Wicked Temper Part 9

I listened to him, half-hearted, feeling the heat and dodging carnal daydreams in my curdling brain. He saw something he liked, so we stopped and got out.

"Thump em, son," he kept telling me as he bent and thumped. "If they be ripe, they'll tell ya. Hear that deep holler sound? Means she's ripe and ready."

I thumped and he thumped and we loaded melons into the truck bed until we had an even dozen. Orbuckle allowed that that was plenty; there were hundreds of the Black Diamond melons still waiting in the sun, but ours was a load he said. I asked if any of these specimens were seedless. His eye told me I shouldn't have asked. "A seedless is an unacceptable melon," he said, "no flavor." And that was the end of that. We got back in the cab then made slow progress from the field. Uncle O. lit up a Roi-Tan, spat its tip at the open gate ahead.

"Well there's ole Tilden now--"

And, sure enough, there was old Tilden grinning by the gatepost. I had not seen Tilden in a long time. He would have still been the Cayuga Ridge postmaster and I would have worn short britches not unlike the cut-off overhalls he was now bouncing up and down in on this blister-bug of a day. His k.n.o.b face was crusty brown as his kneebones. Even in my sorry state, I looked twice at the dancing combat boots and toothpick. He had folded himself a rough cap from a Piggly-Wiggly paper bag. We could have pa.s.sed on the street.

"Lord, I believe they's sneak-thieves in Diddy's dirt patch," he was already hooting, thin gold-rimmed teeth glinting at us. "Come quick mama and bring my book." He went around to Uncle's window. "I'll jist have to pray over em, Glory Be."

Uncle O. cracked a smile.

"What you mean runnin off when I come grocery shoppin? I taught you better'n that."

"Yes you did, Orbediah, yes you did. Will ye ever fergive Diddy, please, please? Was it today you was a-comin?"

"Naw, I ain't a-comin, man--I'm here. Me and young Shad cain't be all mornin a-waitin fer you to save that whole town from perdition. We got work to do," he joshed, flicking cigar ash.

Tilden popped an eye at me. My moist half-chuckle did not seem to move him much; yet his grin held tight as he c.o.c.ked that toothpick back to Orbuckle. "You want some tomaters, fresh summer tomaters?"

"Well, since you mention it, Tilden, I didn't put in tomaters this year."

"Help me Brother Orbediah, I'm blinded by the light. The Power and the Glory and the tomater samwich everlastin. Let's run git us some before they're gone boys."

Uncle O. arched a brow at me, downshifting as Tilden came around the truck. Tilden was told to kick a s.p.a.ce, kick a s.p.a.ce before he ever got inside. I scooted to the center of the seat. Tilden opened the door and gaped up at me.

"I bet you don't remember me, do ya?" I attempted.

He stood blinking loud, eyes stumped.

"You'uz probly jist some little ole kid."

"That's right. I'm Shad."

Tilden's face clouded until Orbuckle told him I was Eddynell's boy. This sent his boots dancing again.

"Eddynell's boy, well kiss me Jesus." His whole spirit glowed as he hopped into the cab beside me, slamming the door.

Uncle O. came off the clutch as the three of us rocked onto the road, turning upcountry, away from the Critchwald house. The soft thunder of the tires reminded me of emu drumming. Melons, tomatoes, peaches and sunripened pears came to mind, a fruity, bosomy cornucopia. I glanced down to Tilden's stunted fingers and the toothpick they held. There was something uncouth about that toothpick. It was a slender, aging yellow-ivory thing with a crooked end.

"I sees you Eddynell's boy, I sees ye anglin on my toofpick." Tilden squeezed his face closer to mine, drilling into his gums with the bony picker. He was mighty ripe in the tight cab, but I was the only one sweating.

"Carve it yourself?" I asked gamely.

"The Lord whittled it, youngster, the Lord whittled it and I picks out berry seeds and toejam with his blessin. Tee-hee-hee. Is liberty's law!"

On my left, Uncle O. was enjoying this as he ground down into second gear.

"You want a toothpicker like that'n, Shad? We'll hunt you one--"

"Uh, what Uncle O.?"

"You want a toothpicker like that?"

Don't ask me why, I don't grasp it exactly. But at that exact instant I was no longer concerned with funky toothpicks, no, I was thinking about Meg. Meg. Tilden Critchwald's daughter. Suddenly she came rushing back at me out of the foggy hills of memory. My skin squirmed, the picture flickering of a dark finespun lovely, working behind the Cayuga postmaster's counter when I was a randy teenager and she was a teenager too. I remembered her being kind of cute, s.e.xy with an exotic tilt. Yes, her name was Meg or so it seems, and she had a fishhook scar on one kneecap where her daddy now had a crusted callous. No kidding. Where was she these days? Was she married off to some ditchdigger by now, with a kit and kaboodle? I doubted that much. She did not seem the type. I recalled her, better and better, the truck jogging my memory. I recalled pretty Meg leaning over that dutch door like some minx, or a witch's dream, flirting with me while her daddy was out on his mail route. (And, come to think of it, didn't Postmaster Critchwald look a d.a.m.n sight dandier back then in his blue uniform and military trim?) Why, sometimes, on snowy days Tilden would deliver by horseback while I stole the afternoon sporting Meg. Too bad it never came to be. She had jayblue eyes that sparked mischief when she would commence about jetting off to Greenwich Village, becoming a fashion queen. She sure had the figure for it, even if it was less than likely she would ever escape these hills. Yes, Meg was something, something teasing, and I wondered where I could find her, how I could work her into the conversation. Oh why, oh why, had we never gotten lewd before I moved off with other in-laws? Immediately, my visions of Ruby Ann, D'Wyla and the naked emu were displaced by those wild wanton eyes of Megan Critchwald's, my sweet forgotten Meg.

Apparently Tilden was part c.o.c.keyed mystic, because he laughed out loud just then.

"Don't miss ye turn up hyere Orbediah, cut thoo Meg's place, they's another truck patch I put into the back acre."

"M-Meg?" I stuttered, foam on my lips.

"Sure nuff, Megan's Acres, they'll be her dowry someday."

Uncle O. chuckled again, but quietly. "You say you want a toothpicker Mr. Shad and we'll just go out tonight and plug you one."

My fever broke fleetingly as--again--I checked out the thing in Tilden's teeth. It was the width of a No. 2 pencil at one end, it tapered, then the tip hooked slightly where it was wedged into this old man's shrunken gums. His laugh got wheezy, his eyes jumping over to share Uncle Orbuckle's fun. I was glad to bring such joy to so many. "How do you plug a toothpick?" I faltered.

"Well, now that's a good question, nephew, an expeditious question. See, first you git yer flashlight and hunt that c.o.o.n."

"That's right, Orbediah, hunt that c.o.o.n--" Tilden was about to dance out of the cab.

"What c.o.o.n?" I was very slow that day. I was in love after all.

"Take a gander, son. Yer lookin at a c.o.o.n's p.e.c.k.e.r with the end k.n.o.bs filed off. Ain't he Tilden?"

Tilden just nodded, but didn't spring a leak as he held his boney prize up to my nose.

"Christ. A c.o.o.n's p.e.c.k.e.r?"

"Believe it, Eddynell's boy, believe it," Tilden snorted, "they's one mighty lonesome, ring-tailed c.o.o.ncat runnin around out there, and look out now, he's plenty pee-owed at everbody! Hal-lay-looo!"

The men laughed and I laughed with them.

"Man, that's nasty," I managed before a chest-racking cough took over.

I crunched another sinus tab while they explained the art of filing off dingleb.a.l.l.s from the head of a rac.o.o.n's p.e.n.i.s. Such finesse eluded me, however, since I was already obsessing on Megan's Acres and how I could find her then bed her before the reunion was done. After all, there had been a vibration betwixt us back then, hadn't there? Yes, I definitely remembered a vibration. And she was a nice white girl, of age, with a dowry no less.

Tilden re-creased his paperbag cap, pointing us to the truck patch. We were deep into his woodcrested hill before the field opened up, dirt red, buzzing in the sun. We got out and picked tomatoes. Or rather, they picked tomatoes. I wasn't worth much by then. My shirt and jeans were sweat sogged, my brain a s.e.xual delirium. I bent and attempted to find a few of the firmer specimens; most were already rotting on the vine, it being late in the season. I heard Uncle O. tell Tilden there was nothing like sticking your thumb in a mushy black tomater. They ate as many as they picked, so many that Uncle O. went back to the truck and fetched some salt and pepper packets which they sprinkled over the little cherry tomatoes then popped in their mouths. The big red jobs made their way eventually into Tilden's brown derby. I did not eat tomatoes. I stopped even trying to harvest them, stood erect, facing up into the glancing sunlight and fed on the heat, feeling trickles rise and drip down my body. I was numb, swollen with medication, swollen with sickness and love, swollen like a crazy buck rutting for his wet, s...o...b..ring release. Within me, I heard a weird faraway drumming. My heart ached, leaping after the love-drenched embrace of Meg Critchwald. Wherever she was--nearby no doubt, I felt her nearby--I would seek her out this very afternoon. If she was lonely or despairing of her lot, I would console her. If she had a born-again boyfriend, I would steal her away.

"Howz 'bout some yaller squash, Orbediah, I got me some fine yaller squash this year?"

They wandered off to gather squash while I just stood there, pride melting in a sunsoaked truck patch. Who knows how long it took them; hours, days, a minute or two? When they returned, we all went back to the truck. As I climbed in, Uncle O. set his choke; I turned with alarm to see Tilden Critchwald draw his needle-sharp penknife.

"Ya'all wanna eat up a melon?" he posed, eyes afire.

"Why, sure," Orbuckle brayed, "I'm thirsty enough."

I was agreeable.

Later, as we shimmied down the road, Tilden sliced chunks from the melon in his lap then pa.s.sed them over. I studied his crusty fingers and knees and childish, flophouse garb as his signals began to scare me, just a little. Ghost signals, the way he spiked his jokes with Jesus and mercy Moses hallelujah, while he peered through your innards, like he rode with us but not amongst us. Like he spake a language, walked roads, ate tomatoes parallel to ours, but different as summer's shine is to winter's. When he eyeballed me in that queer way, as he handed over the next sweet melon chunk, eversmiling, I got the distinct notion he was seeing some Shad even I wouldn't know or recognize. Someone real, though. But only to him. I was afraid to ask his daughter's phone number; he had a knife in his hand you see. My uncle would have to help me out. Yet, I couldn't stop hashing over the revolution in Tilden Critchwald, from the spiffy public servant in my mind to the sandcrab parked next to me. The melon was G.o.ddam refreshing. Rolling along, I ate and spat seeds and watched him, wondering what peculiar beings Tilden saw as he jabbered on; sugary juices and pulp stuck to his chin. He had just been quoting scriptures I didn't fathom, when his whole tact shifted and I listened closer.

"Ain't no devil's doin," he was saying, "unlessin yer the devil's vessel and I ain't, see. Ain't no devil's vessel, and you ain't neither Orbediah and neither is you Eddynell's boy. So ye jist foller the path, wherever it leads ye, and you'll be alright. I figger if some thirteen-year-old gal comes a-walkin down that path and she and me ends up off there in them bushes, then that's jist the Lord's will. Mr. James One-Twenty-Five calls it the perfect Law of Liberty; fer blessed in his deed is the doer, the pure-dee-doer of his Lord's pure'n unspotted work, so roll over darlin. That's what I believe."

His eyes were big and round and suddenly I didn't want to have much more to do with him. It was his daughter I wanted to do with, not some thirteen-year-old. I mean, I ain't no pervert.

"Diddy is the Lord's vessel and the Lord says fill her up!" Tilden spat a seed at his own mailbox. I heard it tinggg, again and again, as the truck slowed and Tilden got out.

"What do I owe ya on these melons n'produce?" Uncle Orbuckle asked.

"We'll even up on the sly, Orbediah. I hear ye bought a new thresher."

Orbuckle winked, smiled. "Good enough." He glanced up at the house and the shaded pens. "Say, hoss? How's them emu a-treatin you?"

I scooted back over to the window, hoping to part company on good terms nonetheless. "Yeah Mr. Critchwald, I hear emus is the future."

Tilden got real still, neither his eyes or combat boots danced for the moment, and the grin was a shadow grin in a faroff land only he dwelt in.

"Nope, Eddynell's boy, Diddy mighta thought they was the future. Once. But they's supper. That's all. Now don't you let a little emu turn yer head like she done mine."

"Save me one, Tilden. Save a soul or save a gizzard," Uncle O. said and we drove away.

The last I saw of Tilden Critchwald he was headed up to his house, like a sixty-year-old kid in short overhalls, headed for a sure whipping. The Mrs. was nowhere in sight. But I swear I saw that mama emu, neck bobbing, swishing up there in her pen, waiting for the next fool. He seemed to be headed her way.

"Gee boy howdy," I heard myself sigh, "I thought we'd never drop hitch from him. Has he gone off the beam or what?"

"Aw, Tilden's alright, fer Tilden. Reckon I'm jist used to him. He's a street preachin these days, always spoutin scripture and that h.o.a.ry ole tizzypo hoodoo what some call scripture up in these parts. But somehow his scripture is always looped around to suit Tilden."

"He's differnt, I'll second that." But what about Megan's acres and acres of willowy naked flesh? There were more pressing matters to attend to, like the alleviation of my sins. Thumpathumpa--her drum rolled after me.

"Yeah...yeah, he's gone about half-cracked and who's to blame him?"

"Is Meg still home with her folks?" I blurted, taking the leap. I did not care about the sorry emu market or dipping livestock reports. My heart was a Congo, drumming out love and carnal frenzy. Yes, drumming, I could still hear her, drumming, behind us, drumming, back up that loopy road. Thumpathumpathumpa...her gullet throbbed for me and me alone.

Uncle O. ignored my distress as he drove. "Yup, Meg's still to home. I guess you could say that. Seein as we jist drove twicest past her stone this mornin."

"Stone?"

"Gravestone."

My drum stopped. Emu stopped.

"Wait--her stone? but Tilden said--"

"I know what Tilden said. We pa.s.sed right by her stone goin in and out to git these tomaters. But I guess you couldn't see from where you was a-sittin betwixt us. She's restin right there beside the road."

I met his gaze for an awkward spell, saying nothing. Finally, he re-lit his stogie and I cleared my lungs. My chest ached fierce inside.

"When?"

"She pa.s.sed a good while ago, right after highschool. Shirley took it hard, but Tilden--that's when he quit the post office and took up the Bible along with his fast money schemes. It don't matter. Debt don't touch ole Tilden at all. He's too busy in his head."

"She was perty."

"Yup, she was perty."

"So what kilt her?"

He blew rings, eyes cut deep into his resolve.

"Toxic shock. That's what Doc Sax called it. Toxic shock. O'course...she was closed casket, so I can't rightly say."

So that was that. Sweet, wild young Meg was dead and gone to dust. She was dead and so was Ruby Ann, so was cousin D'Wyla and so was that lovely emu back there. They were all dead to me now and the strange thing was, right then, my const.i.tution leveled. The body began to feel a little better. As we descended through the green hills, there were chickaree and magpies that led me to believe I would soon be well, well enough that is, while there were sorrows sent upon me that could never heal.

I did not stay for the reunion that year. When we got back to Uncle Orbuckle's place I shook his hand and left him there. He needed no explanations, never did. I came back home to the trailer where I've been pretty much alone ever since. The divorce will be final in January though I still see Ruby Ann now and again. She's usually downtown this time of year with her not-so-new, clean-cut boyfriend, ringing a bell for the orphan's fund or somesuch. I think she dropped out of junior college. She always looks frostbit and reverently cranky, but I like the winter months better than most. Times are lean for family folks; but I just got a major purchase extension on my Monkey Wards card and bought myself this satellite dish that gets every channel in the known universe. I've got brew in the icebox. I peddle a little weed in the pinch since all my cordwood is sold. Most days I watch the monster trucks, Big Daddy Roth, championship wrestling and I play with my new smoker, grilling emu steaks, diddling with a tomato relish I'm trying to perfect. I like my smoker smoking in cold weather. Last week I found a wee black kitten under the trailer that I've taken in and named Queenie after a vogue queen I once knew. She sleeps with me nights and it's good to know she's there. She purrs on top of my chest while I'm snoozing, so that's all I can hear most nights.

3 A N G E L S.

Peabody Dawes strode free, white and handsome across the Cayuga churchyard, ready for more s.h.i.ts and giggles, ready for p.u.s.s.y down the line. Peabody was the handsomest man in Cayuga Ridge. You had to accept the fact. Don't worry it. It was a G.o.d-given thing. n.o.body wore a three-piece gabardine stripe like Peabody did; no other male Cayugan possessed a three-piece period or wore such angel's gold hair. He used a mail order Italian pomade to slick it. And tonight was on. The road was dark. The holyrollers were dragging. And Peabody couldn't bear to drag. He hopped into his DeSoto Fireflight S-21 and spun over to Billi Mae's house. He expected her to be wh.o.r.ed up and ready--get it?--juicy for the all-night train to Big Time s.h.i.ts And Giggles.

Peabody had his way with women. Back there, for the last six hours, that revival-ripped congregation had its way with Adelaide Jewel Johns. They wanted to know what Adelaide had done with her three angel boys. Mercy, her darling triplets weren't three moons off the t.i.t; she'd just birthed them a summer ago, and what had Adelaide done with them now? Everybody wanted to know. Christ wanted to know. Did you kill them you she-witch, Adelaide's young husband Tom demanded, did you kill our sweet angels? Now that was some real s.h.i.ts and giggles Peabody told himself, chain-smoking up the Ewe Springs road to Billi's house. You should have been there. Everybody else was.

Adelaide flung herself on the altar, put on a good show. She'd done no wrong to her angels, she swore. Oh truly and deeply, at first, Adelaide testified to her innocence. She returned from gathering toadstools and found three empty cribs, that's how it was, just yesterday noon, she swore. She wept with conviction. Then her upright neighbors bore down hard upon her. Preacher worked her over with his tongue. So Adelaide cried; a peddler, a Gypsy Jew peddler must of stole them. Later, she really lost touch. Man, it was rich. Peabody about busted a b.u.t.ton laughing when she pointed the blame at sunstroked rogue panthers, then at Boogery Bob Knott and, my, my, how that Preacher slapped her then. Boogery Bob Knott. s.h.i.t.

Peabody scooped up Billi Mae in his Fireflight. Peabody bit her and kissed her strangest nooks before flashing his mad money wad. The twinkle in his eye made her giggle, but Peabody wasn't telling. No way he owed this little dividend to the hunches of Dobber Magee; bless Dobby's lame little brain, wherever it was hunching tonight. No more guessing games for Peabody Dawes. He let Billi put her fishnet toe to the gas. Then his shoe mashed her toe and the Fireflight S-21 blew faster. Because Peabody was a natural born doer. His daddy's will had been read over a month ago. Peabody couldn't get at his real money yet and it had been tough, being short on funds when he'd never suffered before. But Peabody wasn't going to let probate slow him down. He and Billi drove over and picked up her best girlfriend, Sue Lou Denwittle; then the three rode downbound and fast for the Roanoke Station. n.i.g.g.e.r rich, he told them, we're n.i.g.g.e.r rich and that put smiles on their faces.

Adelaide had looked up and seen the smile on Peabody Dawe's face, shortly before he cut out from Revival. Through her hairstrings, through a ring of firebreathing inquisitors, her eyes blazed out at him. He'd seen them blaze before. How many afternoons had he seen her, all heated up on his picnic blanket or sloppy wet and naked on the backseat tuck and roll? Peabody was a rakishly handsome man. He had a way with his women. Adelaide was no different. Some saw her as a fresh, rosy mother, but she sucked upon his root. So Peabody knew. He knew exactly what she was.

Even now, tonight, she panted for mercy, like she'd always done when he delivered the goods; she asked mercy but this time Peabody wasn't listening. And neither was Judge and Jury. Things got rough after she lied about make-believe peddlers and panthers and make-believe Boo Bob Knott. Some deacon landed a kick.

Fortunately, Peabody had connections out of town. He'd even met a dude named Weevil down in the city. A good man to know. Weevil was known to traffic in anything worth buying, to all corners, East, West, North or South, to every appet.i.te known to man; so, ready money was no longer an issue for Peabody Dawes. Revival might last long dragging days on end in Cayuga Ridge, poor Adelaide. But those s.h.i.ts and giggles were over and new ones had begun. Soon Peabody Dawes found himself booking three tickets and one berth on the 3 Angel Express with green sawbucks to burn. Their tickets got punched; the girls rode his rail. Love was all that mattered to Peabody Dawes. By next week, Peabody would be back in Cayuga town. He'd slick back his gold with Italian pomade. He would go visit the big family banker. You had to love a fat banker with a fat check. Peabody might take Billi and Sue Lou with. He might take any old gal, and wouldn't there be some fun?

W H O E V E R.

Lizzie's nostrils vented white mist. The mule was pumping hard, hurrying Valjean home. Valjean felt bad, real bad. Unflagging, she rode Lizzie, stubborn as the air of desperation she breathed. She had never been a clinging vine. But now she felt rife with heavy humors, her own breath billowing steam into the cold black forest. Moonset was upon her. It was late. It was early. It was awful. Tears be d.a.m.ned, Valjean swore as an awful longing chased her back down the night trail from Riddle Top.