by Bobby Norman
“No,” he said, wringin’ his hands, “she’s m’niece, m’brother’s child. We had ‘er so long now, though, she thinks we’re ‘er Ma ‘n Pa. Me ‘n th’wife’s takin’ care of ‘er ‘til they get back on thr’feet. They’s had hard times.”
“Seems t’run in th’family, don’it…hawd times.” She took a pull on the pipe and asked, “Wat’s yr’brotha’s name?”
Roach’s eyes rolled through the back of his head lookin’ for somethin’ and then spat out, “Frank.”
She looked him over, then, quietly, threateningly, “No it ain’t! You ain’t got no brothah. You a lyin’ sack o’ shit, ’n I don’t take kindly t’ bein’ lied to, ‘specially comin’ ‘round with yer hand out, beggin’.” Roach started to say somethin’ but she cut him off. “’At child ain’t no blood o’ yourn or yr’wife’s. Noooo…’n futhamoah, ‘at woman’s notcho wife. Now...,” then, looking like she was soooo proud of herself, “watchu think o’ that?”
Poochie growled again. From the way Cob was talkin’, it hoped she’d finally had enough of the blowhard, and pretty quick he’d get a crack at him. It had no doubt its three legs could outrun his two.
“You don’t know nothin’ o’ th’sort,” Roach told her, puffin’ up and puttin’ on a show. “Yer just guessin’, ‘n I reckon I’ll go now,” and while shivers crawled up his spine, he turned to leave. Putting the hound to his back was probably the bravest thing he’d ever done, but his ragged nerves were payin’ for it. Had the beast barked right then he woulda packed his drawers with the hot and steamy and turned into a pillar of salt.
Before he took his fourth step, she called after him. “Somethin’s wrong...with’at child. Wat is it?”
With fresh shivers up his spine…—Lord, I hate witches!—‘n he turned.
She’d dropped her face to hide behind the hat brim.
“What’d make you think anything’s wrong with ‘er?” he demanded, trying his best to sound indignant. He wished he could see her face. As much as those black eyes made him nervous, not seein’ ’em made him even more so.
Cob sucked on the pipe and waited him out. Finally he got flustered enough and said, “She’s struck by lightnin’ ’fore she ‘scaped th’womb ‘n she’s blind in one eye, but other’n ‘at, they ain’t a good…God… Dang…THING wrong with ‘er. She’s a good girl, but I don’t know where ‘at’s any o’ yer business!”
The dog started to rise. Cob put out her hand, and it settled back with one last low, growly, frustrated threat.
“Who’s th’chile’s muthah?” she asked. It sounded like a casual question but it was actually much, much more than idle curiosity.
“Little albino girl, kilt by th’same lightnin’ strike. Why?”
Cob’s heart pounded wildly but she hid it well, her face concealed under the hat brim. “If you ‘n I c’n strike a deal,” she told him, calmly, “you come back in two days ‘n I’ll give ya th’med’cine.”
“I don’t know if th’wife’s got two days,” he said, picturing what Pearl’d looked like when he left.
“If she ain’t got two days left in ‘er…even I cain’t hep ‘er.” Then she lifted her head just enough to make eye contact, “But, until she crosses ovah, there’s a chance….” She trailed off, shrugging her bony shoulders.
“You’d give it to me?” he asked, suspiciously, noting the change in her tone, “‘n what kind o’ deal? I awready tolja, I ain’t got no money ‘n no whiskey ‘n no likely way t’get ’em.”
“Come back in two days...’n bring the girl with ya.”
“The girl? Why’d I do that?”
“If you ain’t no mo’ int’rested in gettin’ th’med’cine’n t’make me yell alla way ‘cross th’yawd, you c’n leave. But…if yoah intrested in workin’ somethin’ out, praps somethin’ ben’ficial t’us both…praps…. come closah ‘n I’ll tell ya how.”
Roach blinked, swallowed hard, and looked at the distorted lump at her feet.
She noticed and jabbed the dog’s rear with her big toe. “Git!”
With the deformed mouth, the cur always looked like it was snarling, and Roach was sure, because of the way the thing looked at him, that its having to go to the trouble of getting up was Roach’s fault, it’d remember the intrusion…and it had a long memory. The monster chomped on the bone, picked it up, and hop-stepped hop-stepped hop-stepped off what it musta felt was distance enough, and with a laborious whump, plopped back on the dusty ground.
Warily, keepin’ his eye on the nasty lookin’ thing, Roach moved closer…
…and the witch made him an offer.
CHAPTER 7
After kickin’ around all the why-he-shoulds and why-he-shouldn’ts about going back to the witch, Roach drug hisself out of bed and, by the feeble light of the coal oil lamp, fixed a bite to eat. After washin’ it down he wished he hadn’t. He worried more about Pearl’s condition ever time he fixed his own eats. Ever time he had to put on the same dirty pants. Ever time he had to traipse to the crick for a bucket of water. He stepped to Lootie’s little cot, pinched her big toe pushing up from her one thin blanket, and shook it. “Lootie, get up, but keep quiet, don’t wake yer mama.”
Lootie mumbled something, sat up, bed-headed and groggy, knuckled her sleepy eyes, and looked out the window. “It’s still dark!”
“I know that. We gotta start early if we wanna beat th’heat.” He pushed her on the shoulder. “Get up. We got a long way t’go.”
She yawned, dropped her chin to her chest for just a second….
“Hey!” Roach snapped the back of his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t go back t’sleep!”
The shack was cold. Lootie scratched her head, crawled off the cot, pulled her nightgown up over her head, tossed it on the cot, picked up her dress, and shivered while she pulled it over her head and down. She wheeled around and sat down with her eyes closed, still half asleep, and put her socks and shoes on.
Roach bent over Pearl’s bed to check on her. He wouldn’t touch her, though. The day before she’d wheezed like her throat was squoze nearly shut, fightin’ for ever breath. Right at that minute, she musta been doin’ better because she wasn’t wheezin’. He thought about rousin’ her up to let her know they were leavin’ but that woulda meant touchin’ her. He justified passin’ on it, convincing hisself she needed the sleep. It didn’t take much convincing. He’d even gone to sleepin’ on a makeshift palette on the floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of wakin’ up to find she’d passed in the night while layin’ next to him. The physical discomfort of the floor wasn’t nearly as great as the thought of layin’ next to a flat-eyed, slack-jawed corpse all night. He stirred up the near-dead embers in the pot-bellied stove and put on a couple more little sticks. He closed the stove door and saw Lootie was dressed, her chin resting on her chest.
“Hey!” he whispered harshly.
“Huh?” Her head snapped up.
“You ready?”
“For what?” she said through a yawn. Then, “I’m hongry.”
“Quiet down. We ain’t got th’time now. We’ll eat later on.”
Scratching her head, she looked at the stove and noticed the pan he’d fixed his eggs. “You et. How come I can’t?”
“I thought I’s bein’ good lettin’ ya sleep ‘n then ya try t’make me feel bad for it. I’m sorry, maybe I shoulda woke y’up, but we ain’t got the time now. You’ll eat later at th’nice lady’s house. She’s fixin’ somethin’ good. Come on now, let’s go!” He pushed her to get up and then out the door into the dew-dripping morning.
All Lootie had on was her thin little dress, underpants, holey socks, and worn-out shoes. She noticed Roach was all bundled up tight in a coat buttoned nearly to his neck with the collar turned up and his hands in the pockets. “I’m cold,” she said, crossing her stick-thin arms to her chest and scrunchin’ up.
“Walk faster. That’ll getcha goin’.”
Cob had also been up since before daybreak, making preparations for the bi
g doin’s. For one thing, she had some baking to do. It was gonna be a busy day, and she’d brewed a cup of strong, dark tea to help get her sluggish blood pushin’ through her veins. She was sittin’ on a three-legged stool lookin’ out the shack’s one greasy, wiggly-paned window, one leg over the other, nervously wagglin’ her ugly foot.
There were shelves on the walls with various sized bottles and jars. Some of ’em had seeds, and others, beans. Gnarled, rooty lookin’ stuff. Critter innards. One had a two-headed terrapin. It looked spooky. That was the intent. She even had a cracked crystal ball stuck in a box somers. It was all foofoo, circus sideshow stuff, meant to impress the easily impressed. Of all her possessions, though, her favorites were the well-worn books stacked up in the corner; thirty-five, maybe forty of ’em, and when business was slow, which was mostly what it was, they helped pass the time.
She took a sip from the chipped china cup and looked over her shoulder. She already had one visitor layin’ in bed and was expectin’ six more before long. Two of ’em bein’ the jittery fella who’d come sneakin’ around, tail-tucked and ears down, and the little girl he’d promised to bring with him. All her thoughts had been on that little girl. Cob wasn’t motherly. In fact, she didn’t like children a’tall—too noisy and too needy—but she was lookin’ for’ard to seein’ this’n. She took another sip and looked out the dirty window, thinkin’ the nubbly-faced fool claimin’ t’ be her father was far too simpleminded to make up the stories he’d told. Other than the one about the child belonging to a brother goin’ through hard times. She saw through that one as easy as the sun through a lace curtain.
But the one about the child bein’ cut from the fresh-dead womb of a lightnin’-struck mother. Better yet, an albino mother. She knew all about her. The one they called Smoke. It all added up. The lightnin’ that killed her mother shoulda killed her. But it hadn’t. Then there was the blind eye. The left. Not the right. Yeah, it all added up, and no, the ignorant blowhard hadn’t the knowledge or the imagination to concoct somethin’ like that. He had no idea what he had.
Cob smiled. She was lookin’ for’ard to this day like she hadn’t in a long time. She, bein’ a witch herself, was a rarity and was lookin’ for’ard to meetin’ a kindred spirit. Then she chuckled at the thought of considering herself a kindred spirit. To that one? Not hardly. No, she had to be honest with herself. She’d spent a lifetime developing her talents, feeble as they were. Her bloodline had been severely watered down over the generations. That’s why she had to practice on the fringe. But, if the child was who…what she believed her to be….
She swallowed hard and waggled her foot, imagining. Slowly, another idea was takin’ shape. She looked in the cup and swirled around what little dark tea remained. The corners of her mouth rose and she started laughin’ so hard the tears coursed down the gullies of her wrinkled old face. Then she remembered her slumbering guest and looked over her shoulder, hopin’ she hadn’t disturbed her, but other than the faint rise and fall of her sunken chest, she hadn’t moved. She doubted there was anything left there more than the body. No, there’d be no more sunrises for that one.
Her eyes rolled over the shelf and stopped at one of the small, seed-filled vials. She set the cup on the floor, reached up and pulled the little bottle off the shelf, twisted the cork stopper off, and shook the seeds out on the floor. Then she leaned over and picked up her tea cup.
CHAPTER 8
Without going into any great detail—in fact, deliberately leaving out most of it—Roach told Lootie the day before where they were going and about the nice old woman…
“Her name’s Cob. Ain’t that a funny name?”
…who was gonna give ’em the medicine that could make Pearl all better, but the old woman had somethin’ she wanted Lootie to do first. She had somebody who needed help, another nice old lady who was feelin’ low, and Lootie could help the poor thing, and if she did, they’d get the medicine for free. Lootie asked him what it was she wanted her to do. Roach cooked up a whopper about how the old woman’s children hadn’t come to see her, even with her bein’ so sick and all. How she’d cared for ’em all the years they were young, but it didn’t make any difference now that they were grown up and moved off. She was sick and lonely. She might not even get better, it might well be the end. It was one of the saddest things Lootie’d ever heard. She thought for sure everbody loved their mamas like she loved hers. It woulda been a pretty good piece of fiction, except that Roach’d dragged it up out of his own conscience. He’d done his mother thata way, and even heartless, didn’t-care-for-nobody-else Roach Komes felt guilty about not bein’ with her when her time come, and maybe, although through somebody else, namely Lootie, he could come clean…kinda. Sorta. Somethin’ akin to gettin’ into Heaven, taggin’ along on somebody else’s good deeds.
He told Lootie the old lady’d heard what a nice little girl she was and she wanted to meet her. She was bakin’ a fresh loaf of bread she wanted to share with her, and after she’d eaten it, Cob would give ’em Pearl’s medicine.
Lootie asked him how somebody she never met knew she was a nice girl, but after a left-handed baring of his soul—and bereft of the intelligence to cook up something remotely logical—Roach told her, “Don’t ask silly questions, she jes does, don’t worry ‘bout it!”
What was making Lootie more nervous than anything was how nice Roach was being to her.
It was just before noon when they reached the witch’s shack. The day had warmed considerably, and the humidity was so high they looked like they’d just clumb out of the crick. Roach had taken his coat off and draped it over his arm. His shirt was soaked and Lootie’s hair was plastered to her head like a stringy helmet.
The witch was outside the shack in the shade of the little porch overhang, bare-footed, sittin’ on the tree stump with one leg over the other, suckin’ on the pipe. Because of the heat, she’d pulled the raggedy hem of her long black dress above her knees and Roach noticed how ugly her legs were, especially her feet. Long and bony, and— except for the coarse, dark hair—they looked like a frog’s.
The Devil Dog was curled up at her feet mouthing another bone. A thinner one than before. It was a leg bone, but it wasn’t one Roach was familiar with. He knew cow bones; it wasn’t that big. Sheep, hog, and goat, too, but it was bigger than them. Then he sucked in a lungful; he knew what it was. He looked in the mongrel’s eyes and a low, slow growl clawed up its throat.
The witch raised her head, and Lootie was unnerved by the old woman’s face, mostly veiled in the shadow of the wide, floppy-brimmed hat. She only had two teeth Lootie could see. Her face and hands were more gray-white than regular hand colored, and her eyes were black as pitch. It frightened her how it seemed that eyes she couldn’t look into at all seemed to be lookin’ clean through her. The only other times Lootie’d ever felt that naked was when she didn’t have any clothes on. Blood was thumpin’ through her heart, and her head but felt like it’d dried and caked up everwhere else.
The witch toed the dog in the rump, “Git!” Reluctantly, it picked up the bone and hobbled off.
When the old woman turned her attention back to Lootie, she felt like she’d been squeezed around the throat, gasped, and grabbed Roach’s pant leg.
“Now don’t be like ‘at,” he told her. “This’s th’nice lady I’s tellin’ y‘bout. The one with the med’cine that’ll make yer Mama all better.” He dug his fingers into Lootie’s shoulders and turned her to face the witch. “This’s my little girl, Lootie.”
The old woman took a long time to look her over, like she was a mule at auction, and the whole time, Lootie was tryin’ to get her breath. The old woman’s bottomless black eyes roamed over the scar, followed it up into Lootie’s scalp and then back down to her one good eye. The choking feeling stopped the instant the old thing faked a smile. “G’monin’, little sistah,” she crooned, hoarsely. “My name’s Cob.”
Lootie swallowed and blinked. “How do, ma’am. I ain’t got no sistah.”
Cob rocked back, slapped her bony knee, and cackled hard. “No,” she said, hawked up a gob and spit it on the ground, “notchet.” She laughed again. “Ain’t she jes th’most precious thang evah was?” She cocked her head toward the shack door. “Didjer…” she glanced at Roach, “…yer Papa. Did he tell ya I had a lady friend inside wantin’ t’meetchew?”
Lootie nodded, cautiously.
“You’ll like ‘er, mm-hmm, yessssss, yes, she’s a nice lady, but feelin’ a mite pohly of late, ‘n yer Daddy ‘n me, we thought mebbe a little girl bein’ nice to ‘er’d make ‘er feel so much bettah.”
“Did ‘er children come t’see ‘er yet?” Lootie asked, innocently.
Cob and Roach locked eyes. Roach could always think ’em up, but had no talent at follow-through. Thank God, Cob could think faster than he and put two and two together. “No, dahlin, notchet, poah ol’ thang. Don’t ‘at beat all? But we’a still hopin’.” Then she put her elbows on her knees and leaned for’ard, her eyes piercing into Lootie’s like needles. “I betchew got up early this monin’, dincha ya? Had a long trek? I betchur hongry, too. You ain’t had nothin’ t’eat this monin’, have ya?”
“She ain’t had nothin’,” Roach jumped in. “Nothin’ since yestedee. Not a crumb.”
“Is ‘at right, you ain’t had nothin’ t’eat?”
“Yes, ma’am, I mean, no, ma’am,” Lootie replied, politely. “I ain’t.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cob said, convinced. “Such mannahs. Yes, well, ‘at’s a long time for a little’n t’go ‘thout eatin’ somethin’, ain’t it?” She gestured over her shoulder. “Th’lady inside’s fixed somethin’ special, jes f’you.” She pushed her flat ass off the stump, stepped to the edge o’ the porch, and helt out a knuckly hand. “Why donchew come inside with me now ‘n I’ll inaduce ya, then we c’n eat, awright?”
