Wicked Temper Part 30

"Where'd she go?" Tizzy said, shaken.

"Who ye mean?" he winced, rising onto an elbow.

"That lady. She'uz standin there. Just up there a piece."

"Weren't no lady."

Tizzy turned, gawked at him, her chinaman eyes now round and white. Her goblins spiked like flash fever.

"Yes boy. There was."

"Nope, nothin like it."

"She was my, my, I mean, she almost looked like..."

"I don't blame ye fer bein skeered. But it'uz jist that ole dog."

"...dog?.." Her pump fumbled. Her torn fingers trembled across her left bosom, caught a blooddrop from her lip. Tizzy looked again. The path ahead was empty.

"Jist that ole brindle dane, that Juda. Bigger'n a ox an thrice as ugly. He run off when ye screamed." The boy had closed his eyes, laid back in the foxtails, and was taking sunny warmth from above. Soon Matthew took another peek. He considered the backside of Tizzy's head, her stringy j.a.p hair, cut like a mushroom cap; and he felt bad for her. His sad-eyed girl just could not tear her eyes off the coming woods, where that hound had galloped.

"It didn't look like no dog," Tizzy said finally, vexed by the hainting shade of her mother Laticia, or someone's poor mother, so black, so forlorn in shroud and veil. "Not to me."

At Tizzy's knee was cracked earth. The sump where a puddle had dried.

Tizzy went adrift. And he let her, but not for long. Matthew knew big Juda was gone, swallowed by the forest, not likely to fetch and return after such a Tizzified uproar. She'd be alright in a flash; she'd just have to walk it off.

Tizzy picked herself up. Matthew helped her, brushing the soil and twigs from her dress. They took their time, moving slower now as evening encroached; the two found their way down through the nightcomer's wood to Nottingham's house, where this trace ended.

S T E P 1 5.

Night was well nigh upon them when Tizzy and Matthew saw the sinkside lantern. b.u.t.ton sat out on the back stoop, knees up, glum as a frosty stone troll. Only the kitchen's window and doorframe were lit; smoke paid out of both parlor chimney and kitchen stovepipe alike, lending hickory scent to the gloam. b.u.t.ton's trance was complete as they pa.s.sed her on the step.

Inside, Nottingham bent over the sink. He cut a glance at Tizzy. Tizzy shrank outside the screendoor.

"Evenin, Mr. Nottinham," she dry gulped. Nothing had changed in her mind, really, there was always--had always been something mortifying about the stagfaced man with his tattoo scars. But Tizzy was suddenly loath to approach him, with good cause. Nottingham pumped more water and for a moment Tizzy was scary that he might be washing Courtlynn's dainty hands in that sink.

"It musta been lost," the man uttered.

"What?" she asked through the screen, her spine rigid.

"Yer currycomb, it musta been lost. You was all afternoon a-huntin it," Nottingham said.

"Aw shoot, Bob," Matthew came chortling over her shoulder, opening the screen. "It was squirrel we was a-huntin. Found her play perty hours ago."

Once inside, Tizzy kept her distance from the man over the sink; she took a chair.

"A .38 rod like yers ain't so good fer poppin squirrel, boy. Er didn't you know?"

"Naw Bob," the boy lanked around to the stove, feigning familiarity with Mr. Nottingham's elbow wing. "When I'uz a young'un I'd drop a squirrel er a jaybird jist about ever day. With a flata.s.sed rock. I got lethal aim when it comes to throwin stones."

"So where's y'squirrel?"

"Didn't see none."

Nottingham turned around, a towel in his hands. He dried and gave both kids a graveyard glimmer, not a smile exactly. "h.e.l.l of a sight better with chickens are ye? Biddys don't never thin out. Herebouts."

"Naw, they ain't too scarce," Matthew allowed, testing his nerve.

Nottingham eyeballed Tizzy. Then he made a little joke. "Whatsa matter with ye curryjob, daughter? s.h.a.g's in a snarl. Shoulda got the workin comb."

"Oh--" Tizzy blushed, sitting by the table. "--y-yes, I got it awright. Right here." Feeling goonish, she retrieved the alabaster-plastic comb from her dress pocket. Lord, she'd almost lost the comb once, on the trail; her hair must be a rat's nest. "I reckon I near fergot, ain't got around to it."

As Tizzy began raking out tangles, Matthew slurped a dipper of water and spake in dribbles.

"Say, we sure appreciate the comfort and kindness, Bob. But looks like we best be movin on tomorry. Git outa yer hair."

"Aw, ye cain't do that," Bob said through his scaletailed grin, "I jist got word from my wife. She's a-comin day after tomorrow, and you both gotter meet her."

"H-howdja hear that?" spooky Tizzy asked. Matthew hung his head and their eyes met.

"One of them ole Tyler women come by and tole me." Bob took down a skillet and shuffled it onto the stove, elbowing Matthew out of his way.

"Naw---naw, Bob, we done wore out our welcome--" Matthew said.

Had there really been some woman by here from the Tyler clan, Tizzy wondered? Could she have been the forlorn spectre in the woods? Somehow, Tizzy knew in the morbid depths of her heart that it was not a Tyler woman. Not on the footpath and not here bearing such tidings to Mr. Nottingham. She just knew. He'd been here alone all day, save for maybe b.u.t.ton and that horrible hound.

"Ain't seen yer dog around Mr. Nottinham," she bleated.

Nottingham was busy sprinkling cornmeal into the greased skillet. "Juda's been with me. Believe he's in by the fire."

Incredulous, Matthew took a slow peek into the front room. And, sure enough, the mottled-grey beast raised his great anvil skull from the hearth, paws together like oaken clubs. Rrrrrrrr. Juda growled low and the boy could respect that. Matthew went nowhere near it.

In the kitchen Tizzy protested further. "We don't even have to stay fer supper. Really, Mr. Nottinham, you might git somethin done around here, once yer shed o'us." Tizzy brightened her face a scratch. "We'll just say toodle-oo. Why, I doubt you got to make yer proper d.i.c.kerin rounds today, what with rootin hard all afternoon after some sneaky monkrat."

"She weren't so sneaky."

"What you mean?" Tizzy heard herself say, her doughface a smiling blank. There was no monkrat. She'd made it all up.

"She'uz an easy catch. Kilt her right after y'all left." Nottingham reached into the sink, grabbed a tail and flopped a fat monkrat onto the table beside Tizzy. The girl jumped. The monkrat snout was wrung around to the backhairs, tiny razor-sharp, blood-flecked teeth. The neck was broken, almost twisted off.

"Found the hovel right off, right under yer bedroom timbers," he said. "Found them baby monkrat too."

Gooseflesh swept through Tizzy's holy being. Her eyes never left the creepy mama carca.s.s as Matthew returned from the hall.

"--it's no sweat, Bob," Matthew was saying, too loud, too craven for words. "We're history, see. We jist don't want our welcome wore out."

And Mr. Nottingham glimmered again, his jaw crawling. "I won't have it no other way. Mama's comin fer a visit. Besides...it's plumb dark and the boogers might git ye."

Naturally, her belly got too sick for supper. Matthew had a monkrat plate, but Tizzy went to bed early; that is to say, she pulled the covers over herself, fully-dressed.

No one walked that night. But none of them dreamt either, except for the b.u.t.ton. Only b.u.t.ton dozed, asleep on cold bedsprings, bound in her sc.r.a.p of blanket. Perhaps hers was a night of wondrous dreams. Tizzy wrote scriptures on the roof of her mouth. Tizzy stared at the ceiling cracks; anguishing, listening to each trill and coo, the fitful spat of nightbirds out there in the wilderness. Matthew never came to her bed. She never fetched him. She was determined to buck up, to tough it out. Besides, Matthew Birdnell could provide little solace or defense against this rabid place. Tizzy almost hated him for saving her life. She was on her own now and she knew it. Apparently he sensed as much. Matthew wasn't stupid. He too lay awake; on his creaking swing, atop his bedclothes, alert to rustling winds, the cluck, the scratch of chickenflesh. Mostly, his night was slow and moonless.

But little b.u.t.ton slept. Alone in that little room. Asleep, while a strange thing happened outside her open door: Bob stayed put. Bob Nottingham did not depart or fiddle about in the witching hours. He was awake, and thinking, rolling cigarettes as outer dark moved over Riddle Top mountain. Nottingham reclined on his smooth blanketed rack, h.e.l.lfire glowing betwixt his fingers, smoke seeping from flared nostrils. For Nottingham, dawn was a short time to come.

They were tired, Mr. Nottingham. They were cross. Both Tizzy and Matthew forewent any breakfast (no, thank you, Mr. Nottingham), and found deep devotion in a game of jackstraws; the two huddled in the hot dirt beyond the gristmill. They thought he'd never leave. There was the odd clink, thump or rattle, rattle from the house, usually from back toward the kitchen. He made a couple of trips to the chicken coop and corncrib, saying nothing to either of them, leaving the boy and girl to their dirt play. It began warming up early, flies abuzz, b.u.t.ton unseen, sweat slithering down Tizzy's nose. They whispered and waited, bringing the fidelity of an all-day jackstraw derby into serious question.

Then the man left. Close to noon, Nottingham appeared on the porch, hollered something--some garble about finding a shade tree--then he strode carefully up into the pines, disappearing above the smokehouse. Tizzy wasn't sure if he'd suggested a shade tree for himself or for the two idjits still playing idjit games in the fiery bloom of day.

They pretended for a whit longer, till he was surely out of earshot from the house. Then they both leapt up and ran inside. Tizzy wanted only her buckletop shoes, but Matthew took a good butcher knife and whetstone from the kitchen drawer. He slid the knife into his belt as they slunk off down the hill, scattering glances at stray flits of leaf, of shadow. Their sliding feet made too much noise down the steep wooded slope. It couldn't be helped. Midway down, Tizzy knelt and scratched a holy cross into the ground, then spat in its crux for good fortune. b.u.t.ton was still nowhere about.

The blue Packard sat low, mired taillight deep in dry mud. Worse than Matthew had let on. Tizzy's spirits. .h.i.t hard when she saw the rear tire and b.u.mper baked into the mudbaked gully. "G.o.ddam it," she said. The situation was somewhat better than that half-sunken tractor down the roadspur, but so what? Tizzy didn't realize so much rain had washed down these ruts since they abandoned the car. Matthew said not to worry baby which was like telling her not to p.r.i.c.kle in the heat. Mr. Nottingham could be anywhere in the surrounding trees, watching and drawing strength from their misfortune. She put on a brave front, braver than Matthew, who was a nervous egg about to pop. He took out the jackhandle and spent several antsy minutes routing a channel around the tire; he swore he'd done this sort of thing a hundred times before and knew just how to accomplish the most with the least effort. Eventually, Matthew got so sundrunk and delirious in his zeal, that he'd yipe everytime a pinecone fell. Tizzy had to take over, sc.r.a.ping some clearance of earth from beneath the cha.s.sis of the Packard, a half-hour became an hour; but she worked with more efficiency than Matthew could muster. He stood sentry, after a fashion. She did stop once and make him put the gun away, under his shirt. He was waving it a little too much, jabbering constantly, and Tizzy was afraid he might accidentally shoot her in the back while she bent to the task. Matthew was excitable. He'd always been excitable. He was p.r.o.ne to rash behavior; sometimes he got downright unhinged, yes, Matthew Birdnell was delirium p.r.o.ne. And n.o.body could tell you more about that than Tizzy June Polk. She knew Birdnell. Pure-defiled white trash. Utterly depraved. If the north wind blew, he'd shoot at anything warm.

Tizzy and the jackhandle toiled steadily until the Packard stood a chance of escape. "Battery's prob'ly low," she advised, sc.r.a.ping hair off her sweat flushed cheek. "Don't wanna have to crank it too many times."

"She'll run like a top, you jist watch me." Matthew clambered out of the ditch. "Hill-a-billy, hill-a-billy, hillbilly boogie," he bopped and he strut, acting the fool. Matthew flung open the door and that's when he dug deep. That's when he thought about the keys.

"Whatcha mean you ain't got 'em?!" she demanded.

"Woooo--I--I jist ain't got 'em on me, cupie doll."

"Shuddup and think boy. What was it you done with that keyring?" Tizzy wanted to wring his neck with G.o.d's speed and a harp string.

"Don't holler at me, letsee---I--"

"You know how to crosswire a car?"

"Uh, naw, uh-uh---I ain't never--"

"Me neither. So d.a.m.n you Matthew, you best--"

"G.o.dawmighty--wait--I set 'em down on that doily up there."

"And what doily's that?" Maybe she ought to go ahead and sock him one, just to wise his mule. Her fist c.o.c.ked.

"In that rock cabin up yonder. Where that dead gal was a-layin."

"Cryyyminitleee--"

Matthew jogged back behind the side mirror--in case she came at him. He looked skyward, lips chapping under the hot eye. His knots ached. Yet, Zeph Birdnell's boy knew he must a.s.sert his will; he was an inborn pathfinder after all, so, no way they were licked, not yet. He didn't have to tuck tail and whimper in front of this uppity preacher's girl.

"Hold on there, Tizzy. I got the angle, see. You jist set perty and trust ole Mad Dice--"

"Whatsit got in mind?" she pressed, and real unfriendly about it. "A letter to Santy Claus?" Matthew showed utter ignorance of the dangers he flirted. Tizzy was all flirted out.

"You jist wait right'chere. Take a nap in the Packard and dream about that cold drink I'm gone git ye soon as we're off this mountain."

"And what'll you be up to."

"I kin take a jag, around through that stand of black oak yonder, and connect with the trail. Sure, I reckon I kin fetch them keys from that little cabin, be back down hyere to kiss yer foot in under a hour."

"I wanna go," Tizzy insisted.

Tizzy started past him and Matthew knocked her down, hard. This surprised her.

"Nope, G.o.ddam," he said. "I'm stealthier and fleet o'foot when I'm alone." Matthew didn't need her pint-size, smart-aleck judgments of his technique, every step of the way. He was a young Osage buck.

And she was plenty Mad Tizzy now, but put off by his ire. She leapt up. "It makes me skittish, settin out here like a rabbit in this ole car."

"Wait fer me back up at Bob's place then," he chided, nudging his gla.s.ses up the nose.

"I ain't a-goin back to that house."

"Okay, then ye gotta trust me. Jist take a load off here, count to nine hunert'n ninety-nine and this Birdnell boy'll be back to escort ye down to civerlized society. Memphis and all points in betwixt. And that's the gospel truth."

"Matthew," her brows knit together. "You swear?"

"Course I swear."

"You won't be long from here?"

"We got plenty o'time. All afternoon to pick our way back down this road. I swear, Tizzy, temptation is a-callin us. And doggone if I know which is worst: this infernal hankerin to be rich, er the dyin to be notorious, er is they one in the same?"

Before she could warn him to be careful, Matthew was loping off into the trees, headed for that blackjack rim. Tizzy crouched under a pinebough until shade covered the blue Packard. Ants began to bother her so she went and sat in the car.

S T E P 1 6.

Cluck. Cluckity-clucka-cluck-cluck. d.a.m.n these chickens, poking about. Why can't they cluck a way out of here? This neck of timber didn't lead where Matthew had supposed. And chickens don't know a way, so they cluck everywhichaway. Shouldn't there be a ridge rising on his left, an ascent where Matthew could connect with the footpath to the rock cottage? Unless his radar was off--which it wasn't--that creek should cut right down through these woods; Matthew should have already crossed it. But he was dandy. A-OK. If this detour didn't pan out, the boy only had to climb the tumbling creek, upslope until he reached the point where Bob's trail jumped across. Right, and hopefully, he'd reach water soon. Because these henp.e.c.k.e.rs were everywhere, white tailfeathers underfoot; and that creek ought to be behind him by now. Not ahead.