She stared at her hands. They still burned like they’d been lit on fire. She pressed a hand against her cold cheek. She looked upward at the moon. It was beautiful, the moon. But she couldn’t touch it. And she couldn’t touch Maggie either.
“Sweet dreams, Maggie. Mama loves you.”
Sixteen
The Fugitives
“We’re going to the Gulf of Mexico,” said Blake, using a hacksaw. “You ’n’ me.”
“Really?” said Coot.
“Yessir. Gonna get me a little boat and go fishing off Point Clear, just like my daddy and me used to do.”
E. P. was sleeping in his chair. He was drooling on himself, and a puddle had formed on his shirt below his chin. He snored loud enough that Coot could feel it in his spine.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Coot asked Blake.
“Sadly, yes,” said Blake. “Just look at that fool. It would take ten bottles of dope to kill a man that size.”
“You sure?”
“Yep, I’m sure.” Then Blake laughed. “But I wouldn’t wanna be him tomorrow morning. He’ll feel like a duck walked all over his tongue.”
Blake pulled the hacksaw against the padlock that was fixed on a cargo trunk beneath E. P.’s cot.
Coot wandered closer to E. P. and stared at the man’s big face. He felt bad. Coot’s mother used to tell Coot they owed their lives to E. P. She said he’d saved them. Coot didn’t know what that meant, but he couldn’t imagine this angry sleeping man saving anyone.
“Where’s Point Clear?” Coot asked.
“Close to Mobile.”
“Is that where you’re from, Mobile?”
“You better know it.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
Blake stopped sawing and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Gonna be like seeing heaven, Coot. Land so green it’ll make your eyes hurt. Water so blue it’ll steal your breath.”
“Blue water?”
“Gulf water.”
“What’s that?”
Blake only winked.
When the padlock came loose, Blake giggled. He opened the trunk and dug through all sorts of things inside. Ketchup bottles filled with brown whiskey, new boxes of leather shoes still packed in tissue paper. There was a basket of jewelry, pocket watches, snuff tins, and news clippings with Coot’s name printed on them.
Blake held one clipping to the light. It bore a photo of Coot speaking before a tent of two hundred people in Chanute. That had been Coot’s biggest day ever. The people had lined up outside the tent to see him. In the photo, Coot had his eyes closed tight, his arm outstretched like he was plucking an apple from the air.
Blake kept sifting through the trunk until he found a small tin box. When he did, he cracked it open using the blade of his pocket knife. The lid popped open, and Blake made a serious face. He pressed the brim of his hat upward and let out a soft whistle.
“What is it?” said Coot.
“Old fool must have a few thousand dollars in here,” said Blake.
“A few thousand?”
Blake licked his thumbs and riffled through the cash. He concentrated and moved his lips slightly without saying anything. “Almost three grand,” he finally said. Then he fell onto his haunches. “For the love of Mike, I expected maybe a few hundred, not this.”
“But we can’t take it,” said Coot.
Blake laughed once. “Just watch me.”
“He’ll kill us, Blake.”
“He shouldn’t have this much to begin with.” Blake closed the box. “E. P. owes more people more money than anyone in the state. This ain’t his money. We ain’t taking nothing. We’re inheriting it.”
E. P. began to stir in his chair. His eyelids opened. He made a sound like he was gurgling. He saw Coot and shot up from his seat. He wobbled on his feet, then fell forward. His lazy eyes landed on Blake, who held the money box beneath his arm.
“Why, you’re robbing me,” E. P. said in a weak voice. Then he landed his grip on Coot’s arm. “You’re robbing me blind.”
Coot tried to tug himself free, but E. P. hardened his grip. “Why, I oughta whip you until your teeth fall out . . .” Then the large man started laughing. He rolled backward onto the dirt. “I can’t hardly bleeve it . . .”
Blake stepped over E. P. until he was straddling the man in the dirt. He squeezed the big man’s jaw until the skin bunched up around E. P.’s fleshy cheeks. Blake said, “I been chewing cheap cigars and reusing coffee grounds for ten years, and you got twenty-seven hundred hoarded away, you greedy little cuss . . .”
E. P. swung his limp arms at Blake. “My money. Gimme that box.”
Blake used the box to tap E. P. on the forehead. “None of this is yours. It belongs to your son and his mama. I dare you to stop me, you big cheat.”
But the big man was not able to sit upright. He only closed his eyes and laughed himself to sleep. “I’ll kill you,” E. P. mumbled.
It took Coot and Blake twenty minutes to pack their things and load it all into E. P.’s mammoth Hudson. Blake slid into the driver’s seat, started the car after a few attempts. The engine roared to life and the tires crackled on the dust and gravel.
Coot sat on the passenger side, watching the large tent get smaller in the distance. The Hudson sailed into the dark, kicking clouds of dust behind it.
Blake lit a fresh cigar with a match. The coal on the end of the cigar glowed orange and filled the car with fragrant smoke that Coot could almost taste. Blake took one puff and exhaled at the windshield with a gentle moan.
“First new cigar I’ve had in four years,” Blake said, removing it from his mouth to admire it. “Only wish your mama were here with us.”
Coot leaned against the seat and stared into the distance. He watched prairie land fly past the windows in the night. “I miss her.”
“She’s watching over you right now, Coot.” Blake ruffled Coot’s hair. “You can bet your hind parts she is.”
Seventeen
Old Tires
Morning came with the sounds of birds. Vern lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the early sky. The colors were bright. It looked like someone had smudged gold and orange paint all over the clouds. He sat straight and felt the cords of his back tighten. He winced. Arthritis, bursitis, and all-around morning grumpiness were getting to him. Getting older was a pain in the—well, everything.
Vern saw Paul standing beside the truck, baby against his chest. He was feeding her from a glass bottle.
“You boil that bottle first?” asked Vern. “Lady at the store said you had to boil the bottles and teats first.”
“’Course I boiled them. I’ve been boiling them all morning.”
“You make sure the milk ain’t too hot?”
“You’re getting as skittish as an old woman.”
Vern stretched, then squinted. In the distance he could see a tiny cloud of dust rising into the morning sky. A grinding sound came with the dust. The sound got louder the closer the cloud of dust came.
Vern limped toward the road, his bad ankle throbbing. He knew he ought to be using a cane to walk, but he hated canes. Old men used canes. Vern wasn’t ready to get old. A limp was better than a cane. Besides, to potential employers, a cane was as good as a wheelchair.
Vern stood in the highway, hitching his thumbs in his overall straps. Louisville wagged her tail and sat beside him. She watched Vern with big eyes.
“You hear that grinding?” said Vern.
“I hear it,” said Paul. “But I’m surprised you can hear it.”
“Need new bearings in their wheels. That’s what making the sound. Their bearings is shot.”
When the car reached them, the grinding noise was so loud it sounded like a rusty water pump handle. It was a Model T, covered in mud. It rolled to a stop only a few feet from Vern.
Vern put on his friendly face and looked into the windshield. A woman was driving. In the passenger seat, a boy. The child was wearing a wide-brimmed cattleman’s hat a few siz
es too big for his head, with a little girl on his lap.
“Morning, ma’am,” said Vern. “Just wanted to tell you your bearings is shot.”
Paul appeared behind Vern. “Morning, miss.” Paul tipped his hat and passed the baby to Vern. “What my friend’s trying to say is, you need your tires worked on or you’ll be in big trouble.”
The woman gave no response but kept a hard face. The boy in the seat next to her didn’t make much expression either. He looked young, Vern guessed maybe seven or eight. The little girl sitting on his lap was sucking her thumb. The woman glanced at the boy, then at Paul and Vern. Her eyes were serious ones.
“You don’t have to be so friendly,” said Paul. “Nobody likes a chatterbox.”
The woman said nothing.
Vern could see right away that these weren’t people who trusted others. They were scared. The woman wore an old cotton skirt. She had dirty skin. The children next to her were even dirtier.
The little girl shouted, “Look! A doggie!”
“Hush,” said the boy.
“But it’s a doggie! Mama, can we see the doggie?”
“Hush,” said the boy in the big hat. Vern could see the kid resting one hand on the wood handle of a large handgun that was tucked between the seats in the car.
“Easy, Tex,” said Paul. “I ain’t the one you gotta worry about. I’m the one who’s gonna fix your bearings before your car goes and catches fire.”
“What do you mean?” said the woman. “What bearings?”
Vern kept his eyes on the kid’s handgun. He felt afraid of what the kid might do. He held the baby against his shoulder, then gave her a kiss on the cheek to make himself feel better.
“What I mean, ma’am,” said Paul, “is that you need your wheels regreased or you won’t make it much farther before your car falls apart. We’s only trying to help.”
The woman looked at Paul and Vern with a pained face. Vern could see her thinking. Here was a woman who was all alone in this world. She had to think longer and harder than other women.
“And you’re going to help us?” she said.
“Be glad to, just as long as this kid don’t shoot me dead first.”
A long silence passed between them. She was too afraid to open the door.
“Look!” said the little girl. “Doggie!”
The woman said, “How do we know we can trust you?”
“Because,” said Paul, “you can trust a man who’s been boiling bottles and teats all morning.”
The woman stared at the baby in Vern’s arms, then at Paul. She let her eyes sit on Paul a little longer than normal. “I’m Eulah, and this is Reese.” She nodded to the boy. “And this is Pete.”
Paul held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Tex.”
Vern shot his hand to the kid next. “My name’s Vern, and this baby here is Verna Sue.”
Eighteen
Cowboys and Banditos
The handgun made Pete feel safe. It was all that made him feel safe. And feelings of safety were hard to come by. Every morning, before they covered miles in their old automobile, Pete would think to himself about the pitfalls that awaited them. The world was dangerous and cruel, and nobody was worth trusting during these hard times. That’s what he’d learned since his father passed. Trust nobody. Fear everybody. And never set your cowboy hat on your bed because it’s bad luck. He read that in a western dime novel once.
Pete thought about how he’d use the gun if he had to. How would he hold it? Double-handed, or single-handed with one hand resting on his belt buckle for poise? It was important to plan these kinds of things. You didn’t want to go shooting people looking like you didn’t know what you were doing.
Pete used the hours in the car imagining exactly how he’d use his gun if duty called. He thought about what he’d say when he drew his pistol. It was crucial to have something deathly clever to say. That’s how all cowboys did things. They said things that were witty just before they pulled the trigger.
He considered the phrase, “You ain’t gotta leg to stand on, bandito.” He’d read that once, and he liked the way that foreign word rolled off the tongue. But this phrase had been said to a one-legged Mexican bandito before he got shot in the heart. Such words wouldn’t make sense if they were used on regular old bloodthirsty roadside murderers.
He considered, “Eat dust, pilgrim.” That was in one of his novels too. But he didn’t fully know what pilgrims were and what they were doing in westerns, and it was important to use words he understood.
After much deliberation, Pete settled on the line, “Who’s laughing now?” It was perfect. A variation on something he’d read, which had originally gone, “Who’s got the last laugh now, Jeremiah?” But the simple twist of words made it shorter and therefore more piercing. It was firm, but with a little lightness to it. And it was appropriate for your everyday, basic heroic shooting. He’d seen enough picture show westerns to know that bad guys always laughed too much.
“Doggie!” said Pete’s sister. “Can we pet the doggie?”
Pete’s mother said nothing. She was just as unsure of these men. And this made Pete even more on edge. He gripped his pistol a little tighter. He waited for the gray-haired man to laugh for no good reason. Just one chuckle, that was all he needed.
But the old man made no laughs, he just kept talking.
“Y’all must be hungry,” the man said.
It was a strange thing to say, Pete thought. Maybe he would feed them before he tried to chop off their heads.
“And you’re in luck,” the old man went on. “Vern just cooked a whole hog.”
Pete glanced toward the black man who had walked away and now stood near a firepit. The big man was feeding a baby.
“No, thank you,” Pete’s mother answered. “We don’t need anything.”
She was lying. Their last meal had been two nights ago, in a car camp outside Lawrenceville. Pete had wandered through the lines of cars, digging through garbage after people had gone to bed. He’d found a leftover chicken carcass and a bag of rotted cabbage. His mother made soup out of it.
“We don’t want no food,” said Pete’s mother.
Pete’s stomach made a noise right after she said it.
The man stooped low and touched the hub of the old automobile. The old man spit on his finger, and when he touched the center of the hub, it made a hissing noise.
“See that?” the old man said. “This thing’s red hot, Tex. The bearings need regreasing or they’ll fall apart beneath you.”
Pete’s attention was diverted. His baby sister had climbed out of the car and was petting the black-and-tan dog and laughing. She was carefree, without a single fear in this world. Lucky girl.
Pete ignored the old man, got out of the car, and followed after his sister. He moved with caution, using as much authority as he could muster, keeping his legs wide. His gun was shoved in his belt, tugging his pants down below his haunches.
“Reese,” Pete said in a low voice. “Get back here.”
He was startled by a noise behind him. The old man was already cranking the car upward with a jack. The front tires were almost off the ground. The old man yelled out, “Vern, give old Tex a little bite. He’s gonna need his energy to help get these tires fixed.”
Pete’s stomach ached when he thought of food. Sometimes he felt so dizzy he wasn’t sure he could last another ten minutes. But somehow he just kept on living.
The old man loosened the nuts of the tire with a wrench. “Yessir, Tex,” he said. “Old Vern’s been looking for a genuine cowboy to give an opinion of his cooking. But we don’t get many cowboys out in these parts.”
The black man said, “I don’t need nobody’s opinion.”
“He gets defensive,” said the old man. “Sometimes you gotta mollycoddle him.” Then the old man reached into his back pocket and removed a quarter. “Now tell me, Tex, does this seem like a fair price?” He placed the heavy coin in Pete’s hand.
“Price f
or what?”
The old man winked. “You know, the going rate for your professional critiquing by a genuine cowboy?”
“Crit-eek-in?” said Pete.
“That’s right. It’s kinda like being a county fair judge at a jelly competition, picking the winner.”
“I don’t know.”
The old man reached into his pocket and placed another coin in Pete’s hand. “Here, this oughta square us up.”
The black man filled a plate with meat and drowned it in red sauce. Pete’s sister came running when she saw this. And Pete lost himself to the smell. He ate with his hands. And his sister ate from the same plate, using both her hands. He ate so fast it made his stomach hurt and his ears ring. He’d forgotten all about his gun and the clever line he would say. He only thought about the taste that was flooding his mouth. It was the best taste he’d ever known. When the plate was empty, Pete was breathing heavily. He wiped his face with his sleeve and still felt a burning hunger behind his ribs.
“Well?” said the old man who knelt beside the car. “How about it, Tex? Give us your official critique.”
“My critique?”
“Don’t hold back now. Vern can handle it. Might hurt his feelings, but he’ll get over it.”
Pete couldn’t answer. A feeling was sweeping over him. He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. Pete felt tears come to his eyes. He didn’t even know why the tears were there. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was the food. “Thank you,” said Pete in a quiet voice.
The old man hobbled toward Pete and sat beside him on a log next to the fire. He placed a greasy hand on Pete’s shoulder. He let out a little laugh.
The old man said, “Does this mean you ain’t gonna shoot me?”
Nineteen
Cowikee’s Railcar
The abandoned railway car sat in the woods, covered in thick straw that fell from the tall pines surrounding it. The wheels were rusted. The wood sides were weathered and dry. Marigold had never seen this monstrosity before, and she’d been living in these woods for months now. She’d been wandering the creeks and the shoreline of the sprawling bay but had never seen this old place. It was as though an unseen hand had dropped it in the woods.
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