Gray baby: a novel

by Scott Loring Sanders

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  "Going fishing?" yelled the man, now resting a hand against one of the porch posts.

  Clifton swallowed and said, "Yes, sir. I was thinking about it."

  The man nodded and said, "It's mighty hot right now. Caught me a few this morning when it was still cool. You want something cold to drink? I got a few Coca-Colas in the icebox."

  As was his instinct, Clifton hesitated. But then the voice in his head pushed him forward. Well, go on. It's now or never. Clifton couldn't understand why he was so nervous. He'd taken a ride an hour before from two perfect strangers who were far more imposing. He'd talked to Henry about fishing, cracklin, and about some crazy released prisoner who'd once killed his best friends. So why was he so nervous about meeting this man?

  When Clifton didn't reply, the man spoke again. "You know, if you're trying to get yourself killed, ain't no better way to do it than to just keep standing right where you're at. Next train'll be by in twenty minutes."

  Clifton looked down at his feet as he stood on the tracks and then smiled. "I guess you're right. A Coke actually sounds pretty good if you don't mind."

  "If I minded, son, I wouldn't have offered you one. Come on up."

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  Clifton jumped down off the tracks and walked up the beaten trail to the foot of the steps. When he got to the porch, the man extended his hand. "My name's Swamper."

  Clifton took the man's hand and shook it. He was surprised by the strength of his grip. "I'm Clifton."

  Swamper looked deep into Clifton's eyes, studying them. "Thought you might be. Guess you and me is connected now, just like your note said." Swamper smiled as he released Clifton's hand. It was a warm smile, and it immediately wiped out all of Clifton's previous trepidation. He suddenly felt relaxed and comfortable. It was as if that one smile said they'd known each other their whole lives. "Take a load off and I'll get you that drink," he said, motioning to one of the two homemade shagbark hickory chairs sitting on the porch. "Guess we got some catching up to do."

  Clifton set his gear against the house and took a seat. The chair creaked as he did so. He could hear Swamper fumbling around, and from somewhere in the house was the muffled sound of a radio. When a light breeze swept up the hill from the river, the warm, comforting scent of dead pine needles teased his nose. Though the house was a bit rundown, the property itself was beautiful. The house was cut into the steep side of the mountain, so Clifton had a sweeping view of the New River and the valley on the other side. The water flowed slowly under Swamper's dock, which stretched out for about

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  fifteen feet from the muddy shore. Across the river was fiat-land and fioodplain, covered in sycamores, oaks, and pines. A little farther back, Clifton could make out the perfect rectangles of cornfields in the distance, and also the black-and-white forms of cows that looked like four-legged dice as they stood in the open fields. And then at the horizon, off to his right and barely discernible, was the faint outline of some of the larger buildings in Samford. At the moment, as far as Clifton was concerned, the hustle and bustle of that city might as well have been a million miles away.

  When Swamper came back out, he handed Clifton a miniature glass bottle of Coca-Cola. It fit his hand perfectly. It was ice cold, and when he took a swig, it immediately wiped away the dust and heat that had been collecting in his throat all day. He swished his second swallow around in his cheeks and dislodged the last bothersome blackberry seed.

  Swamper sat down in the other chair and took a drink from his own bottle. "I can't stand to drink a Coke out of those plastic bottles they seem to put everything in these days. Can't stand it. Some things are just meant to be drunk out of glass. Milk is one. Coke's another."

  "Yes, sir. It's awfully good."

  Swamper looked out at the river and Clifton did the same. "Don't get too many visitors out this way. It's nice to have some company every once in a blue moon."

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  Clifton took another sip off the bottle. "It's beautiful here."

  "Gets lonely sometimes, but I kinda like it." He nodded toward the doorway. "Got my radio to keep me company though. That's how I get most of my news. For some reason, I can't seem to get a paperboy to deliver out this way." Swamper didn't break a smile, and Clifton wasn't sure if he should laugh or not. Swamper recognized Clifton's awkwardness because he eyed him and said, "Relax, son. That was a joke." And that seemed to crack the ice. Clifton laughed and Swamper joined him as they both again looked out at the countryside. Other than the distant buildings of Samford, and a few farmhouses in the fields below, there was nothing else in sight that was man-made. "Was just listening to it right before you got here. Newsman was saying they just released this fella from the Samford Penitentiary. Apparently some of the old church ladies around here got their panties up in a wad over it."

  "Yes, sir," said Clifton. "Old Henry was just telling me all about it."

  "Old Henry Motley," said Swamper with a chuckle. "Hell, now that's a crazy old bastard. Nuttier than a fruitcake, but he's salt of the earth. I've known him all my life."

  "That reminds me," said Clifton as he got up from his chair, now feeling more relaxed thanks to Swamper's easygoing demeanor. He went over to his pail and bent down. "I got you a present."

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  "A present? I don't need no present. Finding your bottle in the river was present enough."

  Clifton grabbed the Styrofoam cup and handed it to Swamper. "Got you some cracklin. Old Henry said you loved it."

  Swamper took the cup, removed the lid, and swirled it under his nose as if it was a glass of fine wine. He looked at Clifton and said, "I sure appreciate it." The look in his warm eyes told Clifton that he really meant it and wasn't just being polite. There were plenty of people who would thank you up and down if you handed them a rotting opossum carcass from the side of the road. Clifton had a feeling Swamper wasn't that way. He seemed to be a straight shooter, and Clifton liked that.

  Swamper suddenly got up and went inside. He came back a second later with two fresh bottles of Coca-Cola, a stainless steel bowl, and a big smile on his face. "Can't eat cracklin without something cold to drink." He poured half the cup of greasy pork rinds into the bowl and handed them to Clifton. He kept the cup for himself. "Hot damn, they're even still warm."

  They began crunching on the fried pork and sucking the grease from their fingers. Swamper slurped loudly, then moved the mishmash of pork from side to side in his mouth

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  like working a plug of tobacco. Between bites he said, "Used to have a couple of neighbors upriver a little ways. But they're dead and gone now. Pretty much just me and Old Henry along this stretch."

  Clifton nodded as he worked on a mouthful and wiped his hands along the sides of his shorts. "I live on the other side of town. Just me and my mom."

  Swamper nodded. "Yep, I know."

  This took Clifton aback for a second. How could he know that? With a quizzical look he said, "You do? How'd you know it's just me and my mom?"

  The wrinkles on Swamper's face compressed together for a quick instant, as if he'd just put his lips to a carton of spoiled milk, but he recovered instantly. "No ... not about who you live with ... about where you live. You left your address in the bottle, you know?" He methodically popped another piece of cracklin into his mouth. "I've lived in Crocket's Mill all my life. I know where that's at."

  Clifton smiled, strangely relieved. For some reason, he didn't want to have to bring up his father. Or his lack of a father. "I've got neighbors all over in my neighborhood. Must be nice to have the river down there and nobody to bother you."

  Swamper spat a rubbery piece of fat into the air and over

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  the railing. "Like I said, gets lonely sometimes, but I wouldn't trade it. Used to walk down to Tommy's place and play cards and drink with him sometimes before he died. Shoot, we used to live high as hogs. He had a little locksmith shop in town next to where the bank is now. Worst damn locksmith that ever wal
ked the earth."

  "How come?" He watched as a blue jay swept down from the branch of a locust and snatched up Swamper's discarded fat. The jay landed for only a second, secured it in its beak, and then took off back to the branch.

  "Problem was, Tommy was drunk most of the time. Used to lock himself out of his own shop about once a week." He began laughing from deep within his belly as he remembered his friend. His chest rattled with phlegm until he coughed something up and spat it over the railing. The blue jay immediately returned but quickly turned away, this time disappointed. "Damndest thing you ever seen. People calling him to come help get their keys out of their cars, and there he is, locked out of his own place. Can't even get his tools. He once had to call a locksmith over in Samford just to help him get into his own shop."

  Swamper laughed so hard that tears began rolling down his face. Clifton joined him, suddenly realizing that this was exactly why he'd sent that message in a bottle. For the laughter. It must have been. When he'd been little, his father

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  made him laugh all the time. He'd never thought about it before, but now, as the two of them sat on the porch, one of the things he'd missed for so long was laughter. Once again, just like on the train tracks, that feeling of being alive filled him.

  "There was another fellow," said Swamper, "who was a doctor. Doctor Love was his name, which is sort of funny in itself. Better than Doctor Hate, I reckon. But that wasn't what was so funny. This was years ago, back when I was young, and he was an old coot by then. But he'd been the doctor in Crocket's Mill forever. But his problem was, he was sick all the time. And I mean all the time. Couldn't hardly ever get him to tend to nobody because usually he was laid up. It seemed like every other week, Mama or one of the other ladies was taking Doctor Love a pot of chicken soup. Some people reckoned he was probably faking because he couldn't cook."

  Clifton found himself enthralled with Swamper's stories as he imagined Crocket's Mill in a different time. It seemed so foreign to him. Over the years, he'd more or less grown to hate the town and most of the people in it. It was in Crocket's Mill, after all, that his father had been killed. It was in Crocket's Mill that he'd had to endure taunting, verbal abuse, and the occasional beating from Colt and his buddies. But Swamper was painting a different picture; he was making it come alive.

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  "Who else?" asked Clifton. He took a long drink from his second Coca-Cola and said, "Any others?"

  "Oh, there were plenty of crazies running around Crocket's Mill back in the day. There was Otto, who lived in town but had a tattoo parlor across the river in Samford. Out near the arsenal. Used to be an Army base there too, but they closed that down years ago. Best place in the world to have a tattoo parlor is near a military base. Nobody but a prisoner loves a tattoo more than a soldier. But if Tommy was the worst locksmith, there ain't no doubt Otto was the worst tattoo artist. Now he was a character."

  Clifton felt himself warming. He was amazed by how quickly he'd gotten comfortable around Swamper. "Let me guess--he couldn't draw."

  "No, he could draw all right, I reckon. Problem was, he couldn't spell. You ask him for an eagle, an American flag, a skull, something like that, and he could draw it up just as good as anybody. But if you asked him for something that had words, well, nine times out of ten he'd blow it all to hell. Guys would come in wanting to get their girlfriend's name put on their arm, and walk out with a different name altogether. I imagine they found themselves in a fair bit of trouble when they got home."

  Clifton chuckled and said, "Yeah, I guess so."

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  Swamper coughed up another oyster of phlegm and hocked it over the railing. Then he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pouch of tobacco and a packet of rolling papers. He sprinkled some into the fold like a chef adding a pinch of salt to a pot of soup. He twisted the ends with a snap of his fingers and lit it with a Zippo.

  For the next several hours, Swamper kept Clifton entertained. He continued telling stories about the old days while Clifton sat on the porch soaking up every word. He couldn't believe the fun he was having with someone who was old enough to be his grandfather. Maybe even his great-grandfather. But he was. And he liked that Swamper didn't ask him any personal questions. He also liked that he was laughing. Laughing easily.

  Before he knew it, the sun had begun setting behind the house, creating a soft orange glow over the New. Ripples began springing up everywhere, as if a giant hand had just thrown pebbles across the surface. Smallmouth bass broke the skin of the river as they crashed through schools of frightened minnows. Upriver, from a hole in a deposit of limestone, big-eared bats funneled out by the dozens, skimming the water to inhale moths and hatching mayflies, their wings flapping furiously as they rose and then dived once more. Crickets and frogs began singing as the day lost its grip to

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  evening. Across the fields, a small sliver of moon poked up over the horizon. After the paralyzing heat of the day, when everything had been dead, things were suddenly waking up and coming to life.

  Clifton stood up from his rocking chair--the chair he'd hardly gotten out of all day. He stretched his hands over his head and said, "Well, I guess I better be heading home before it gets dark."

  Swamper stood up and placed his palms on the small of his back. He pushed forward, causing his spine to pop and snap. "You want some supper? I got a little venison sausage I could fry up. Got plenty of catfish fillets if you'd rather."

  "I appreciate it, but I better head on home." He wanted to come back again, but he didn't know how to broach the subject. Swamper saved him the trouble.

  "If you get a notion, come on back tomorrow, just before sunrise, and you can help me pull my trot line. Usually got a few on there every morning."

  Clifton was suddenly thrilled, but he tried not to show it. "Okay. What time?"

  "Shoot, I'm usually up by four. Any time is fine, I reckon."

  "I'll be here before sunrise," said Clifton, again trying to stifle the excitement but failing to do a very good job of it. He gathered his rod and bucket and started for the front steps.

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  Swamper nodded at the fishing rod. "You can just leave your gear here if you want to. Unless you plan on doing some fishing tonight."

  "Well, if it isn't any trouble."

  "Now what kind of trouble could come from a boy leaving a fishing rod on an old man's porch? You gotta stop being so polite to me, son. You're making me feel uncomfortable."

  "Sorry, it's just--"

  "There you go again. Nice manners is a fine thing with girlfriends and grandmas, but not with an old ornery son of a bitch like me. Makes me itchy. You got me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tomorrow when you show up, you be relaxed and ready to tell me some dirty jokes or something. Tell me a story about the nasty things you're doing with all those little schoolgirls."

  Clifton felt his cheeks warm as he turned to go down the steps.

  "You know, Clifton, you could save yourself some time if you walk around the house and cut up that way. You know where the Killing Pit is?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, take the trail behind my house up the side of the hill. Cross over the road and you'll see where the path keeps going. Can't miss it. It starts right next to a telephone pole.

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  Just follow that trail up the hill until it flattens out. Killing Pit will be on your right and then you should know your way from there. Save you a good thirty minutes."

  Clifton looked out at the river that was quickly darkening, thinking that he didn't want to take a chance on getting lost in the woods around the Killing Pit. But at the same time, he didn't want to offend Swamper. Or maybe offend wasn't the right word. He didn't want Swamper to think he was a chicken. "All right. I'll see you in the morning. And thanks for the Coca-Colas."

  "There you go again, being polite. But while we're acting all sweet and sugary to one another, thanks for the cracklin ... and the company."

&nbs
p; Clifton nodded. "See you bright and early."

  He took off around the side of the house, sidestepped the hole that the giant clump of root ball had created, and immediately saw the switchback trail leading up the steep incline. The woods were dark, but as soon as he reached the road, things cleared considerably. He looked down the long stretch of road and then at the black oval where the path lay, inviting him into the woods. Go on, you sissy. It'll save you thirty minutes. Yeah, but I don't know my way. It's getting dark. What if I lose the trail? You're such a pussy sometimes. Let's get home already. Yeah, but some murderer just got set free

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  today. You've got to be kidding me. You think that out of all the places in the world he could be right now, he's hanging out in this stretch of woods'? Well, yeah, actually I do. Come on, you're being ridiculous. He's halfway back to Alabama by now. Take the shortcut.

  Against his better judgment, Clifton decided to follow the path into the woods. He stepped across a rusted string of barbed wire that hung slack like an overburdened clothesline. As soon as he entered, things went quiet. He couldn't help but remember how dark it had been when he'd gone there with his father years ago, and that had been in the middle of the day. Once he got a hundred feet from the road, it was just like nighttime in the forest. He looked over his shoulder and saw the residual light calling to him from the road, but he decided to march on. He climbed the hill, keeping his eyes trained on the faint path that got harder and harder to see with every step. What he wouldn't have done for a flashlight at that moment.

  His heart began beating faster, and he stopped every few feet to listen. He swore he heard branches cracking and things shuffling through the leaves. But every time he stopped, the sounds seemed to stop too. When he made it to the top of the ridge, the Killing Pit was off to his right. If he hadn't been looking for it, he'd have never even seen it; it just looked like a pile