Black Water

by Bobby Norman

  “He took bad sick with ‘is liver a while back,” she said defensively, “and th’doctor bills like t’cleaned us out, but regardless, we’re gettin’ back on our feet ‘n I’ll stick with ‘im. That’s more’n some do.” Which was aimed directly at Hub.

  “Well, ‘at’s a real fine piece o’ information t’gimme on th’day I get out. Thank ya so much.”

  “If you don’t wanna hear th’answers, don’t ask th’questions.”

  “Sam Dimwiddie. Well, ain’t that somethin’. I thought somebody’a shot that asshole b’now.”

  “Yeah, well, yer a good one t’accuse a body o’ bein’ a asshole. He treats me ‘n th’boys decent. I feel awful guilty bein’ here. He thinks I’m at m’sisters, ‘n this feels like a lie. We don’t live in Oledeux no more, ‘n th’boys think yer dead. I told ’em that.”

  “How’d I die?”

  “Stabbed t’death. I didn want ’em growin’ up with a father in prison, so I told ’em you’s kilt in a knife fight. It didn take much for ‘em t’believe it.”

  “Does God know ya lied?”

  “Yes ‘n I’m sorry for it, but I had t’get on, ‘n it was hard ‘nough ‘thout havin a husband in prison fer murder. Some years ago I let m’Lord ‘n Savior, th’sweet Son o’ God, Jesus Christ, in m’heart, got dunked, saved, got all m’old sins washed clean by His redeemin’ blood ‘n changed m’sinnin’ ways,” she said proudly, if a touch defiantly. “I try my damndest everday t’walk th’straight ‘n narrow.”

  “Well,” Hub said, nodding, “lyin ‘r not, I’m sure God ‘preciates it, but for my part, I ain’t never had no hard feelin’s.”

  As she got over the initial shock, feelings stored away for three decades started crawlin’ out o’ the mental woodwork. “Well, it cuts me t’th’quick t’say it,” but she would anyway, “’n’ sweet Merc’ful Lord God ‘n Jesus Christ ‘n th’B’loved Mother Mary fergive me, but I did. For a long time.”

  “Did what? I got lost tryin’ t’keep track o’ all th’one’s you’s askin forgiveness from.”

  “Hard feelin’s, Hub, you smart-mouth sinner! I thought I’s over ’em but I reckon not. If I thought God was lookin’ th’other way, I’d spit on you! Kick you where you’s always the proudest. I don’t know if killin’ George ‘n Matthew’s whatchu set out t’do ‘r ya just went off th’deep end like th’lawyer claimed. It ain’t my call t’say you’s right ‘r wrong. Th’deed just rurnt a lot o’ lives. Yers, mine, th’boys. I ain’t agonna tell ya where we’re livin ‘cause I don’t wantcha tryin’ t’find us.”

  “Speakin’ of, how’d you know I’s gettin’ out t’day?”

  “Last time I come up ‘n you wu’dn’ see me’s when I made up m’mind t’cut ties ‘n go f’th’big D. I went t’th’fella who was th’Warden at th’time ‘n asked t’leave a note in yer file t’let me know if ‘n when ya got out. They called me last week ‘n told me. Said it was ‘cause you’s havin’ a problem.”

  “Well, only if ya call dyin’ a problem.”

  “They said it was cancer. I’m sorry ’bout that. Heard it’s an ugly way t’go.”

  “Why’d you give a damn?”

  That got her goin’ again. “‘Cause I’s stupid ‘nough at one time t’love ya, but b’lieve you me, I’m over that!” She pursed her lips shut, yanked her handbag open, and pulled out a wad o’ bills rolled up in a rubber band and helt it out. “So here! It’s five hunerd dollahs. I hope it helps. It’s th’best I’cn do.” She shoved it in his hand, and his reflexes took it.

  He was totally confused. “I don’t want no money from you, Raeleen.” Although he did have a good grip on it already.

  “Hub, th’Good Lord fergive me, but I have dreaded this day fer thirty years. Th’thought o’ you’s like a scab ‘at itches, keeps fest’rin’ ‘n won’t heal up ‘r go away. I don’t mean ya no hurt, but I was so hopin’,” she pointed toward the prison gate, “you’d die in there so’s I wudn hafta face ya like this. I wantchu t’take it. It’ll appease m’conscience some fer any hurt I mighta caused ya. I want shed o’ you, Hub Lusaw. Out o’ my life, out o’ my mind, ‘n out o’ my conscience, ‘n maybe b’givin ya that money’ll help do that. Don’t try t’look us up, please, it’d only make things bad. I hope th’money helps ya make a new life.” Then she thought about that. “Or what’s left o’ this’n easier.” She started backing, took one last sorrowful look, and shook her head. “You used t’be good t’look at, ‘n now ya just look awful. It’s th’wages o’ sin, Hub, sure as anything. Get down on yer ’knees ‘n ask th’Lord t’wipe yer sins away ‘fore it’s too late. Nobody’s too far gone that He can’t cleanse their soul. Even yers.” She looked like she was about to cry. “I’m sorry, Hub, g’bye.”

  She turned and waddled her wide butt across the street to the Plymouth. She opened the squealy door, tossed her purse across the seat, and got in without lookin’ back. The old straight-eight fired up in a cloud o’ blue smoke, and Hub watched until the car disappeared into the distance. Then he looked down at the money in his hand. In five minutes, he’d made almost four times what he had in prison in thirty years and didn’t have to do anything for it. He shrugged, put it in his pocket, and started off down the road.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was about 4:00 p.m. when Hub came on a roadside café desperately in need of painting. Parked at the curb was a ‘39 Studebaker pickup that’d obviously pushed its share of stalled cohorts and pulled out more than its share of stubborn Cypress stumps. There was a cardboard sign Scotch taped in the passenger window declaring it was “For Sale, Inkwire in Lou’s.” Looking at how faded the sign was, he determined it’d been declaring the sale for some time. He looked at the sign in raised wooden letters over the cafe door: “Lou’s Café. Fine E ts.” The little a was in the flowerbed under the sign, leaned up against the wall, glistening with old snail tracks.

  He set his suitcase on the pavement, stepped to the driver side, and tried the door. It was locked. He put his forehead against the window, cupped his hands to the sides of his face, and looked the cab over. The interior wasn’t any better than the exterior. The windshield was cracked, the crack snaking from the southwest corner to the northeast. It seemed to be the day for cracked windshields. There was a dirty, butt-flattened cushion on the driver’s seat, so it must be worn through, paper and crap all over the passenger-side floorboard. It had a nice suicide knob of a naked blonde, settin’ back on her heels, lookin’ saucily over her shoulder, her nipples concealed by her elbows. Slowly circling the heap, he looked at the bald, mismatched tires and the rusty hole in the left rear fender. The bed had rusty holes showin’ through to the street, and the tailgate was missing. He went to the front, bent down to look underneath, and noticed fresh oil spatters on the road. Brushing the gravel embedded in his palm off on his pant leg, he picked up the suitcase and headed for the café.

  When he entered, he saw only two patrons in well-worn coveralls and sweat-stained baseball caps in a booth in the far corner by the front window. They gave him the obligatory once over and went back to their soup. Hub set the suitcase on the floor and his butt on a red, glinty-speckled, plastic, backless swivel stool at the closest end o’ the counter, just inside the front door. The floor may’ve felt the brush of a broom occasionally, but a bucket o’ hot water and soap was obviously a rarity. If not for the eight-legged cleaner-uppers foraging after lights-out, there’d still be cracker crumbs in the corners from the thirties. The multi-colored Wurlitzer off in the corner was scratchin’ out “In the Mood.” Hub kinda liked it. It didn’t mean to him what it meant to most people ‘cause he’d spent the big band-era in state-sponsored seclusion.

  In back o’ the counter, Ida Mae—mid-forties, slim, amply and proudly bosomed—was poured into a tight pink and white waitress get-up with the top two buttons undone. She eyed Hub like a hungry vulture would a juicy-lookin’ mouse. She slithered over and slid him a worn, gravy-and-ketchup-stained menu. “Good afternoon,” oozed sultrily from a mouth too f
ull o’ bright red lipstick. She’d undone the first o’ the uniform’s buttons when she caught him lookin’ the truck over. When he stood up after checkin’ the oil stain, picked up the suitcase, and headed for the front door, she’d unleashed the second.

  He looked around the café. “Kinda quiet.”

  She read his mind. “Don’t let th’lack o’ clientele fool ya. Food’s good. We’re just more of a lunch place. Mondee through Fridee b’tween ten-thirty ‘n three, you can’t find a seat, ‘n that’s th’truth. Close t’day at six. ‘Leven t’three on Sundee f’th’after-sermon crowd.”

  He’d take her word for it. Besides, regardless o’ how the food was, it’d probly be better than anything he’d had in a long while. He slid the menu back without lookin’ at it and ran his eyes over the advertised chesty cleft. “What time is it now?”

  “Five-fifteen, but don’t worry ‘bout it.”

  “You got a big steak back there?”

  “Best damn steak in town,” she bragged, and put her hands on her hips, daring him to take another look. “Cows’re just dyin’ t’get in here.”

  He smiled. “Mashed taters?”

  “Just like th’big city,” she said, flirty, pulled out her ticket book from her apron pocket and started writin’ his order. She had the bright red fingernail polish to match her mouth, a jingley charm bracelet, and a wedding ring.

  “Biscuits ‘n gravy?”

  “You ain’t hungry, are ya?” she teased, grinning, under the erroneous assumption that she was the cutest thing within the city limits. It’d worked before. For years. And years. But not like it used to. Not anymore, what with the pull o’ gravity and the tickin’ o’ the clock.

  “Steak, medium rare, ‘n throw some onions on it.”

  “You got it,” she nodded, finished writing, swiveled, ripped the ticket off the pad, and slapped it on the shelf o’ the pass-through window. “Gimme a moo, still kickin’, tears, mashed spuds, B ‘n G,” she called to the cook who looked a lot like Gabby Hayes.

  “It’s five-thirty,” Gabby reminded her. Slingin’ hash was a job, not a career.

  “Five-fifteen,” she corrected him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll finish it up.” She started for the back, giving Hub somethin’ wiggly to watch.

  “Make that with a lot o’ G,” Hub called out loud enough for her to hear in the back. “And a beer.”

  “Will do,” she giggled. “Fred?”

  “I heard ‘im,” came grumpily from the kitchen, followed by, “I ain’t deef.”

  “What brand o’ suds?” muffled up from the back.

  “Cold!”

  A few seconds later she slithered back with a beer and a frosted mug. She nodded to the kitchen. “Don’t mind him, butcha don’t wanna make th’fella’s makin’ your soup mad, do ya?” Then without losin’ a beat, she cooed, “I like Pabst m’self.” She stood with her back to the old boys at the far table, and Hub noticed the uniform was unbuttoned by one more. Two more ‘n she could take it off. Subtle as a badger in heat, she helt the bottle in her fingertips, with her pinky stuck out and poured the beer slowly, givin’ him time to take in the improved view. “I keep a couple o’ glasses chilled in th’cooler for special customers.” She slid the beer to him. “Lemme know if ya want somethin’ else. Not everthing’s on th’menu.”

  Hub wiped the greasy soppins with the last of a biscuit while Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys swung away on the Jukebox. There’d also been Eddie Arnold yodelin’ “Cattle Call” and Cab Calloway sung about a Moocher named Minnie. Pretty eclectic stuff for a Looziana café. Four moods for a quarter. The cook’d muttered out his seeyatamara’s half an hour earlier, and now, except for Ida and Hub, the café was empty. She’d flipped the closed sign promptly at 5:55 p.m. No one’d come knockin’.

  He was suckin’ the last o’ the butter and gravy from his fingers when he scrunched up his face. His gut was reminding him once again of his impending demise. It was hard to get on with your life with an elephant trumpeting in your belly. He finished wiping the grease off his fingers with a napkin, then kneaded his cramping gut, pulled out the pill bottle Ball’d given him, shook one out and washed it down with the last of his third beer.

  Ida’d topped off the salt, pepper, and sugar shakers, and was bussing the last table when she commented, “It’s been a while since you had a good meal.” She left the table, crossed the black and white tiled floor, and melted onto the stool to Hub’s right. She turned in his direction, hiked her dress up above her knees, propped her right leg up on the foot rail attached to the counter’s base, offering a preview of another personal product, and nervously whispered a throaty Lauren Bacall, “What were you in for?”

  He gave the long leg a long look and then worked back up to her chest. Her breath caught when she felt an imaginary hand run up her skirt and another down her blouse. Her imagination also felt the rough ridges on his front teeth grinding across the base of her puckered nipple. It was like a bucket o’ cold water when he nodded over his shoulder and asked, “Who’s chewtabakker?”

  Her seductive little act was obviously going nowhere, so she put her leg down. “M’husband’s.” Miss Bacall had taken a walk.

  “Was ‘at him? Th’cook?”

  “Was ‘at who?”

  “Yer husband.”

  “Fred? Lord, no!” she said, greatly offended. “Whada you take me for?”

  Surely the big lummox knew she could do better than that! She got off the stool in a huff, took her wipin’ rag, and started cleaning the counter.

  “My husband had t’go t’Nahlans. His mother died, which ain’t no loss, b’lieve me. Been gone a week.”

  Not one to be easily shot down, she’d try the bastard one more time. She put the heel of her hands on her low back and pushed her front out as if stretchin’, accentuating the unbuttoned blouse. “He won’t be back ‘til late t’marra night.”

  “Does it run?”

  Boy! This sumbitch’s been locked up way too long. “Yeah, it runs. Throw’s a little oil,” she admitted, “it ain’t no hot rod, but it gets from one place t’other ‘n back.”

  “Would it get me t’Oledeux?”

  “Probly. What’s in Oledeux?”

  “You ask a lot o’ questions.”

  “My God,” she griped pettishly, puttin’ on another act, “I’m just tryin’ t’be friendly’s all, what’s wrong with ‘at?”

  “What’s he want for it?”

  “Hunerd ‘n a half.”

  “Ain’t worth that much.” Then he drug up the lopsided smile he hadn’t used in thirty years. “How ‘bout I give ya fifty ‘n you throw in th’meal?”

  She ran it around for a second and then stepped around to the back o’ the counter, put her forearms on the counter, bent over, and squeezed up two tittie pillows. “You gonna tell me whatchu’s in for?”

  Hub went from lookin’ in her eyes to taking his time on her chest. “I beat two fellas t’death.”

  Her eyes popped open and she stood up straight. “Really? Oh, my! Ain’t you a big, bad man?” That was even better than she’d imagined. “Listen,” she purred, feelin’ her nipples swell up, “it’ll take another half hour t’close this place ‘n ‘at ol’ truck’s my transpatation home. Why don’tchu gimme ‘at fifty dollars, I’ll getcha ‘nother beer on th’house, ‘n after I lock up, you’cn take me home. I might even have some dessert there.”

  He thought a second, then told her, “I got a better idee.”

  “What’s ‘at?” she asked, fully prepared to be let down again.

  “How ‘bout I take you home, ‘n you ‘n me just fuck all night? You’cn pretend yer a waitress ‘n I’cn be th’murd’rer just escaped from prison.”

  Her face lit up but before she could say okay he pushed his empty beer glass to her, got up and walked to the jukebox, and stuck in a quarter.

  Then another thought entered her fevered little brain. “We’s just kiddin’. Right?”

  “‘Bout what?” he asked, punch
in’ up a number on the juke box. Then he turned around. “The escapin’ ‘r th’fuckin’?”

  Seven-thirty a.m. Warm mornin’ sun shafted brightly through the lacey-curtained kitchen window and the open back door that led to the weed- and junk-strewn backyard where sat the truck. From somewhere close by, chickens clucked and a horse whinnied. Hub’s ass was parked at the small faux-marble-topped dinette table puttin’ the finishing touches on a hefty breakfast, wolfin’ it down like a man with somewhere to go and somethin’ to do.

  Ida Mae stood next to him in a chenille housecoat, her hip leanin’ against his shoulder. It annoyed him. The housecoat was mostly open with one saggy breast deliberately exposed. That was annoying, too. He was totally fuckered out.

  She was playfully twisting a lock of his hair in her fingers. He felt like pushin’ her away, tellin’ her to sit down and let him eat, but he didn’t. He might wanna drill her one more time ‘fore he hit the road, and there wasn’t any use in pissin’ her off before he’d made up his mind.

  “Like s’more bacon ‘n eggs ‘r spuds?” she purred. That close, she reeked of neglected pussy and unwashed underarms. It reminded him o’ bein’ hunched over her backside, jammin’ it in and squeezin’ her tits so hard she abused the Lord’s name. She didn’t look almost as good in the mornin’ light as she had in the evenin’s darkness. No, his stomach was full and his pecker was happy. When getting dressed this morning, he’d noticed a ring of lipstick around the base of his dick. He pushed the plate away.

  “No, thanks a bunch, but I gotta make tracks.”

  She grabbed the coffeepot off the stove and brought it to the table. “You don’t have t’be s’quick. You’cn do me agin. Or,” she ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, “I’cd do you.” He helt his hand over his cup. She set the pot on the table, untied the housecoat, theatrically flipped it open, lifted a leg over his lap, straddled his legs, ground her lace-panty-clad crotch into his, and nuzzled her chest in his face. “It’s still early,” she whispered, her coffee breath in his ear. “We’cd pound out one more.”