Horror Girls

by Jackson Dean Chase

  I clear my throat and say, “If you'll pardon my sayin' so, you ain't getting' no younger, and a shop like this don't run itself… ”

  “You're right,” Jeb says, “but think sense, Lordy. The reg'lars wouldn't stand for it. They ain't for no more co–minglin' between our kind than's necessary. They're… afraid of you.”

  I move to the counter. “And what about you?” I ask, and I try to make sure my lazy eye's pointed at him. “You ain't afraid of Lordy Murch, is you?”

  Jeb swallows. “No, I ain't. I known you since you was just a lil 'un. But look at you! You're a woman now, all sixteen and full of sass n' fire. I'm just an old man. I can't give you what you need. It wouldn't be right, not for neither of us. You know that, Lordy. Curse or no curse, best we stay friends.”

  Friends. When Jeb says it, it sounds like a dirty word. On account of I want more. I'm desperate for it.

  “Pappy thinks I ought to get myself hitched,” I say. “You be jealous if I married some good ol' boy?”

  Jeb laughs. “I'd be the most jealous man in Clinch County. Who you got in mind to be your beau?”

  I want to say, “You, goddamn it,” but just then a stranger walks in.

  Chapter 3: IMPORTANT BUSINESS

  The stranger's older than me and younger than Jeb, so I 'spect the man's somewhere between twenty and thirty. He has a shock of honey–blonde hair, neatly–combed, and eyes just as blue as a summer day. He's too well–dressed to be from anywhere but Atlanta or some big city up north. He's holdin' a suitcase. Holdin' it real tight.

  “Howdy, stranger,” Jeb says. “What can I do ya for?”

  When the man speaks, he don't talk like us. He talks real fine. “Good morning. My car broke down a few miles back, and I was wondering if there was a garage or mechanic available?”

  “No, sir,” Jeb says. “Not many folks 'round here can afford automobiles. They use horses, mostly.”

  “Or rafts,” I add. “I got me a dandy down at the dock.”

  The stranger looks at me, then back to Jeb. “Well, uh, I have to be in Savannah, you see. Important business.”

  Jeb and I both nod, but it's me who offers condolences. “That's too bad, mister. Savannah's clear on t'other side of the swamp. Mighty long walk… lonely too.”

  The stranger pulls out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and swabs his face and neck. He's perspiring, and the way he acts, I reckon it's from more'n the heat. “Yes,” he says. “I saw that on the map. If you don't have a mechanic, maybe I could convince someone to sell me their car?”

  Jeb chuckles. “Doubtful, mister. The one's what got cars needs 'em too much to part with 'em.”

  “Like ol' Doc Wilbur,” I say. “Or you, Jeb. You got a truck for cartin' goods and such.”

  Jeb sucks on his pipe. “Ain't for sale. Can't run the General Store without it. Doc won't sell neither. The only way he can make his rounds is on wheels.”

  “I'll give you a thousand dollars,” the stranger says.

  I whistle in appreciation, but Jeb shakes his head.

  “Cost me two to replace it,” Jeb says. “And a fair 'mount of inconvenience.”

  The man chews his lip. “Two thousand then, plus another hundred for your trouble.”

  Jeb shrugs. “Might be I could go for a deal like that. You got that twenty–one hundred on you? Cash money?”

  The man mops his brow. “I, er… was hoping to write a check. Nobody carries that much cash.”

  “Except robbers,” I say. “Or tycoons. I bet they carry bucket loads. Hey, you ain't one of them, are ya, mister?”

  “No,” the man answers. “I'm not. Now what about my offer?”

  Jeb cackles. “No can do! You know how far I'd have to travel to cash a damn check? All the way to Homerville, and that's mighty hard to do with no truck.”

  “Well, isn't there some other way I could get to Savannah? A bus or train?”

  “You could buy a horse,” Jeb says. “Horse'd get you there in about a week, lickety–split.”

  “No,” the man says and leaves it at that.

  “You could pole it,” I say.

  The man stares at me. “Excuse me?”

  “You could pole a raft through the swamp,” I explain. “Mine's for sale. I could fetch you a real fair price on it too.”

  “Thank you, miss—”

  “Name's Lordy,” I say. “Miss Lordy Murch, and I'm right pleased to meet you, mister… ”

  “Thatcher,” he says. “Tom Thatcher.”

  It's a beautiful name for a beautiful man. A love at first sight kind 'o man, and the way his summer–blue eyes send chills down my spine, I know it's meant to be. That is, I intend to make it that way. Curse be damned.

  “So, uh, you wanna buy my raft?”

  “I'm sorry, Miss Murch, but I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about swamps or rafting. No doubt I'd be lost and eaten by alligators within a few miles.” He chuckles at his own joke.

  “You could pay me,” I say. “I can pole you across, straight shot to Trader's Hill. You could buy a car there, catch a bus or somethin'.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Oh, I dunno. A few days… ” Of course, I'm lyin'. It'll take a week if it'll take a day, but I'm hoping he won't mind. I'm hoping a lot of things. Like he'll be on the raft so long, he'll fall in love.

  Jeb knows I'm suckerin' this poor fella and raises an eyebrow, but he don't say nothin'.

  Tom sighs. “Isn't there some other way?”

  “Sure,” I say. “You can go back to the road and start walkin'. No skin off my nose.”

  A look of alarm passes over his face. “No, I … that is, I'd like to hire you, Miss Murch. How much?”

  “A hundred dollars,” I say. “Cash money. You say you ain't got no thousands, but a feller like you must got that.”

  He reaches into his pocket and hands me a fifty. “Half now, half later.”

  “Done!” I make the bill disappear down my shapeless green dress so fast I have to double–check I really have it. I do. I spit in my hand and hold it out to him.

  He stares at it like I just handed him a coiled viper. “What am I supposed to… um, is this really necessary?”

  “Gentlemen always shake,” I say. “Ladies too.”

  Tom spits in his palm and we clasp hands. I can't help but think what else we might clasp before Trader's Hill.

  Chapter 4: EVERYBODY'S GOT TO EAT

  I tell Tom to buy some canned goods and bottled drinks, then go to the dock and I'll be out directly. Soon as he's out the door and out of sight, I do a short lil hoppin' dance and slap my knee. “Hot damn!” I say, and it feels so good, I say it again. “Hot diggity damn!”

  Jeb snorts. “I hope you know what yer doin', Lordy.”

  “A hundred dollars says I do.” I pull out the fifty and hold it up to the light. It's crisp, clean, the way Jeb's bills never are. “Money like this ought to buy me some mighty fine things.” My belly growls. I pat it and say, “Gimme some of that penny candy. I got me a hankerin' for licorice.”

  I try to hand Jeb the fifty, but he turns it away. “I can't break a bill that size on penny candy.” He opens the jar and hands me a stick. “On the house.”

  “I can't take no charity, Jeb.” But my belly disagrees. It's always hungry, always tellin' me to take a nibble out of somethin'. Mostly, I ignore it, because what else can I do?

  “Ain't charity,” he says. “You can pay me when you come back. You are comin' back ain't ya?”

  “Why?” I ask. “You want me to?”

  He snorts. “I'm yer friend, Lordy. Of course, I want you to! But so will your pappy and Catfish, and all the others what depend on you. You got a place here.”

  I chew my licorice stick, thinkin' on his words, stacking 'em up against my desires and seein' how they fit. “Speakin' of Catfish,” I say, “that's the reason I come to town today before all these… distractions. He sent me to settle up his consignments. How much you reckon you owe on them gator bel
ts and snakeskin boots?”

  Jeb tallies up how many he's sold versus how many remain, and gives me the figure, but in store credit, not dollars. I think about askin' for dollars, but can't cross Catfish like that. He and Pappy go way back. So I tell Jeb what Catfish wants in exchange: chewin' tobacky, sewin' needles and thread, a gallon of shine, and a good, sharp knife.

  Jeb wraps the items together in a burlap sack. “Catfish sure goes through them knives. That's the third one this year.”

  “That's 'cause the things he hunts don't die easy. Which reminds me, I clapped eyes on Big Gertie today. Ornery thing thought she might have me for breakfast, but I showed her.”

  “That damn gator's getting' to be a real bother,” Jeb says. “She almost snatched the Dolliver boy the other day.”

  I shrug. “Everybody's got to eat.”

  “True 'nuff,” Jeb says, “but that don't mean we got to let her eat us! Ya'll be careful out there, Lordy. I don't trust that Tom feller. Here, take this.” He pulls out a flare gun and two shells from under the counter, loads it for me. When I glare at him—mostly with my good eye—Jeb groans. “Consarn it! This ain't charity, it's a loan. Just in case you need help—from town, or against that city slicker.”

  I take the flare gun, but that don't mean I have to take his castin' aspersions at Tom. “Aw, you're just jealous! You had your chance, Jeb Malone. Don't begrudge me mine.” I stalk out the General Store with Catfish's bag over my shoulder and the flare gun tucked in my belt.

  The Dolliver boy's sittin' on the front steps. He's about twelve, with the same brown hair and dull face bred into most of the townies. He jumps up when he sees me and does a little dance. “Freaky–face! Freaky–face!” he yells in a broken voice that's half–man, half–boy. “You damn Swamper! We don't want your kind 'round here.”

  I grab him by his collar and pull him real close, so close I can see the fright in his eyes. “Careful you don't get et,” I snarl. “Big Gertie ain't the only one with teeth 'round these parts.” I let him go and watch him run, sobbin' like a lil sissy to his ma, who hides him behind her skirt.

  Mrs. Dolliver shakes her fist at me. “Don't you scare my boy, Lordy Murch! God's gonna get you!”

  “The Old Gods already did,” I say, low enough so only I can hear. “But not for this.” I head 'round to the back of the store, then down to the dock.

  Tom Thatcher's waitin'.

  Chapter 5: SMELLS LIKE NEW YORK

  I'm glad to be out of Howphil, glad to put that whole durn town behind me. It steams my gizzard the high–handed way them townies treat me. Like I'm less than 'em, instead of just different. Even Jeb. He says he cares, says he's my friend, but can't never be more. And I wanna hate him for it, want to hold on to my hate real tight, but I can't stay mad at him. Not at ol' Jeb.

  I wonder what he was thinkin', loanin' me his flare gun? Like anybody from town would sweat one drop to come save me. Only that ain't what Jeb meant. The town wouldn't come to help no Swamper, but so far as they know, ain't no Swamper would be firing it. We don't own no fancy science gear. All we'd do is scream. And I was too dumb, too worked up over Tom to notice Jeb was showin' me he loved me. Not in the way I wanted, but in the only way he knew how.

  Jeb Malone don't want me to die. He don't want nothin' bad to happen to Lordy Murch. I reckon I'll oblige him by staying safe. But that don't mean I'm comin' back…

  “Everything all right?” Tom Thatcher asks. He's stretched out on the raft, hands crossed behind his head. Watching the tupelo and cypress sway in the soft morning breeze.

  “Huh?” I say, and then, “Oh, yeah. Was just thinkin' 'bout things, that's all.”

  “What kind of things?”

  I don't answer, just keep polin', drivin' the raft deeper into the swamp. Past the oak trees and buttonbush, the buckwheat and bladderworts. A flock of herons scoot the sky, goin' who–knows–where, and I wonder if someday I'll join 'em.

  “Where you from, Tom?”

  He hesitates before sayin', “New York.”

  I whistle. “You mean it? New York City?”

  “No, upstate in Buffalo. You know, Niagara Falls? The honeymoon capital of the country.”

  I nod. “Honeymoon, huh? You married?” I didn't see no ring on his finger, but it seems right–smart to ask.

  Tom laughs. “Nah. You?”

  I can feel myself blush. “No. Wannabe, though. If'n the right feller was to ask… ”

  “I imagine a girl like you has her fair share of admirers,” Tom says.

  I stare at him hard. “You funnin' me?”

  He sits up and flashes that city–smile, and the way the sun catches his eyes, they were never bluer. “I'm serious. What about that shopkeep in town? You two seemed close.”

  “Jeb?” I grin. “Aw–shucks! It ain't like that. We's just friends, is all, on account of we do a lot of business together. I'm, uh, kind of important 'round these parts.”

  “Are you now?” Tom says. “How so?”

  I chew my lip and squint, tryin' to think how to tell it. “Well, I'm a shopkeep myself, only this here raft's my store. I'm the go–between for Howphil and the Swampers.”

  “Swampers?”

  “The people what live in the Swamp. They, uh, don't get into town much. They live too far out. I do they're shoppin' for 'em, trade goods, pass messages, that sort of thing.”

  “You're awfully young to have so much responsibility.”

  “I ain't young! I'm sixteen if I'm a day, and I'm all growed up. Don't you say neverwise, or you'll be swimmin' back to town!”

  Tom holds up his hands in a playful, warding gesture. “I'm sorry.”

  “I ain't takin' offense. I just don't like people thinkin' I ain't good 'nuff, old 'nuff, or any 'nuff, ya know what I mean? I'm plenty 'nuff, Tom Thatcher. You see if I ain't!”

  “I'm sure you are,” Tom says.

  His words are pleasant, and I got to remember he ain't from 'round here. He don't know our ways or nothin'. That's good and bad. Bad, 'cause I have to 'splain even the most simple things, and good 'cause he don't know I'm the last girl he should be caught on a raft with.

  “What's the gun for?” Tom asks.

  I pat the flare gun tucked through my hemp belt. “Gun? You mean this ol' thing? Why, this here's a flare gun. It's for signallin' the town if we get in trouble. Why? You a–feared I was gonna rob you with it?”

  Maybe it's the heat creepin' into the day, but Tom seems to be perspirin' more'n he should. His hand goes to grip his suitcase, the fingers white–knucklin' the handle. “It's just papers,” he says. “Nothing worth stealing.”

  Up ahead, I see the little island with Catfish's ramshackle cabin stuck up on stilts. There's a dock with a canoe out front, so I know he's home. “We got to stop a spell,” I say.

  “Stop?” Tom says. “What for?”

  “You got yer business, I got mine.” I point to the bag at my feet. “See all this stuff I brought? That's for the feller what lives here. Won't take long. You sit tight and try not to look at him funny, ya hear?”

  Tom nods and clutches his suitcase tighter.

  “Hey, Cat!” I holler, “Catfish LaRue! Come on out and get yer stuff.”

  The moldy yellow curtain of the cabin pulls back, and I see Catfish plain as day. Whiskers–twitchin', his gilled, gray face all a–scowl. He come out to greet us totin' a shotgun over his hunchbacked shoulder. “Lordy,” Catfish says, “I didn't order me no damn townie.”

  “Ha ha,” I sass right back, “This ain't no townie. This here's Mr. Tom Thatcher, come all the way from fancy pants New York. I'm ferryin' him to Trader's Hill.”

  “Uh–huh.” Catfish scowls some more and sniffs the air. “He smells like New York, that's for sure.”

  “What you know about New York?” I tease. “You ain't never been out of this here swamp.”

  “And I don't intend to,” Catfish says. “Swamp's where I belong. Where do you belong, Lordy Murch?”

  I look down at my bare, muddy feet.
“Wherever I want,” I say, prouder than I should. “Besides, he's payin' cash.”

  Catfish spits. “Pheh! Money ain't for our kind. Don't want it, don't need it. Can't eat me no money. Can't drink it. All money buys is trouble.”

  “I don't mean to cause trouble,” Tom says.

  “You ain't,” I say to Tom. “Is he, Cat?”

  He shrugs. “Ain't my trouble, Lordy. He's yours.”

  I unload Catfish's sack onto the dock and wait.

  He sets his shotgun down—but close 'nuff to grab—then paws through his goods with his webbed fingers, pickin' one thing up, then t'other. He spends the longest lookin' at his new knife, testin' the edge, holdin' it up to the light this way and that, but really, I know he's lookin' at Tom.

  Tom knows it too, 'cause he says, “I don't mean to be rude, Miss Murch, but shouldn't we be going? It's a long way to Trader's Hill, and I've got—”

  “Business,” I finish for him. “Tom Thatcher's an important man. He's got a suitcase full of papers, don't you Tom?”

  “Legal documents,” Tom says. “I'm a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer, huh?” Catfish scratches his gills. “That so? Why you willin' to risk yer neck traipsin' through these tremblin' waters? Seems a might peculiar.”

  “I, uh… didn't have much choice.”

  Catfish taps the edge of his knife against the dock. “Choices come, and choices go. Last big city bastard come this way was a no 'count log–thief. Dirty bastard thought he could steal our trees for some Yankee tycoon. I told him he couldn't, and when he didn't listen, I turned him into a nice set of curtains and a lampshade. How's that for choices?”

  “Cat,” I say, “don't tease Tom. He ain't workin' for no tycoon. You think I'd ferry some no–'count rascal like that?”

  “No, I reckon not. Less'n this feller was lyin' to you.”

  “My car broke down,” Tom explains. “There's no garage in Howphil, no trains or buses, and I was in a hurry. Lordy says her raft is the most direct route to Savannah.”