Wicked Temper Part 25

"Naw. Not in this life..." Bob uttered, thunder rumbling in behind him. "They won't keep and only one fits to a skillet. Reckon the rest'll jest go to rot."

Bob was still smiling at him. Just a tad, but cryptic and smiling nonetheless. This unnerved the boy.

"s.h.i.tfire, mebbe I got carried away--a little--"

Tizzy was bewildered, an astonishing turn took place. How unnaturally peculiar to hear Matthew Birdnell repent, looking so soft, so fallow, letting his weapon droop so bad.

"Don't worry none about it," spake Bob. Rain began to pelt him and he went for the house.

S T E P 8.

"Set down, Juda," he spake, while sheet lightning cracked the night. Bob motioned crudely to the dog, who'd just returned; shucking into the firelight, wet and grizzled with mud. Juda padded over to the hearth and dropped. His head high, the twin points of Juda's ears stood perked, still alert to these travelers on his turf.

Tizzy chose to ignore such dogged behavior while keeping her distance. Lolling on her tummy, Tizzy felt content in the reddish glow of the splint rug. She might as well. Matthew sat sideways on a ladderback chair, one white-top shoe missing; over there, his left shoe hung on her doork.n.o.b. Thumbs gripping his big toe, Matthew probed, trying to locate a thorn he'd picked up from the porch the night before while trotting around barefoot. Every so often he'd sip from the bourbon Bob had poured him. Matthew swore it was balm for the pains of thorn hunting; but Tizzy saw he was laughing a little too loud already and enjoying the surgery. Every other sip, he'd take his cheap pocketknife from his lap then gouge into that toe. Over two hours and still no thorn. He said he could feel it. Tizzy wasn't too sure.

Bob sat close by the fire, slumped in his rocker. His hand held b.u.t.ton at his knee. He poured three golden fingers of bourbon and warmed to the gla.s.s. Outside was deluge, an earth-shattering show of rain and electricity that put the earlier storm to shame.

They all came inside after Matthew's chicken ma.s.sacre, and the rain began to fall, harder than before. The afternoon grew darker and threatening; gullies and streams ran in the front yard as weather pounded the roof, the windows, the doors. In due time it struck Tizzy, then Matthew, plain as a pikestaff. They both got wise to the obvious: any real hopes of finding the car or driving it anywhere were dashed. Washed away. Bob showed no concern in the matter. He hauled in plenty of firewood, stomped his feet and opened a fresh bottle of bonded whisky from the back porch. Then he pulled open the front curtain and sat by his fire. From there he watched the daylight, what there was of it, give way to dusk then, finally, darkness. He drank his spirits and this seemed to lull him, just a little. He made comments to them every so often, about the weather and transmission work and the best way to stew a pullet, while Tizzy listened. Mostly, Matthew shot off his mouth and dug his big toe. Lighting flashed and thunder tailed it and they felt it was good fortune to be out of the storm.

"Ain't never seen no hound like that'n there," Matthew was saying. "What's that ye call him?"

"He's a brindle dane. Calls himself Juda."

Matthew thought that was a hooting treat. But, now that the great dog had returned, Tizzy was surprised to learn that Tizzy felt better, safer. Even though the beast had growled in her direction before. Oh, she was plenty upset when she realized they wouldn't be leaving, or trying to leave, until tomorrow at first light. If they were lucky. Pouting, Tizzy stuck her lip out and tried to give Matthew the w.i.l.l.i.e.s, acting like she might bust out bawling while Bob was out fetching the fire. But this grew tiresome too, after a while. Downright dull in fact. And the steady warmth had made her mellow until Bob seemed almost generous now. Friendly. Sort of. Meanwhile, the mighty Juda was busy licking mud from betwixt the talon of his clumpish paw.

"Don't she never talk?" Tizzy asked about b.u.t.ton, whose eyes lay upon no one in particular when she wasn't lost somewhere in the flame; her cherub face silent, smeared with charcoal dust.

"Not really," Bob said.

"Never at all?"

"Not since her mama run off. Didn't have much to say before that."

"Wha'happened, Bob? You chase her off widda stick?" Matthew asked, wagging his toe.

Bob seemed to think Matthew was funny after a fashion; his brow crinkled when the boy said stupid things anyway.

"Lit out on her own. Damaged goods. She been married once awready. That's how she got this'n here." The man idly fondled b.u.t.ton's cheek, stroking her dirty blond hair. b.u.t.ton didn't seem to notice.

"I wenta Jackshhhon once," Matthew began slurring. "And my mama's Uncle J.T. had jush found his third wife hidin thar after she run out on J.T. with another feller. Perfume dr-dr-drummer from Natchez. J.T. finds em together. Drummer does the talkin. J.T. winds up given em both fifty dollars and buyin her a white weddin dress. First'n he bought weren't good enough. s.h.i.t now. She needed her a new one. Soon as Uncle is dee-vorced he falls into bad company, n.i.g.g.e.r gals mostly, and takes to drankin hisself to death. And cryin them gals to death, makin em talk baby talk like her. Aunt April Jan's baby goo-goo bein forced upon them poor gals. Man alive," Mad Dice just shook his head, "Auntie April. Hadda bad conduct discharge from the Salvation Army. If yooou coulda knowed her...it'uzzz a twisted thang he done to them gals. Weeelll, friendshhh, I say J.T. got over th-that lil slice o'true love when he fell in front o'that four p.m. Southern Cross. Train blew but he didn't hear it, they sez. Didn't kill him right off, nope, he's still a-livin in my Grammy Netta's spare roooom down in Jackshhhontown, but he cain't talk er wash hisself er go to the privy right, so who's to say? Now he don't feel a thang. That's good, ain't it? He's happy 'nuff. Kinda like lil ole b.u.t.ton hyere."

"It happens."

"Then again, mebbe he ain't shed of her at all..."

"Some git desperate over a woman. They'll go moon-loony and do vicious crimes. Till somebody does what they can't do fer theyselves."

"End their mizzzery?" Matthew smirked.

"That's about right."

The boy slurped his gla.s.s, pondering the rain-thrashed windows, the thunderbolts and wild wind. Wild and vicious crimes.

"Would't dat be some fun fer awhile thooough. Take holt o'this world by her tail and holler: lookit me, I'm hyere and I'm gone. You could hit ever mailtrain and bank from Jackssshun to Kingdom Come--"

"They don't electercute ye too much fer robbin trains and banks, boy," Bob muttered, his brow dropping. "You just molder in the man's jailhouse."

Tizzy was disturbed by the shadows, the caverns which had replaced the cold grey of Bob's eyes. She could barely see two pinholes glinting under his brow. Crackling, the fire was speaking to him.

"Shhhooo Bob," Matthew slunk forward in the dark room, his gaze creeping up those beefy scar-twisted tattoos. "I figger you and me, we seen the monkey show. Bad times, hard-hearted days and a mean p-p-p.e.c.k.e.r er two."

"Mebbe."

"Sure as shooootin..."

"Mebbe so."

"Come on now Bob. You're familiar to me, I jist know it. Who are ye really?"

"What do you mean?" The voice was a husk.

"Ye seen our gun, we're wise. We gonna git us an alias too."

Boom.

It was thunder.

Thunder boomed, and the seamed face caught the light, brooding. "Name's Robert. Robert...Lloyd...Nottingham."

Chain lightning rocked the house. Matthew sat dumb as a nit. Tizzy was spooked. Something about that name; it was familiar or near familiar, like something she'd once overheard or dreamt of.

"Ye ain't from Ole Riddle Top, er ye Bob?" the boy piped softly.

"Seems like I've always been here," he said, stroking b.u.t.ton's forehead; she lay against his knee.

"But I reckon ye been around ain't ye, reckon ye never took no fer no answer..."

"That is true, I expect."

Tizzy frowned, stretched on the rug, chin in her hands.

"Was she perty, Mr. Nottinham?"

"Who?"

"Her mama?" Tizzy asked.

"Yep," he swore into the hot coals, "yep, she sure was. Pertier than Liz Taylor."

"I'm sorry."

"Aw, she'll be back one of these days...most likely." Steely-blue bombs of light rattled the gla.s.s; Nottingham turned his face to the window, a thin, almost pleasant glimmer upon his lips. "Come to think of it," he spake at last. "Maybe y'all best stay on a few days and lay low. I ain't so solid on where yer cousin's ridge is. I could be wrong. You could rest up here, do a few ch.o.r.es till the heat blows over. I know what big trouble is like..."

"Golly b.u.mmm," Matthew said, grinning. "We'd hate ter shhhtep on yer good nature."

"And our car--" Tizzy injected, "--is in a bad way."

"...besides," Nottingham was oblivious, purring to the stormy window, the blasts of hard rain. "When that sky opens up like this, fer more'n a day, why that ole road ain't likely to be there no more. You don't wanna git caught out on this mountain. Not on this mountain."

Matthew blinked, saucer-eyed. "Well if yer of a mind--"

KER-RRRAAASH! An explosion and the door flew open, a big raven sailed in, and Nottingham's hand shot up faster than anything Tizzy had ever seen. He caught the black flapping bird by its throat as he rose from his rocker, snarling. Another explosion, the bourbon gla.s.s in the flames. Nottingham stomped out onto the porch, brazen in the crashing storm, a stranglehold on the blackwinged fury.

"d.a.m.nation!" Nottingham roared, "I tole you to stay outa my house!"

Aghast, through the open gusting doorway, Tizzy and Matthew watched the man hurl the raven back into the maelstrom. Their eyes fastened on him as Nottingham returned, slamming and bolting the entrance.

A queasy silence fell when the craggy face came around, edging into light.

"I gotta chicken to gut." Nottingham spun suddenly and left the fire. Soon they heard cupboard doors and skillets rattling from the kitchen.

Tizzy wasn't so comforted anymore, not by this twist. The linoleum was wet. The kitchen's roof leaked. They had a late supper in lantern light. Man and boy ate with gusto; but Tizzy found the bird underdone and b.l.o.o.d.y, the entire meal punctuated by grumblings of thunder and Tizzy's misgivings. Still, she did not share these doubts. She knew Matthew was bound to stay, out of pure orneriness and sloth, if nothing else, and Tizzy now believed that Matthew Birdnell never had much handle on where his Riddle Top kinfolk lived. Lord knows when he'd last seen them really. Tizzy felt glum, and stuck. Stuck as those peppercorns in the blood of her plate. The tot stayed in by the parlor fire. The kitchen ceiling dripped; down the walls, onto the table, into Tizzy's supper. Worse, this Mr. Nottingham looked greedier as he fed. He devoured his giblets with a noisy relish.

The rain was easing up when they got ready for bed. Nottingham said, if it was too cold, Matthew could lay a pallet by the hearth. But, with long cozy centipedes in mind, the boy figured the worst the storm was past, so he would do fine on the porch swing again. They turned in, and on this sinister night, the strangest thing happened. Tizzy slept; in bliss, more restfully than she had in days. Under an eiderdown comforter and blankets she snoozed deep, like no bed had nestled her in years perhaps, certainly not in the days and weeks before they fled Cayuga Ridge. Somewhere in the early morning hours Tizzy stirred, just for a moment, she surfaced long enough to hear the backdoor screen. It creaked and snapped shut, but she was drifting back into the loving dragon-tattooed arms of her mother while the jug bitten boy never once stopped snoring on the sideporch.

S T E P 9.

Morning was hot, crackling hot. Tizzy lay on her back, both legs propped over her head against a porch post. Her most vital goblins were lazy goblins and, yes, slothful goblins. And she was in lazy danger of drifting back to sleep; a fleet of maple seed whirligigs strewn across her chest. When the spirit moved, Tizzy would toss a winged seed up at her toes then watch it twirl back down. Generally, a draft would carry it off the front porch, into the yard, but a few pods did land on her nose or even closer to the maple seed heap atop her navel. She didn't brush them off her face or body for awhile. It was a game. She wanted to see how many whirlys she could cover herself with. This almost kept her idle goblins busy, but not quite.

Matthew was down checking on the car. b.u.t.ton was around, somewhere, but who knew where that might be? Maybe the queer little child was crouched beneath Tizzy at this very moment, under the porch, poking her dirty b.u.t.ton nose into other folks' business. Tizzy didn't care. It was already too warm for such nonsense. Tizzy just wished Matthew would hurry on back so her hobgoblins would have someone to talk to. She yawned. Right now, Lord help her, she was just a sinpot of sloth.

Whatsmore, Robert Lloyd Nottingham had not had his breakfast yet. So far as Tizzy could tell. He was gone again. Bob was nowhere when she awoke.

A scratchy needle stole into Tizzy Polk's dream, first thing this morning. Her mother waltzed away. The Victrola was plunking forth; sweet melancholy zither chords, a minor-tinted waltz swelling, fading, swelling, until Tizzy stretched then slid from her covers. The rain had pa.s.sed. Indeed, sunshine broke through the gla.s.s into her room. Dressing, she bypa.s.sed b.u.t.ton, who sat crosslegged in the parlor before the phonograph's horn. Tizzy found Matthew in the kitchen eating pone. He'd been up since daybreak he said and hadn't laid eyes on Nottingham. Tizzy wondered where Mr. Bob Nottingham went; she had a vague recollection of the screendoor tw.a.n.g, rousing her, briefly, in the echoes before dawn. What was there to do on Old Riddle Top at such a G.o.dforsaken hour, an hour when it was coldest and blackest on the mountain? Didn't that crow-chunker ever sleep?

Matthew had made extra pone, so they managed breakfast for themselves. Afterwards, they went outside to find the surviving chickens having a field day in muddy waters. Regular puddle-dee-bops they were, Matthew said. In fact there were so many of the dumb white clucks, it peeved him. He'd hardly made a dent. They could see where Nottingham had tossed the dead hens into a pile beyond the coop, and Tizzy figured it wouldn't be long in this sun before the pile bloated and stank.

The little lovers flopped on the porch swing then gave it h.e.l.l; they swung with fervor, counting chickens, fussing and trying to make sense out of their strange interlude with Nottingham the night before. Bob seemed to enjoy their company, while hinting at things ungraspable in his fire; yet, he extended his hand, he offered a stormy haven. Then that horrible bird screeched in and broke the spell. The way Tizzy saw it, Mr. Nottingham did everything but call that crow by name, before he flung it back into the night. Like crow and stagman were familiar. But there was no telling, she said, no telling what a body might do when his castle was threatened. Do the hillbilly bop, do the hillbilly boogie, was Matthew's answer to that. Tizzy recited Amos 9:1. Such morning chitchat made her feel almost civilized until Matthew got randy and she banished him from the swing. The Victrola was suddenly silent. Birdnell got fed up with her entirely, deciding then and there was the time to check on the Packard. He'd been gone the better part of an hour, but Tizzy knew the woody slope was steep down to the road, and probably slippery with mud and matted leaves; that's right, it was dense thicket at best. He'd be back soon.

Tizzy tossed up another maple whirligig, it spun and bobbed on air. She hummed softly, singing a little tune in her head.

O watch yer step, step, step, O when yer ramblin o'er the land October moon don't....don't...

October moon don't what? It was an old song, a baby song, and she ought to know it. October moon...October moon don't...she couldn't remember the rest, it dangled on her tongue. Peculiar, seeing as she'd heard it sung since the crib. She was getting thirsty. The water dipper was on the other side of the house, waiting by the sink in a tub of cool wellwater.

O watch yer step, step, step,

Squabbling chickens took flight--and Tizzy left her daydream. Behind her, Mr. Nottingham came around his smokehouse, from the woods upslope.

Tizzy squinted upside down, shading off the glare and calling back over her eyebrows to him. "Mornin, Mr. Nottinham--"

"Mornin back," he said. He stomped onto the porch holding a coil of wire.

"We already et some pone." Her feet came off the post.

"I figgered the same." He didn't look at her or smile as he went inside. He looked downright bitter.

Tizzy jumped up to follow him, shedding maple seeds while the screendoor slapped shut; she heard limbs thrashing over her shoulder. Tizzy glanced around and saw Matthew, breathless, slogging up from the car. He was just clearing the trees when Tizzy shrugged at him from afar; she pointed through the front door, then went inside after it.

Halfway through the hallway, Tizzy spied the tot behind a door ajar. b.u.t.ton was curled asleep inside the hall closet. Nottingham was plundering the kitchen pantry, dragging down a frog gigger from rafters overhead. Tizzy sidled into the room, trying not to arouse his ire. She sat and hooked her barefeet on the rungs of a chair, watching him tug. He made soft curses. The gigger was tangled. His mind was elsewhere.

"My word, what is it keeps you so busy of a mornin, Mr. Nottinham." Mostly, she was bored.

"Nothin much. Trackin fer game and things of that nature."

"Without no gun?"

"Lotsa ways to hunt, girl. I swap out favors. Do some goodly tradin with other hillfolk. Gotta start early to make some of these hollers and back before day's done."

"Er they that far?"

"Yep."

"Well s.h.i.tfire, Bob," Matthew tw.a.n.ged from the backdoor. "Help me drag that ole see-dan outa the mud down thar, and I'll steer ye right to c.o.c.k Robin's doorstep. Might be, ye won't have to light out afore the crack o'dawn!" Matthew was all grins as he dropped onto a chair.