Wicked Temper Part 21

"--G.o.d a'mighty if he weren't the hairiest shoat I ever had to stick."

"Hairy like a witch baby," her sister said. Her hair was hacked short, jet black.

"Mama said she come up on a piggy--when she'uz a little girl--come up on it an it was a-readin the back of a ole coffee can. Paw-Paw bled that piggy and burnt it. Right off he did it. He give mama the burnt ashes in a tow sack--and she thowed em down a well."

"Yer a liar," the sister a.s.serted. "She give them ashes to Aint Willa an she made a real strong cough serum. That'uz that serum what saved Paw-Paw an Uncle Bennie from the yella jaundice."

"Oh me..." wheezed the old tapping woman.

Tizzy wandered through the grocery shelves, mute, memorizing all three women over the top of the bread. Below were donuts and packaged pastries.

"Uncle Bennie...?" the big strawberry blond posed, hooking both thumbs in her overalls, her face freckled, sunbeaten. "Uncle Bennie was down with the dropsy, I'm perty sure..."

"Yer perty sure o'what? Yer perty sure o'nothin. Paw-Paw an Uncle Bennie both kitcht'at yella jaundice the week a-fore Christmas...letsee...nineteen and thirty-ought-somethin....aw, thirty-ought...? Cain't seem to recall...now..."

"I thank Uncle Bennie give Paw-Paw the infection..."

"Shut up Myrna."

"It's simple arithmatics..."

"Myrna! Ignernt ox! Granpaw'd tan you if he knew how unremarkably purile you was!"

"Oh me...my word..." went the old spinster.

The strawberry blond laughed, whacking her sis on the back. "Settle down, little sister, Daddy loves ye and I love ye. Yer a keeper. Granpaw loves ye and Miss Doobelle loves ye too--doncha Miss Doobelle?"

"Lord yes, hon," the wrinkled Doobelle exclaimed. Tap. Tap. "Yer a prize tomater and we love ye to death."

Matthew snickered at them. Tizzy held a pecan roll. Nervous, she glanced up. Miss Doobelle smiled at Tizzy from behind the counter. Tap. Tizzy smiled back.

"That ain't the point, Myrna!" the jet black hairs stood up. "Yer tellin tales after school. Tales ye don't know nothin about."

Big Myrna curled her lip at sis then smiled sweet for the old lady. "Doobelle, how much er we owin?"

Doobelle came to life; she ran a feeble hand over the goods on her counter.

"Oh me..." she warbled. "We've got a two-pound black pepper, rice and coffee, Wine Of Cardui..."

Tizzy's hand exchanged the pecan roll for a small sweet potato pie in cellophane. Timid, but quick, she slipped the pie under her dress and into her panties. Matthew sidled up the counter to press his flesh with the big girls.

"Hidy y'all--" his voice cracked like a parrot "--I hear the n.i.g.g.e.r sang Dixie."

n.o.body laughed. The black-headed sister grunted, she was still pretty peeved. Old Lady Doobelle was straining for good humor, but Myrna, well, Myrna looked downright surly. Her eyes bid upon Matthew like she was sizing him for slaughter.

"Ain't from this neck er ye?" she decreed.

"Aw, sure I am, sis," Matthew swilled his cherry pop. "Jist up the road a piece, Skawmarry Holler jist t'other side o'Cayuger--"

"Well, we don't cotton to that line o'talk around hyere, not around ladies we don't."

"Well do fergive me, Myrna," and Matthew took another swill, still grinning.

This didn't satisfy the big girls so they snubbed him, paid their chit and left. As the door jangled shut, Matthew set his half-drunk pop bottle beside the register. Doobelle nodded at him simply, like her head was on a loose spring. Tap. Tap.

"Honeybunch--" Mad Dice called out to Tizzy. "Ye want that sweet roll?"

"Nope," Tizzy said, approaching the counter. The old lady made precious eyes at her. So did Mad Dice.

"Ye want some crackers er a soda pop then?"

"Nope." Tizzy was a blank, scanning the hametugs and tack on the wall behind the proprietor.

"Nope? h.e.l.l, I thought you was hankerin fer a bite to eat?" he said.

"Well I'm not."

"Howz about one o'them new fleet trailerhomes an a three-tube Zenith radio?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"I swan," he swore to the lady. "Young'uns these days. Well, I'll jist be a minute, gal--" his eyes locked on Tizzy's, "--better wait out in the truck."

"Okay," the girl said, obedient. Her hands were clasped in prim fashion across the tummy of her faded print dress. She went, and as Tizzy opened the door she saw the big sisters turn the crossroads on their chugging diesel tractor.

Matthew lolled his head back around to drool over Miss Doobelle. He was c.o.c.ked, leaning on the register.

"Anythin else...?" the old one asked.

"Ah-yuh, I could go fer some of them Camel ready-rolls. Two packs."

"Surely, there ye go. That will be six bits."

"Aw--" Matthew snorted. "Yer a-j.a.pin me."

"Do tell?" the lady looked bright and stupid to him, like a withery scarecrow. Tap. "Didja fergit somethin--?"

That's when he slid the pistol from his shirt.

Her rheumy eyes got bigger, wiser.

"No, sweet mother, I didn't. You did. You dang near fergot to fork over that booty. Now open'er up!"

His pistol jerked at the register and Doobelle got the message.

"Oh me..." She palpitated, fluttering like a sparrow. Tap went the thimble. Her bony digit released the drawer. Jittery hands spread the cash before him.

"Wait--!" he tw.a.n.ged, his pinhole pupils dancing with raw voltage. "Count it. Count dat money."

Fumbling, she tried to please. "...thirty-nine...forty ...forty-one. Forty-one dollars. Do ye want the silver?"

"Let the devil take yer silver, ole darlin." And he s.n.a.t.c.hed the greenbacks from her. Crudely, they were balled up and shoved into his pocket. Now Matthew was retreating through the hullsacks. Doobelle's thimble dropped off. It tapped and rolled. Her mouth was agape, fear-stricken.

"Now don't ye holler--"

"Oh me, no, I won't--"

"Ye ain't a-gonna holler on me--?" His tailbone hit the screen.

"I won't holler--"

"Naw, I reckon ye won't."

And his gun exploded. His trigger tripping before he knew why for or how; a b.l.o.o.d.y hole bloomed betwixt Miss Doobelle's eyes. KA-BANGGG. She fell.

Cackling, he flew out the screendoor.

Tizzy heard the pistol's report, a clattering screen, as she sat in the cab. Gooseflesh swept her as Matthew landed behind the wheel.

"What'd you do--?" she bleated.

"Watch out!" was all he said as the engine cranked.

Dumbstruck and dead ahead, the Gospeltime milkman stood in the windshield: his milktruck and twelve milk cases blocking their path.

Matthew ground into reverse, backing out from the pumps like a streak. More grinding, and the pickup gunned away fast, hot for the road, kicking gravel--and that milkman was in the windshield again! He cut in front of them, waving, shouting something Tizzy couldn't quite understand like stopweseenyou before Matthew cursed and dodged him. The gravel began to skid when Tizzy saw the mule just pa.s.sing. Ephran Lych bent on his mule. They were about to run Ephran down. Tizzy grabbed the dash, the pickup sailed across blacktop, the brakes locked, she felt the pickup's rearend slide around and they went careening into the mule and rider, broadside. Tizzy screeched as her window smashed into the hairy belly and trouser leg, the beast bellowed, gla.s.s flew and Matthew fought the wheel. BAAA-ROOOOOOM! Lych and his mule were crumpling like shadow puppets as the truck lit for the crossroads. But a hay wagon was crossing. On it, four black shining lads sat paralyzed--staring head on at the barreling truck--Tizzy and Matthew both terror-riven in the oncoming cab.

The boy locked brakes again, the Studebaker pickup reeled around, full circle, smoking and squealing.

And they sped away. Returning from whence they came--him berserk, her door stoved in, leaving human devastation in their wake.

b.l.o.o.d.y, she screamed in his ear. "We still ain't got no gas!"

S T E P 5.

About halfway back to Bull's Gladiola Lounge was the cut off, where the dirt road ran up the branch to Ewe Springs. They left the asphalt and ventured in a good hot hurry, raising dust along the draw, past a few fancy gabled houses. Suddenly Tizzy didn't want to go home. She wanted to die. Now. Home was impossible. She could never return, for that would be worse than eternal d.a.m.nation. She thought about the Preacher as she picked gla.s.s shards from her scalp. She didn't whine and she didn't blubber. She had a pretty good idea of what happened back there, inside that store. Lych and his mule might even be dead. And Matthew, he looked scared alright; gripping the wheel, tongue working, lips dry with that gun in his lap. But he also kept breaking into chuckles now and again as his eyegla.s.ses bore ahead. That said it all. Matthew was gone when he got up this morning. So was she. And that set her straight. Tizzy never cried over spilt milk. She remembered the coalbox and the Preacher's icy, hateful touch. Then Tizzy Polk knew. Hers was spilt for good.

Their hearts raced for several speeding minutes, before they heard the first sputter, Matthew pumped the pedal anyhow as they flew, then coasted, then died on the roadside. Getting out, Matthew pushed the empty truck into a dry, brushy creekbed. Its tailgate was still visible from the road, but there was nothing they could do about that. The sun had shifted in the sky, they were moving into afternoon. Matthew mentioned a driveway he'd spotted just before the gas ran out. They trotted back down the road. Matthew made no effort to hide the gun and Tizzy's side ached but she kept up with him. They wasted no time.

A blue Packard convertible sat on the gravel drive. It was a nice, two-story home, not too big really with an alcove and black shutters. Each shutter had a white star. There was no key in the convertible's ignition, but Matthew heard a splash. He slid over to the birdbath, peeking along the side to the backyard. He glimpsed a toddler in her frilly bathing suit. A woman's echo caught his ear, and giggling children.

Tizzy knit her brow watching Matthew skip onto the porch. She did not tarry when she saw him sniff sideways through the screendoor, then slip inside. It was open. And she went in after him.

It looked like a nice family lived here, in this airy place, with the doilies and crayons and hardwood floors. Mercifully, none of them surprised their intruders. There was a grand hook rug in the parlor and a Bible on the kitchen table. Over the sink, Matthew found carkeys. He also saw the young mother and three children out the sink window. The squirtlings were blowing soap bubbles in the backyard. Twin boys and a girl. And one lovely mama in sandals. Matthew loitered at the sink, watching their bubbles float. Watching young mama splash baby girl's footsies in the frog pool. It made Tizzy squirm, the way he considered them out that window, them so blissful and ignorant of his hungry eyes. And Tizzy so wise to the disaster in his hand. "Come on," she said quietly, pulling him away.

He was reluctant, with a taste for curlytopped redheads.

They rolled the car back first, but surely, the pretty young mother must of heard a motormill; and she would have looked up when they spirited away her Packard.

Lucky for her, her Packard ran beautifully, swiftly. You could call it reckless abandon, or a fierce determination to pop a bank president, but Matthew was retracing their flight from the store. To Tizzy he didn't seem so broken up about any of this. By her count; they were forty-nine dollars richer, seventy-one dollars in all.

"If we kin sneak back through the crossroads in this doozy," he figured, "--we got a shot at slippin on down to Shanville this evenin and ketchin the train. Git a sleeper whatsay with clean sheets. One of them Red-Eyes to Memphis."

Tizzy didn't argue with him. She was too weak and grogged in the warm afternoon sun. The car's upholstery was nice st.i.tched-leather. Black calfskin. It had a swell radio, but this one didn't work either. So Tizzy went back to whistling her flat hymns, cleaning her forehead with spit and a napkin she took from the house. The blood was dry by now. She'd recover. Besides, maybe this was a dream, and maybe, they could make it all happen. She'd never ridden on a train.

Another fool's sedan was turning off the Cayuga Road as Matthew turned onto it, but the prissy bearded driver paid them no mind. Tizzy entertained notions of invisibility until they reached the steep k.n.o.b before Hayden's Crossroad. By then sinister clouds were gusting in through Auld Cloot Gap, the sun blurring into a hazy spot. Matthew braked before the crest of the hill, got out, and skulked low as he went to take a peek. Pretty soon, he motioned for Tizzy to join him.

She burrowed in beside Matthew on her stomach and her dreams were dashed. Down the grade, flashing in the crossroads, were three patrol sedans. A black and white roadblock. Local folk were milling out front of the store with road officers in khaki. One of the men looked a little like Sheriff Bull Hannah to Tizzy, but she couldn't be sure from this distance.

"Oh my Lord, Matthew, they're a-lookin fer us."

"No doubt about it," he squinted.

"What er we--?"

"--most likely they got fellers a-combin Cayuger Ridge by now."

"Then my daddy knows."

"Everbody knows in yer ole sowin circle by now, mama." He scuffled a few feet back from the crest, so he could raise his head. "Listen hyere Tizzy, I got me a second cousin, more like a uncle really. Wert Birdnell. He's got a cracklin still and a two-room shanty up on Riddle Top."

"Riddle Top--?" she gulped.

"You bet, an he's hid out pert good up there. It's been a few years, but I believe I recolleck the way. I believe he might put us up till this settles down. h.e.l.l, perty soon they'll figger we slipped through somehow. They'll find the truck in no time a'tall, an this car'll be reported stole. Folks'll reckon we snookered em and we're long gone from these parts."

"You think so, Matthew? Won't this car look odd up there?"

"Aw," he a.s.sured her with a kiss. "We'll hide er out, in some barn er somethin. We kin cover'er in pine boughs if we have to, till we need it again. Anyhoo, them hicks don't git much news up there. You know that."

Actually, she didn't know much about Riddle Top. People whispered this or that s.n.a.t.c.h about the odd occurrence, distasteful encounters, tales of folks disappearing on the dark mountain; but it generally lacked regard in the daily lives of Cayuga Ridge. Rumors grew of a secret lake few had ever seen. It was known that most of the Lych clan had trickled down from there. If you stood around long enough, you might hear a rumor or two. Most Cayuga citizens considered themselves too worldly and genteel for idle chatter about such an ill-hainted, unrefined peak. All Tizzy really knew, was this: she'd seen that Riddle Top looming over her every day of her baby days.

No matter. Damage was done. Within the hour they had returned to the RiDDLe ToP turn-off, the rising fork up the mountain. Just before reaching the signpost, Tizzy spotted a road patrol ahead, coming from Cayuga Ridge. Quickly, Matthew pulled the blue Packard behind a boarded fruitstand. Once the police sedan pa.s.sed, they ventured forth again, turning wide onto the mountain fork. Less than a hundred yards and the asphalt grew broken, then finally ceased, giving way to hard clay ruts.

They began to climb. An early dusk seemed to rush upon them, then linger, roiling as the storm grew close. Within this weird gloaming, trees thrashed and ruled. Black thunderheads embraced the peak, commingling with the piney slopes, high winds whipping the electric pearled air into something dire; an electricity both fugitives could feel. Going up and up, the road tied itself in knots; twilight hung for hours, or so it felt to Tizzy. The car rocked and bucked and made difficult pa.s.sage up the steepening route. Occasionally another fork would appear; but Matthew kept to the main artery, the Packard buffeting until Tizzy felt her teeth would jar loose.

She had to give Birdnell his due. Birdnell rode it like a champ. Often he had to make several runs at a grade before they could surmount it; once he had to stop and force branches under a rear tire to escape from a wash-out. Tizzy helped him. In most places the way was so cramped, needles and branchy fingers were scratching the pretty blue paint. Surely, this trace was seldom traveled. When Tizzy saw the first shack, overgrown with vine and fungus, something occurred to her: how peculiar that this would be the first homestead since leaving the base of Riddle Top. Usually folks cl.u.s.tered in the lower regions. Soon she saw another shack, rickety but upright, then another; these were apparently occupied, with smoke curling from their stovepipes. But she spotted nary a face nor anybody at work or along the roadside. Who knew if human eyes saw them pa.s.s? None were stirring.

When Tizzy realized her head was bleeding again, Matthew insisted they stop. He heated a pine knot on the manifold, then closed her cut with the dripping resin it produced; then they moved on. Boy and girl in an urgent blue Packard, everclimbing, upward through the restless slash of road.