Mama let out a deep sigh. “Bones, take Pearl outside. She’s just too big to come in the house.”
“But Mama, she’s cleaner than the dogs, and you gotta admit she’s very well-mannered.” As if to prove my point, Pearl shuffled up to Mama, sniffed her hand, and grunted in reassurance.
Mama turned to me. “Bones, I don’t know if you have noticed, but Pearl is not a little piglet anymore, she’s a hundred-pound bristleback sow.”
Just then a cockroach the size of a hummingbird flew across the room. It went straight in front of Mama’s face and landed on the wall. I grabbed a rag and knocked it to the floor; in one quick motion, Pearl devoured that cockroach and snorted for more.
“Did you see that, Mama? Not only is she a good pet, she’s useful, too.”
“Good Lord, what next. A houseful of snakes, cockroaches, and a pig.”
“Mama, do you know that there are twenty-seven different kinds of cockroaches in Florida?”
“Bones, where on earth did you hear such a thing?”
“Mr. Speed told me. He said there are really over forty different kinds that live here, but only twenty-seven belong here. I guess the rest of ’em are kinda like Yankees, they just came down for the weather.”
Mama shook her head. “That is depressing news. Bones, do you believe everything Mr. Speed tells you?”
“Mama, I swear, he knows something about nearly everything. It would do you a world of good to sit a spell with Mr. Speed. He has more information in his head than ten of those ol’ cycopedas.”
“I believe it’s called an encyclopedia. And maybe if he knows so much about cockroaches, he can tell me how to get rid of them.”
“Mama, you should just go talk to him sometime. Besides Nolay, Mr. Speed is about the smartest person I ever did meet. Other than Little Man, I consider Mr. Speed my best friend. Not only is he smart, but he’s real nice to be with, too.”
I wasn’t sure why, but Mama turned away from me as a smile started spreading across her face. She said, “I will certainly try to do that.”
I walked back into the living room. The bullet hole in the floor was a small jagged crack filled with shiny dark water. Nolay and Mama had swept nearly all the water out. There were just a couple of shimmering rainbows left where the water had flowed. As usual, after a few days of sunshine, the musky smell of dampness would disappear.
Mama’s pistol was still sitting on the couch. There would be another time when I would see her holding her little pearl-handled .32. Only, she wouldn’t be shooting at a snake.
Along with the flood, summer’s gentle rains were quickly replenishing the swamp’s precious water, turning last winter’s dry drabness into a rich blend of greens and golds. Two days after that big storm blew in, we were still cleaning up the mess it left in our yard.
It was a hot, soggy afternoon; I was outside with Nolay, swabbing our window screens with DDT to keep the mosquitoes out. The pungent smell of the liquid filled my nose and brought tears to my eyes. I swabbed a patch across a screen and said, “This stuff sure makes pretty rainbows, don’t it, Nolay?” Before he could answer, the dogs started to bark.
We watched as a strange-looking car drove slowly up our bumpy driveway. It was a big, cumbersome thing, so low to the ground that its bumpers dug into the sandy top of the road. It looked like a fat black cat slinking up to our house.
Nolay and I put our DDT rags in a bucket and went to see who these unknown visitors were. I looked back at the house and saw Mama come to our big picture window and peek out around the curtains. Even Old Ikibob stopped scratching in the dirt and stuck his head up, blinking one eye like an orange caution light.
As the car pulled up to our house, I could make out the silhouettes of two men in the front seat. The man on the passenger side rolled his window down. He leaned his arm on the open window and stuck his head out. “How do, mister. Do those dogs bite?”
Nolay stuck his hands in his pockets and stared straight back into that window. “Only Yankees.”
The man chuckled and brought his arm back inside the window. He continued, “Well, sir, we’re not from around these parts. My name is Decker and this is my partner, Mr. Fowler. We were just out driving in these lovely backwoods and happened on this quaint little road. Decided to see where it led. I take it you are the gentleman of the house?”
Nolay cocked his head a little sideways, like Old Ikibob did when he stalked something, and replied, “If you mean do I own this land, you are correct.”
Fascinated by this unusual car and its passengers, I decided to take a closer look. Accompanied by the dogs, who promptly wet on all the tires, I ran my fingers over the fancy chrome hood ornament. As I walked around the side, the man sitting in the driver’s seat gave me a wordless glance. I went around the back and saw the license plate with Dade County, Florida, as its place of origin. I didn’t pay much attention to what Nolay and the men talked about. But suddenly I heard Nolay yell, “Lori, Honey Girl, bring me my gun. I’m gonna shoot me a couple of low-down land-grabbin’ Yankees!”
The dogs immediately came to attention. Silver, our half-wolf shepherd, ran around to the open window of the passenger side and lunged in. She grabbed a mouthful of Decker’s shirtsleeve and ripped if off, exposing a gold watch that dangled loosely around his wrist. Decker began to scream and roll up the window.
Paddlefoot and Mr. Jones raced around the car and growled and bit at the tires. Excited by all the commotion, Old Ikibob, who was always ready for a good fight, leaped on top of the hood and began to attack the windshield. He pecked and flapped his huge wings against the glass. His long claws scraped the metal and left deep raw gouges in the shiny black paint.
Mama ran out of the house with a shotgun in her hand. Nolay grabbed the gun, looked at it, and said, “That ain’t the one I wanted. I wanted a rifle, but this’ll do.”
The two men in the car wrestled with each other as they tried to get the car started. We could hear their muffled voices through the closed windows. I couldn’t see who, but one of the men yelled, “You crazy backwoods cracker, I’ll have the sheriff out here on you. See if I don’t!”
The car’s big engine roared to life; the tires dug into the soft sand and sped around the pond and out toward the driveway. Nolay fired a couple of well-aimed shots into the sky and off to the side of the car. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air and ran up our noses.
We watched as the heavy car bounced over the deep ruts and potholes. Through the back window we could see the two men as they were thrown up nearly to the roof. One time the car came down so hard that the back bumper broke and hung lopsided, leaving a dark snail’s trail down our sandy driveway.
Nolay laughed so hard tears streamed down his face. The dogs’ pink tongues lolled happily out the sides of their mouths as they panted and rubbed up against us. Ikibob strutted around the yard, flapped his wings, and crowed in triumph. There was so much commotion in the yard that Pearl got up from her favorite nap hole under a big cabbage palm and waddled over, with Harry close on her heels.
Nolay finally managed to choke out between tears and laughter, “I hope those dang Yankees got the message that this land ain’t for sale.”
Everyone seemed to enjoy the moment except Mama. She stood with both hands on her hips, her eyes cold as lime Popsicles. “Nolay, that was a purely foolish thing for you to do. We are civilized people. You cannot just pick up a gun and shoot at people.”
“Wadn’t no harm done, Honey Girl, I was just having a little fun.”
“That was not fun for those poor men. You scared them half to death.”
“They were on my land uninvited; I had every right to run ’em off.”
“You could have just asked them to leave. Nolay, one day some of your foolishness might come back to haunt you.”
Nolay shook his head and said, “I ain’t scared of being haunted. And I sure as heck ain’t gonna let nobody, especially a Yankee, come on my land uninvited.”
I looked up
at Nolay and said, “When that man said you were a backwoods cracker, it didn’t sound like he was saying it in a very nice way. He made it sound like a insult or something.”
Nolay leaned back on his heels and winked at me. “Bones, without knowing it, that Yankee man paid me a compliment. I’ve always told you, I’m mighty proud to be a cracker, and you should be, too. We come from a long line of people living here in Florida. Them fellas will never have that privilege.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll remember that.”
All too soon those Yankees would be back on our land, but they wouldn’t be trying to buy it.
The day after that incident in our front yard, me and Nolay went out to the back of our scrubland to check on our rabbit traps. I didn’t like killing rabbits, but they sure were good to eat. Nolay said a rabbit was a smart creature, and if it went inside our box trap it was because it wanted to be caught, it was ready to let its spirit go. It would be an insult to the rabbit if we didn’t kill and eat it.
When we got to our trap, Nolay bent over and slid the little wooden door open to check inside the box. “Yep, there’s one inside.” Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a movement at the edge of a row of scrub pines. “Nolay, what’s that over yonder?”
He stood up and squinted in the direction I pointed to. “Looks like a group of men. Dressed kinda funny-like for being out here.” He set the trap down, with the rabbit still inside, and started to walk toward the men. “Let’s go see who it is.”
As we got closer, it was easy to make out the forms of the Reems brothers; they looked like fat possums wearing overalls. The two Yankee men, Decker and Fowler, stood alongside them. They were dressed in gray slacks and heavy button-down shirts.
Little dark smiles of sweat sat under their armpits. One of them kept bending down to brush specks of dirt off his shiny white shoes.
Nolay’s face darkened as he recognized the men. He muttered under his breath, “Gol-durn Whackerstacker Joe and Peckerhead Willy. I shoulda known.”
When the two Yankees saw Nolay, they both took a couple of steps back.
Nolay went straight for the Reems brothers. “Peckerhead, what in blazes are you doing out here?”
“Just showin’ these fellers around,” Peckerhead said.
“Showin’ ’em what? I threw those low-down land-grabbin’ Yankees off my land just yesterday.”
Peckerhead stuck his thumbs in his overall straps, spit a glob of tobacco juice toward Nolay’s feet, and replied, “Ain’t none a your bizzness what I’m showin’ ’em. This here is my land, and I’ll do what I dang well please.”
“Listen, you rat-brained polecat, you’re on my land! You see that row of slash pine over yonder? My family planted that. Like I told you before, that’s the official boundary between our two properties. Now you and these Yankees get off my land before I turn you all into buzzard bait!”
Peckerhead spat out another glob of tobacco juice. “Why don’t you go back and live on the reservation, where you belong? Maybe you got it wrong, maybe you’re standing on my land.”
Nolay held his rifle down by his right side; I could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped it, one finger wrapped around the trigger. He took a step toward Peckerhead, his voice soft and clear. “Just because it says you own this land on a piece of white paper don’t mean you do. My people owned all this land. My family was living here when yours was still digging its way out of pig slop!”
Nolay moved in even closer and took a deep breath. “Like I just said, you see that row of slash pine over yonder? That’s the beginning of my land and the end of yours. Now get off my land.”
I saw Whackerstacker’s and Peckerhead’s hulking frames both move toward Nolay. I stepped in front of Nolay’s right arm, keeping the rifle barrel pointed to the ground, and said, “Nolay, it’s gettin’ late. We should be headin’ back before dark.”
The Reems brothers looked at me and stopped. The Yankee with the shiny white shoes stepped forward, placed a shaky hand on Peckerhead’s arm, and said, “It’s okay, Willy, we don’t want any trouble. We can conduct our business elsewhere. The kid’s right, we should all be going. It’s getting late.”
Peckerhead glared in our direction, spat out another brown stream of tobacco juice, and sneered, “I’ll be seein’ you again, dirty monkey.”
Nolay took a step forward. I wrapped both hands around his right arm. “Nolay, let’s get back home.” He looked down at me, and I could see the anger floating in his eyes. I could sure see that being called a dirty monkey was definitely not a compliment or something to be proud of.
Peckerhead turned and began walking away. We stood and watched as the four of them disappeared into the scrub pines. Nolay turned abruptly and started to walk back toward the house. I ran after him and called out, “What about the rabbit? It’s still in the trap.”
Without breaking his stride he said, “Let it loose.”
“But—”
Before another word tumbled out of my mouth, he turned and said, “Bones, I told you to let it go. Now do what I say. I’ll see you back at the house.”
I watched as he vanished into the shadows of dusk. When I got back to the trap, the door was still open and the rabbit sat at the other end of the box, patiently waiting for its death. Usually, Nolay would reach in, grab it by its ears, and pull it out. With one swift punch to the back of its small neck, its life would be ended.
I looked into its glossy black eyes and whispered, “Sorry, fella, I know this is wrong, but I gotta let you go. I reckon it just ain’t your time.”
As I lifted the back of the trap to release the rabbit, I was surrounded by a sudden and piercing quiet. Every night creature had become silent, the sign that something larger and more powerful was close by. My hands froze; the hair on the nape of my neck stood up. I stared into the tangle of scrub pines and shadows. I felt the presence of something, or someone, staring back at me. A musky smell filled the air.
I dropped the trap. The rabbit dashed out and was swallowed up by the darkness. I turned and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I pounded my feet on the trail to alert any living thing in front of me that I was coming, so get out of the way.
Like that little trapped rabbit, I was breathing in short gasps. My ears filled with the sound of my breath and the pounding of my feet. I was too scared to look back, but I was sure there was something behind me.
When I reached our house, Nolay had just walked up to the front door. “Good Lord, Bones, what on earth got after you?”
Breathless, I bent over and panted out, “I’m not sure, Nolay, but I think it was Soap Sally. I think she was in the dark, staring right at me.”
“Now, Bones, why would ol’ Sally be out there after you?”
“ ’Cause it was wrong of me to let that rabbit go. I disrespected it, and I think she was out to get me.”
“Naw, ol’ Sally ain’t gonna turn you into soap over a rabbit. You gotta do worse than that.”
“I don’t know, I just don’t like thinking about her out there. Next time I’m taking the dogs with me. Nolay, does she turn dogs into soap, too?”
“Naw, she just likes bad little kids, they make the best kind of soap.” Nolay smiled at me. “Why, you haven’t done anything bad, have you, Bones?”
“No, sir, I sure have not.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Bones. We best be getting cleaned up for supper.”
As we walked into the house, I turned and stared into the darkness. Something was out there, looking back at me. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.
That evening, as twilight began to lay its soft gray veil over our house, I helped Nolay light the kerosene lamps. The wicks flickered to life and slowly filled each room with a dim yellow glow.
Mama was in the kitchen when Nolay ambled in. He put his arms around her waist and said something that made her giggle like a schoolgirl. It was a humid evening and Nolay was stripped to the waist. His thick chest, as hairless
as a turtle’s, gleamed like bronze in the dim light. He turned his sky-blue eyes in my direction and said, “Bones, let’s you and me go do a night check on the critters.”
Outside, the night symphony had just started up. Fireflies darted around, flashing their secret codes to each other. Like ghostly shadows, bullbats swooped down out of the darkness and scooped up mosquitoes and gnats by the mouthful.
The dogs accompanied us as we checked on Ikibob and his brood. Ikibob was a huge Rhode Island Red. He stood over two feet tall, with spurs the size of small railroad spikes and an attitude between a Brahman bull and an Arabian sultan. According to Mama, Ikibob was the result of one of Nolay’s many blurred visions.
One day Mama had said, “It sure would be nice to have a rooster and a couple of chickens so we could have fresh eggs.” Not long after that statement, Nolay pulled up in our old blue pickup truck with the bed stacked with chicken crates. There were five, to be exact; one hundred biddies in each crate. Where he got those crates remained a mystery. There were some things me and Mama just did not inquire about.
Those five hundred fluffy yellow biddies quickly grew into chickens that crowed, squawked, and scratched all day and all night. They turned our life in the swamps into a chicken coop.
The end came the day a flock of them invaded Mama’s kitchen. She had just set aside a mound of fresh biscuit dough to rise when she went out to check on something. While she was gone, some chickens broke through the screen door and went on a rampage. They pecked, scratched, and messed on everything in sight. Mama’s immaculate kitchen looked like a dozen pillows filled with chicken feathers and flour had exploded.
Precious Bones Page 2
