The Night of the Hunter

by Davis Grubb

  Ain’t nobody goin’ to, neither! cried Uncle Birdie. Ain’t nobody hadn’t better try! I keep my weather eye on them shantyboat trash down the shore. There hain’t a one of them wouldn’t swipe that skiff if I was to let ’em. I figger another three–four weeks the weather’ll be fit for me to wade down and git her up on the bank. Then I’ll give her a good calkin’ and a new paint job and this summer I’ll learn you how to lay as good a trotline as ever your daddy did, boy.

  John came alive at the prospect. He remembered the times when his dad was home and on summer days that flashed with dragonflies they had gone fishing for channel cats as far down river as Middle Island Creek.

  Ah! Look, boy! Looky yonder! cried Birdie, motioning up river through the windowpane. There comes the Sarah T. Blake!

  A stern-wheeler had appeared small and white on the bend, trailing a dirty string of smoke up from her stacks to stain the pearly winter sky.

  Ain’t like the old times, Johnny, sighed Uncle Birdie, sloshing another helping of liquor into his morning coffee. Many’s the forenoon I’ve cleared five big Pittsburgh packets at this very wharf.

  John nodded gravely at the thought of these faded wonders.

  Why just this mornin’ at breakfast I was talkin’ to the new boarder up at Mamie Ernest’s and he—Daggone it, anyways, boy! I knowed I had somethin’ to tell you and here it clean slipped my mind till just now. That new boarder! He knowed your dad!

  John grew small and silent, crawling deep within himself, listening with every nerve of his body now.

  Yessir! You see old Mamie’s been sweet on me for years now and she gives me breakfast up at the boardinghouse ever’ single mornin’ and this very mornin’ this stranger was here and we got to talkin’ friendly-like and he said he knowed Ben Harper. Well sir, I piped right up and—

  The blue men, said John.

  Which? said Uncle Birdie. Why, no—he was a preacher and I’ll swear to it. Anyways he wanted to know about you two little lambs—meanin’ you and little Pearl—and he said he was just itchin’ to do somethin’ to help you folks out if there was anything at all you needed. Well now he was the kindliest-turned feller a body could ask for.

  Where did he know Dad?

  Birdie’s face fell and he fumbled in his pants for his whittling stick and penknife.

  Well, boy, I’ll not hide the truth—it was up at Moundsville penitentiary when they had your dad there. This here feller was chaplain and that’s how come he got to know Ben. But wait, now! Don’t get the idee he’s one of these here glum-faced, fun-killing old holiness preachers, now. Why, he was just as jokey and pleasant as a Wheeling drummer with a easeful of samples.

  John handed the coffee cup back to the old man unfinished.

  I gotta go now, Uncle Birdie!

  Aw, well, shucks now, boy! You just got here.

  Well, I told Mom I’d be back for Pearl. She don’t like us kids hangin’ around Mister Spoon’s place too much.

  All right then, Cap. But mind what I promised you now—about the skiff. First nice day we git I’ll haul her up and git to work fixin’ her up and then you and me’ll go fishin’.

  John did not turn back as he ran up the narrow board to the landing and hurried against the wind that blew down Peacock Alley from the hills. Behind him he heard the shrill whistle of the little stern-wheeler as she passed Cresap’s Landing in mid-channel. Now as John rounded the corner by Jander’s Livery Stable he saw them clearly through the window of Spoon’s Place and his heart rose thick and cold in his throat. There was the man in the gray suit and the gray hat sitting at the soda fountain smiling and talking with little Pearl kicking her legs over the edge of the marble counter and Willa standing flushed and pleased with her hands folded in her apron while Walt Spoon and Icey stood by with prim, pleased smiles on their faces as they harked to the stranger’s words. He was talking to them all and they were just eating it all up like a kitten eats cream, and John thought his heart would stop beating altogether because the stranger had Pearl’s old doll in his hands now and he was bouncing it up and down on the little girl’s knee like it was nothing but the plainest, commonest doll in the world.

  —

  Miss Icey whipped the hot fudge till the black stove trembled. God works in a mysterious way, she said, His wonders to perform.

  Walt sat by the window puffing contentedly on his pipe. Willa stood in the kitchen doorway, weeping soundlessly into her handkerchief while Pearl, at her knees, buried her face in her mother’s apron. John kept apart from them, pale and thin-lipped, his eyes cast to the feet of the stranger.

  And it’s a good man, Icey continued, letting a drop of the candy fall in cold water to see if it balled and was ready to pour. A mighty good man that would come out of his way to bring a word of cheer to a grieving widow! Preacher cleared his throat.

  I was with Brother Harper almost to the end, he said in his clear voice. And I ’lowed as how it would cheer the soul of this poor child to know how brave her husband was—how humble in the face of Eternity and the final judgment.

  Icey, despite herself, uttered a single sob and lashed angrily at a tear with her apron hem.

  Preacher! There’ll be a place for you in heaven for bringing them tidings to Willa here!

  As one of the chaplains at the penitentiary, said Preacher softly, it was, of course, my sad duty to bring comfort to the unhappy man during his final days. And now that I’m no longer employed by the penitentiary it is my joy to bring this small comfort to his widow.

  Pearl took her face from the apron and lifted her enormous eyes to Willa.

  Where’s Dad, Mom?

  Hush! whispered Willa, checking her sobs at last and mopping at her swollen eyes.

  Icey poured the black fudge onto the buttered pan, and when the pot was scraped at last held it out for John to finish with his thumb. But the little boy’s stony eyes did not turn to see. Icey, guessing how such first-hand intelligence of his father’s last days must have stung the child, hurried off and thrust the pan into the sink.

  Ben Harper, Preacher said, sitting now at the table and folding his long fingers into a web of tranquil piety, was the last of the condemned men whose troubled spirits I brought comfort to.

  You say you ain’t with the state no more? said Walt.

  No, brother. I resigned only yesterday. The heart-rending spectacle of these poor men was too much for me. I figure to move on down the river and find myself a little pulpit some-wheres. Kentucky maybe. Maybe farther.

  The fingers. John could not take his eyes from them. They rested together on the tablecloth in pale, silent embrace like spiders entwined. The fingers with the little blue letters. Now as the fingers stirred John could see them all. He supposed at first that the letters meant nothing; that perhaps each finger had a name and the name was a letter. H—A—T—E. The left hand. L—O—V—E. The right hand. Left hand and right hand and the fingers each had names. Now Preacher saw the boy staring and the hands sprang apart and he held them up.

  Ah, little lad! You’re staring at my fingers!

  John said no word. His eyes fell back to the stubby black tops of Preacher’s shoes.

  These letters spell out the Lesson of Life, boy! boomed Preacher with a cozening and unctuous geniality. Shall I tell you the little story of Right-Hand-Left-Hand—the tale of Good and Evil?

  John pressed his lips tighter.

  Speak, boy! cried old Walt, nudging him. Preacher asked you a question!

  Yes.

  Ah, he’s a shy one, poor little tyke! cried Preacher. And no wonder! Think, my friends, what life has already done to those tender years.

  John would have none of him. But Pearl, who had come and stood by his knee, was wholly won now at the word story. And she pressed her head against his elbow till he noticed her.

  Come set on Preacher’s knee, little darling! he cried, and tossed her up and cradled her there while Willa’s dark eyes watched, as spellbound as the rest.

  Hate! roared Preacher, thr
usting up the fingers of his left hand so that all might read. It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low! And since that ungodly day, brethren, the left hand has borne the curse of the living and Almighty Jehovah!

  Walt grunted approval and, scratching a match on his trouser seat, held it to his pipe and sucked the flame.

  Love! cried Preacher, thrusting up the right hand now. See these here fingers, dear friends! These fingers has veins that lead right square to the heart—to the almighty soul of man! The right hand, friends! The hand of Love! Now watch and I’ll show you the story of Life! The fingers of these hands, dear hearts!—they’re always a-tuggin’ and a-warrin’ one hand against the other!

  Now he thrust his fingers together, left hand and right hand, and now they wrung and twisted one another until the knuckles crackled horribly.

  —a-warrin’ and a-ragin’, my friends! The soul of man a-fightin’ against his own greed and lust and stinking corruption! Look at them, dear hearts! Old left hand Hate’s a-fightin’ and it looks like old right hand Love’s a goner! But wait, now! Hot dog! Love’s a-winnin’! Yessirree! Old left hand Hate’s a goner! And at the last word he brought both hands down with a crash to the table top.

  Hot dog, brothers and sisters! It was Love that won! Old Mister Left Hand has gone down for the count!

  Icey sighed and sliced the crisscross squares of fudge with the long bread knife.

  I declare! she said softly. I never heard it better told, Preacher.

  Now! cried Preacher, bending to John with a smile. Did you catch on, boy?

  John sighed.

  Answer when you’re spoken to, John, said Willa.

  Yes.

  Most folks, smiled Preacher, wonders about these here tattoos. When a feller has tattoos on his hands it’s generally somethin’ ornery like anchors and pistols and naked females and such. I tell you I find these tattoos mighty handy when it comes to preachin’ the Word.

  Well now, said Walt, between puffs of pipe smoke. It sure tells me the story.

  That fudge, smiled Icey, will be cool directly and we’ll all have some.

  Thank you, sister.

  I declare, Willa, sighed Icey with a hard stare at John. I never seen that boy of yours so quiet. Looks to me like he could use a good dose of salts.

  John! Take your hands from behind you and act nice.

  Yes, Mom.

  Preacher smiled and patted the shaggy head with firm, quick movements.

  Many and many’s the time, he said softly, when I sat listening to Brother Harper speak about these youngins.

  Now John’s eyes flew to Preacher’s face.

  What did he tell you?

  The room was silent. Outside the pale winter sun had appeared and they could hear the drip, drip of the melting snow on the roof.

  Why, he told me what fine little lambs you and your sister yonder both was! cried Preacher, his washed-out-blue eyes twinkling palely.

  Is that all? John said.

  Willa stirred uncomfortably and went over to gather Pearl from the stranger’s lap.

  Why no, boy, smiled Preacher, something new in his eyes now as if a game had begun between them. He told me lots and lots of things. Nice things, boy.

  John lapsed into silence again, his hands pushing into his pockets.

  Well, he said, without glancing at Willa. I reckon me and Pearl better go now!

  Oh, but the fudge ain’t hard yit! cried Icey warmly. I promised you a piece if you was good.

  I don’t want no fudge, said John, quite plainly.

  Well, I declare! cried Icey, her mouth pursing angrily. Such impudence!

  John Harper! When you don’t want somethin’ you’re supposed to say, No thank you! cried Willa.

  No thank you!

  I’m sorry, Icey, Willa murmured, blushing with shame. I’ll tend to him ’gainst I get him home.

  But Preacher intervened.

  Now, my dear! We all forgit how much these little lambs has endured. He didn’t mean no impudence. Did you now, boy?

  The fingers. John could not take his eyes from the fingers long enough to think about what it was Preacher was saying.

  Did you, boy?

  John stood quite still, his feet very close together, thinking about his dad that day in the tall grass by the smokehouse and he could not hear what they were saying because he was thinking back, trying to remember the hands of the blue men with the guns and sticks. But because the hands had kept moving he could not remember whether these had been the hands named Love or the hands named Hate or whether they had any names at all. Now Willa’s breath stirred in his ear, hot and furious, choking with humiliation.

  You just wait, John Harper! Just wait till I git you home!

  BOOK TWO

  THE HUNTER

  Run, puppy, run! Run, puppy, run!

  Yonder comes the big dog, run, puppy, run!

  —Child’s Rhyme

  This was toward the end of March. On the Monday of the third week of Preacher’s stay at Cresap’s Landing he told Walt Spoon that he had made up his mind to stay on through the spring. And since he had no money it was his intention to wait until he could pick up a little work on one of the larger bottomland farms and pay off his debts and then in May or June he would hold a grand spring revival over in Jason Lindsay’s orchard. Few country preachers work full time at it: most of them are farmers or they hire out for the harvest or do store work in the lean times and so to Walt Spoon this seemed a plainly sensible plan. Mamie Ernest, as much taken in by Preacher’s grand manner as the rest of them, did not so much as mention the matter of board and room he owed her for and it was tacitly agreed that he would pay for these things when he could. Old Friend Martin, the regular pastor at Cresap’s Landing’s little frame Presbyterian Church, gave Preacher a perfectly good old black overcoat and invited him to preach at his own pulpit. Everyone was completely won by Preacher’s flashing eyes and his rolling, booming voice, and the sermon about the right- and left-hand fingers had the congregation buzzing and chattering all the way home that Sunday. Willa kept on at her job at the confectionery and it was a fairly common thing before long for Preacher to come by of an evening to talk to her about Ben’s last days and to enjoy cocoa and a platter of Icey’s Potsdam cakes. There was never, of course, a breath of bad gossip about these casual attentions because everyone could see the two of them quite plainly through the window of the ice-cream parlor. Icey, however, had launched upon an all-out campaign to fan the friendship into the sort of refined interest that would lead to Willa’s second marriage. But Willa resisted.

  No, Icey. It’s too soon after Ben’s passing for me to be thinkin’ about marryin’ again. Besides—

  Besides nothin’! cried Icey, popping a little frosted cube of Turkish delight into her mouth. That feller is just achin’ to settle down with some nice woman and make a home for himself here in Cresap’s Landing, Willa. I declare, I don’t know what’s the matter with you. Are ye blind? ’Deed, it ain’t every day in the week that as nice a man as that comes down the pike. And you can bet your bottom dollar, my fine girl, there’ll be some smart young sister between here and Captina will snap him up if you don’t.

  John don’t like him much.

  Pshaw! Youngins! It’ll be a sad day when a sassy-britches like that John of yours can stand up and tell their elders what’s right and wrong.

  Well—I suppose—

  Besides, honey! What about Pearl? She just dotes on him!

  Yes. Yes, that’s so, Icey.

  Fiddlesticks! It’s only natural for boys to feel sorty—well sorty loyal to the memory of the father. You mark my words, Willa, that boy wouldn’t cotton up to no man you picked to marry.

  Gracious, Icey! Here we are just talkin’ about it like he’d gone and asked me.

  Shoot, now! Ain’t no man’ll ever ask a woman if she don’t find a way to let him know she’s ready.

  Willa had finished polishing the long silver soda spo
ons and now she was arranging them neatly in a long row behind the fountain. She sighed and lifted her troubled eyes to Icey’s impatient scowl.

  There’s something else, she said softly.

  Well! The only thing else I can think of is you just naturally can’t see yourself in the same bed with him.

  No, it’s not that. I don’t much care about that any more. I don’t think I ever want to have those feelings about any man again. It’s not love I’m huntin’ any more. I reckon I’ve had my chance at that already. If I was to marry again, Icey, it wouldn’t be for no other earthly reason than to give the kids a father and a provider—

  Then what in heaven’s name is wrong with Mister Powell? He wouldn’t make much but it would be a comfort to your soul to—

  It’s the money, Icey! she breathed quickly, and commenced polishing one of the spoons over again, with swift, nervous rubs of the fragrant cloth.

  Icey grunted.

  Pshaw! That money! I declare you’ll let that money haunt you to your grave, Willa Harper.

  I reckon that’s so, Icey, said the girl. It’s always there—bloody and evil and covered with sin. My sin as much as Ben’s, Icey! I feel like I ought to have to pay for it just as much as he done some ways. Like I’d driven him to it.

  Such barefaced foolishness! It’s gone—gone I tell you!

  There’s no way I can tell, said Willa, staring at her chapped hands, whether he knows about it or not.

  Who knows?

  Mr. Powell.

  Well, shoot! I reckon he should know about it! Everyone in Marshall County knew. It was in the Moundsville Daily Echo—the whole story. I reckon it was even in the Wheeling papers, too. Folks talked about it all up and down the panhandle. But what in the world has his knowin’ about it got to do with anything, will you please tell me that?

  Willa shivered.

  Maybe, she whispered, he knows where it’s hid.

  It’s at the bottom of the Ohio River! That’s where it’s hid!

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  It was a warm night for the end of March. Walt had left the front door to the ice-cream parlor open when he went out after supper to gossip with the old men down at Darly Stidger’s store. And yet it was not spring, although winter was dead and the moon was sickly with the neitherness of the time between those seasons: those last few weeks before the cries of the green frogs would rise in stitching clamor from the river shores and meadow bogs.