as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall be stubble: and the day that cometh shall burn em up, saith the Lord o'hosts, that it shall leave em neither root nor branch." He found another leaf, removed the ribbon. "Blessed er they that do my commandments, fer they git rights to the tree o'life, and may enter through the gates o'the city! Fer without are dogs, and sorcerers, and a wh.o.r.emongers, and a-murderers, and idolators, and whosoever loveth and

maketh a lie..." The Preacher's goatee lifted, dour he was, locked in eternal scorn. "Let me show ye somethin you ain't never seen before."

Suddenly Preacher Polk's nails clawed a handful of pages from the Bible, ripping tissue, he flung them away.

"That couldn't possibly make any difference to most o'you. Most o'you cain't read. I don't know whose fault that is, it's not mine. But do you hyear the word? I don't think so. I don't think so. Outside is where the stench must remain. Outside the city of eternal life. Outside the city of blessed salvation. Outside with the blackest heart that walks this earth...these mountains...Cayuga Ridge. Yes, you know who you are. And so do I." His chuckle was cruel, wiping spittle from his mouth. "So do I brother. You gone risk perdition eternal lest you bend to his commandment as. .h.i.t was tole unto you! And only then will you cross over and feast on the fruit o'rapture, the tree o'life. You must eat yer own mortality. You must drink the blood of G.o.d's own son. You must do these things. Great G.o.d Jehover shall smite you with his hand like a broadaxe, should you fail to rectify! That's the true Jehover, not none o'these horned G.o.ds hyerebouts. Let me tell you the story of Aaron and Zedikiah...." He faltered, eyed the congregation warily. "No...I....don't think I'll tell that story on this day. Never sleep with a cat in yer bed on the half moon. Hit could result in narcolepsy. Fer there's no place you kin hide...when G.o.d is out to git ya. He's a-knowin it all. He's a-seein it all. He's a-tellin it all...to me brother. He tells me so many things. Teensy-tiny things. And I am his Revolting Angel. See? And I've come to offer you..." he searched. "...blinded sufferance. Fer ye own stupidity. I'm tarred o'waitin....He's tarred o'waitin." His dark brow sagged, in defeat. "Why not let tonight be the night."

Something awful crowed out in the churchyard. Preacher Polk shot an agate eye to the front pew. To Tizzy, who hung her head when he did it. A mere will o'the wisp smile became her, as always.

S T E P 1.

After vespers, she stood beside him in her buckletop shoes, swatting chiggers on her legs as the old Preacher shook each Magee's hand, and each Lufkin and each Witherbaugh and every fat brother of that ponytailed hag, Shonda Gay Biggs, and even Shonda's fat Aunt Prin from Ewe Springs while he was at it. Preacher and daughter stood in a gra.s.sy pool of lamplight as folks made for their pickups and buggies. Out in the darkness kids played hop frog in their best hand-me-downs; ladies retrieved jugs of cider, mola.s.ses cookies and pie baskets, filling their husbands arms. Cayuga Ridgefolk twittered in the pines. Deacon w.i.l.l.y Jay lit a big fire over on the schoolground. By then the Preacher was pumping Lemuel Baywright's freckled hand.