Black Water

by Bobby Norman

  Hub still felt like he was part of a Barnum and Bailey sideshow and said, “I wasn’t expectin’ ya, but I’m awful glad t’see ya.” He started to stand up.

  “Did I tell you t’get up?” she asked, jabbin’ a loaded, pointin’ finger at his face. “No, I didn’t. And if you ever b’lieved anything in yer life, b’lieve this. You don’t even know how glad you ain’t t’see me. Not a little bit. But whatchu are…is a lyin’, good-fer-nothin’ sack o’ shit! Yer wond’rin’ why I ain’t killed you, too.”

  “Okay then,” he said, almost upp’ty, “why ain’tcha?”

  He’d tried bein’ friendly with the bitch, and all he got for it was a smart-mouthin’. She used to be his God Damn wife walkin’ behind him and keepin’ her God Damned mouth shut, and he wasn’t about to let her talk to him like that! The possibility that maybe she wasn’t the same docile little doe she’d been thirty years ago hadn’t entered his brain yet.

  “You’d do better right now,” she warned, “while m’blood’s up, t’keep yer yap shut ‘n change yer smartass attitude.”

  Dang! She was doin’ it again. The woman who’d ratted him out to the badly leakin’ son of a bitch on the other side o’ the log. “What happened t’Jesus’n th’new husband?”

  She just chuckled.

  “You got awful hard in yer old age.”

  “I had a long time t’get that way,” she replied, and then, “‘n’ for half-a-hunerd-thousand dollars, I’cn get a lot harder.”

  The boys’d retrieved Ball’s and the Indians’ guns (Ball’d been so engrossed with his condition, the thought o’ pullin’ the .45 at his hip’d never entered his mind), went through their pockets, and stood together on the log to watch the blood bubble and gurgle out o’ Ball’s throat, his mouth, dribble down the side of his face, and halo at the back of his head faster’n the ground could soak it up.

  The Big One’s nostrils flared. “Smell ‘at?”

  The caped one’s nostrils flared—pulled it down the back of his throat and nodded.

  “Iron. Blood’s mostly iron, ya know. You like it?”

  Superman scrunched his shoulders as if to say he could take it or leave it. The smell of iron rich blood was obviously a poor second to flyin’.

  “You think she missed?” The Big One whispered out the corner of his mouth.

  “I dunno,” Superman whispered back and snuck a look over his shoulder at their rotund leader. “He made ‘er awful mad with’at ugly baboon comment. She mighta wanted it like this. She’s a pretty good shot.”

  “Is he dead yet?” Raeleen asked, shuttin’ ’em up.

  Ball’s hands had lost their grip and crumpled off to the side, but some little blood still pulsed from the gaping hole in his throat.

  “Notchet,” The Big One said. “Want me t’stick ‘im?”

  “No, let ‘im go.” Then she chuckled. “He might be prayin ‘r somethin.”

  Superman looked at the body and chuckled hisself. “He better hurry it up then.”

  “Mama?” The Big One said, “I got mine right smack ‘twixt th’eyes.”

  Superman glared at him, knowing the comment was aimed at him and his screwin’ up the shot to One Ear.

  “I saw it. Don’t gloat,” Raeleen reprimanded. “Remember what I toldja ‘bout gloaters comin’ t’nasty ends.”

  “Yeah. Nasty ends,” Superman said.

  “Didja get their guns?” she asked. They pointed to the confiscated weaponry resting at the far end o’ the log. “What ‘bout th’money Ball give ’em?”

  “Got it,” The Big One said, pattin’ his pocket.

  She picked up her rifle and walked around the fire towards Hub. “Didja split it up? Give yer brother half?” She wasn’t really asking. She knew he hadn’t.

  Superman helt out his hand ‘n wriggled his fingers. The Big One dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out the money, counted out half, handed it over, and whispered, “Ain’t fair. You missed.” He stuffed his half back in his pocket and approached Hub and Raeleen. “That’s him, huh?” he asked, insolently.

  Hub started to get up.

  “’At’s him,” Raeleen said and pushed the end of her rifle on his shoulder. “Did I tell you t’get up?”

  “I wanna see that arm I heard s’much about,” The Big One said.

  Hub glared at him.

  Raeleen nudged Hub’s shoulder with the end o’ the barrel. “Show ‘im.”

  “No! I ain’tchur fuckin’ monkey.”

  The boys snickered when Raeleen jabbed him in the forehead with the end of the rifle barrel, imprinting a little donut.

  Reluctantly, Hub pulled up his sleeve, revealing the scarred, discolored, and ill-shaped forearm.

  “Hoopee-do,” The Big One guffawed. “That ol’ woman really fucked you up!”

  The well-fed fella in the Superman getup’s curiosity got the best of him, and he sauntered over with his arms crossed over his soggy chest, Superman-style, spread his fat legs in a John Wayne pose, and squinty-eyed Hub. “He don’t look ‘at tough t’me.”

  Calmly, maliciously, The Big One chucked in his two cents. “Bet I’cd take ‘im.”

  Hub looked him in the eye while pullin’ his sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff. “Yeah, you might could. But I garandamntee ya you’d be bad damaged when you’s done.”

  The Big One smiled at the taunt. “You wanna dance with me?”

  Hub helt up his manacled hands. “Take these off ‘n I’ll teach ya some new steps.”

  “You ain’t gonna do it now,” Raeleen said, before it got any more heated, and nodded to the log. “Strip them three o’ things we’cn use.”

  Superman started for the log, but The Big One continued to look at Hub with rattlesnake eyes. He was in the mood.

  Raeleen smacked him on the butt. “Now! Go on.”

  He tapped Hub’s leg with the toe of his boot and walked off. His version o’ the last word.

  “I take it th’big one’s Harvey,” Hub said after he left.

  Raeleen looked at the boys’ backs. “Yeah, Superman’s a little on th’chunky side, but he gets ‘is licks in.”

  “Didn’t he usta be Henry?”

  “It’s a long story, but for now you’d do good t’remember when he’s got th’cape out, he’s Superman, ‘n when it’s tucked down ‘is shirtneck ‘n he’s wearin ‘is overshirt ‘n glasses, he’s Clark Kent. If ya forget…he’ll be more’n happy t’remind ya.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Before he’d had his brains turned to mush, Two Dogs had tossed his well-worn denim jacket over the end o’ the log. The Big One, who had become Harvey, was goin’ through the pockets when he pulled out a flask and waggled it in the air. “Lookie lookie lookie! Panther Piss!”

  Raeleen, settin’ Indian-style in the dirt beside the fire, wiggled her fingers at him. “Bring it ‘n ‘at bag over here.” Harvey brought the satchel and bottle to her. “Superman,” she called out, motioning him over. They sat on either side of her in a semi-circle with their backs to Hub. Raeleen opened the satchel, got her face too close, and pickled up. “PeeeeeU! Boy-howdy!” She looked back at Hub. “You shit in here?” Hub passed on an explanation. She helt the satchel at arm’s length and fanned the mouth a few times in the attempt to air it out. After a few puffs, she took another whiff. “’At’s a little better. I hope they ain’t nothin’ in here gonna bite me.” She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out George and Matthew’s revolvers. “Goodies!” She handed one to Harvey. “One fer you.”

  “Thank you,” Harvey responded, almost delicately.

  “Yer welcome,” she said sweetly and handed the other to Superman. “I know you don’t need it, but he got one, you get one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yer welcome. Keep it as a souvenir o’ th’day ya got rich. Merry Christmas.”

  “Ho ho ho,” Superman said and they all chuckled.

  Except Hub.

  The boys checked the loads like pros. Harvey stuck his in his belt, while Superman
put his in his lap. They were a happy, loving family.

  A deadly, happy, loving family.

  “Now,” Raeleen said, shuffling her big butt in preparation. It looked so cute, the family sittin’ around the campfire, the children expectant, their faces all aglow from the fire light, the mother gonna share somethin’ new and exciting, and the father all trussed up like a Christmas Goose.

  “In all yer life, you ain’t neither one even seen a hunerd-dollar bill.” Theatrically, she slid her hand in the satchel, shook it around, smiled big, and pulled out a wrapped pack of hundreds. The corners o’ the boys’ mouths rose and their eyes opened wide. She helt it up and showed ’em only the top bill. “Well, ‘at’s what one looks like.” Then she fanned the pack, one bill at a time, slippin’ under her thumb. “And that,” she said as she continued to fan, “is what a hunerd of ’em looks like.”

  “That’s a hunerd hunerds,” Superman said.

  “Ohhhh, yeah,” Raeleen sighed, “but it gets better. A lot better.” She closed her eyes, brought the pack to her nose, and took a big whiff, moaned, and let her breath out with a sigh. It still smelled like a sack o’ cat shit, but she was puttin’ on a show. She helt it out to the boys, fanned it slowly under their noses, and they took a long lungful of the imaginary scent and smacked their lips.

  “Don’t ‘at smell good?” she asked.

  Harvey and Raeleen laughed when Superman fell over like it was all too much for him. Harvey waved his hand in front o’ Superman’s face, and he pretended to come to and got back up.

  “It stinks, but it’s a good stink,” Superman said.

  Hub closed his eyes and hung his head in frustration.

  “Well,” Raeleen said, shaking the satchel’s contents, “stink ‘r not, they’s five o’ these”—indicating the pack, then the satchel—“in here.” She looked at her precious little lambiekins and cooed, “We’re rich.”

  Harvey nodded and looked from Raeleen to Superman. “Very rich.”

  “Super very rich,” Superman threw in.

  “What ‘bout me?”

  They turned to see Hub’s expectant expression.

  “You ain’t,” Raeleen said, coldly.

  “Bulllllshit,” Hub said, forgettin’ where he was, who he was with, and under what conditions. Quicker than Hub woulda thought possible, and a bunch more than he’d expected, Superman jumped up and kicked his boot toe hard into Hub’s sternum, emptying his lungs and knockin’ him over. It felt as if his ribcage’d crumpled like a rotten pumpkin. He rolled on the ground, begging for oxygen.

  Superman stood over him, red-faced and fists clenched, ready to give him another’n. “How’dju like a chunk o’ Kryptonite jammed up yer hairy ass!”

  Hub saw another kick comin’ at his gut and used his left hand in an attempt to soften the blow. It didn’t work, and he might now have a broken hand.

  “That’s enough,” Raeleen said, hoping Superman hadn’t busted a rib. Or two. Or three—and savin’ Hub from another kick, one already cocked and ready to fire.

  Breathing hard through gritted teeth, Superman reluctantly pulled back. “You don’t talk ‘at way t’my Earth Mama, you crumb bum,” he growled and plopped on his abundant backside beside Raeleen.

  “Hub’s sorry, ain’tcha Hub,” she said when Hub rolled back to his butt, wheezin’ and glaring at Superman.

  He wanted to rub the pain out of his hand but he’d be damned if he’d let Superfuck see it. He helt his right hand over the left and gingerly wiggled his fingers. He was surprised to find they still worked. They hurt, but they worked.

  Raeleen got a headlock on Superman, rocked back and forth givin’ him a noogie, and kissed his forehead. “He does love ‘is Mama. Even if she don’t come from Krypton.” She let Superman go and nodded toward the log. “Okay, Christmas’s over. Go over there ‘n see if Mr. Hoover’s flunky’s bled outchet.”

  They headed for the log, brushing the dirt off their pants. Superman looked over his shoulder at Hub and gave him a look that said “I’m gonna keep my eye on you.”

  “FBI,” Raeleen said disgustedly. “Fuckin’ Blowhard Idyit. I think Idyit starts with I. Harvey! Idyit start with I?”

  “Yes,” Harvey answered.

  Raeleen tipped her head toward Harvey. “He reads a lot. Mostly comic books ‘n th’Holy Bible but words’re words, right?”

  Harvey pulled a buck knife from the sheath on his belt, stepped over the log, and poked Ball in the eye a couple o’ times like he was testin’ a baked p’tata to see if it was done. “He’s finished, Mama.”

  “Okay,” Raeleen said and wrangled her poor fat old self off the ground. Hub watched her. She looked old. Soft. Used. Wasted. Then he thought, but so does an old rattler. An old spider. An old scorpion. An old gator.

  She wiped the grit off her hands on her dress and waved to the darkened netherworld beyond the campfire light. “Take all three of ’em outchonder som’ers. I don’t wanna hafta keep lookin’ at ’em.” She picked up the satchel, carried it over by the log and set it down. “Either o’ you find th’chain key?”

  “I got it,” Superman said. He pulled the small key out of his pocket and tossed it the length o’ the log to Raeleen.

  She caught it deftly, and Hub helt his manacled wrists up toward her. She pocketed the key. “You’s changed owners’s all.”

  “You gonna keep these on me?”

  Lookin’ at him like he was stupid and she wasn’t was the only answer he was gonna get.

  Hub watched as Harvey and Superman each took an arm and drug Ball’s body into the dark beyond the camp. Earlier, he’d imagined blowin’ Ball’s brains out hisself, but now, watchin’ his head loll and joggle and bump the ground, his ruined throat all stretched out, just about made him sick. In the last few hours, his life’d made a left-hand turn, but not just about as left as Ball’s and the trackers’.

  Raeleen dug her underwear out of her butt crack on her way to the bean pot suspended on a hook over the campfire. She picked up the spoon hangin’ off to the side, stuck it in the pot, stirred the contents, and sang off-key. “Beans, beans, th’mus’cal fruit, th’more ya eat, th’more ya poot.” She waggled her big ass like a hula dancer, looked at Hub, and chirped, “Pootie poot poot.”

  She thought she looked cute. Hub thought she looked stupid. A fat old woman, flat old tits rollin’ around her belly, wearin’ work boots and a long, ugly old dress, with a gunbelt and buck-knife sheath hitched around her wallowy acreage. He looked toward the boys, then back at her, and was reminded o’ the wild tales he’d heard about Ma Barker and her murderous brood. This bunch could give the Barkers a run for their money. Yes, Virginia, there really are some nastyass sons o’ bitches.

  Raeleen scooped up a spoonful, brought it to her mouth, and scratched a few beans in with her teeth, took two chaws, and then waved her hand over her mouth. “Boy-howdy, they are a mite spicy.” She stirred the beans and took a closer look. “I don’t think they got’ny meat in there.” She looked at Hub. “You knew Sem’noles was cannibals didncha” Then she called out, “Harvey! When ya get done there, gather s’more firewood. ‘N Superman? You see if you’cn scare up somethin’ t’go wi’these beans, they’re a little lonesome on body! Then one o’ you go back ‘n get our stuff ‘n bring it in.”

  She knocked the rest o’ the beans off the spoon back into the pot and hung the spoon on the hook. She looked at Hub and nodded into the woods. “We’s settin’ out there in th’dark, I got a whiff o’ this ‘n my stomach commenced t’growlin so I thought fer sure th’trackers’s gonna hear. We’s so close th’last couple o’ days we couldn’ cook nothin’ ‘cause them Injuns got a nose like a tick.”

  “This’s real homey ‘n all ‘n I just can’t hardly wait t’hear th’rest of it,” Hub said, smart-alecky, “but what’s yer plans for me? You just gonna shoot me ‘r what?”

  Friendliness escaped Raeleen’s face like someone slappin’ a light switch. “I wish I could. I got s’many good reasons!”


  “What’s stoppin’ ya?”

  She stomped to Hub and yanked his shirtsleeve up so hard she popped the button off the cuff, exposing the scarred arm. “’Cause yer tainted soul, you good-fer-nothin’ asshole, b’longs t’Lootie Komes!”

  He jerked his arm back and looked at her like she was a fool. “You still b’lieve ‘at shit?”

  “I don’t b’lieve in Heaven ‘r Hell ‘r God ‘r Satan ‘r none o’ that crap, but I b’lieve in Lootie Komes! I b’lieve they ain’t a minute I don’t close my eyes, take a shit, get a drink o’ water ‘r go for a walk ‘at she don’t know it. ‘Cause o’ you, Asshole!” She clenched her fist and pounded him on the back of the head. “BASTARD!” She was as mad as a fire eater with hiccups. She hit him again. “She hauntchur dreams?” The look on his face was answer enough. “Yeah, I thought so. We’s all cursed”—she hit him again—“‘n’ donchu tell me”—hit him again—“you don’t b’lieve it. We’s raised th’same, ‘n I know she scares th’Hell out o’ you!”

  He put his hand out in anticipation of another whack, but instead, she brushed the wild hairs off her reddened, sweaty face. She was almost out a breath from sluggin’ him. She fished up and jerked out a small leather pouch with witchy-lookin’ markings inked on it, that hung on a thongy cord ‘round her neck. “Only way t’fight a witch is with a worser witch. Unforchnately, you nit, they don’t come no worser’n th’one you made mad! If witches had a fuckin’ pres’dent ‘r a God Damn Queen, her butt’d be on the throne! I paid a lot o’ money fer three o’ these things. Gris-gris. They’s th’best I’cd do with what little I had, ‘n we ain’t tooken ’em off f’thirty God Damn years!”