Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  “I’d say, ‘Delilah Mae, what’s wrong, baby girl?’ And she’d say, ‘I’m scared.’ And I’d say, ‘Scared of what, baby girl?’ And she would just shrug those baby shoulders, not even knowing what she was afraid of. I’d tell her when we were afraid, we’d have to call on Sweet Jesus, just give it all to him. I’d tell her that if you gave him all your fears, you’d have nothing to be afraid of. It would work some nights. Some nights, I’d have to rock her to sleep. Oh, but I love that child like she’s my own. I miss that little girl, I truly do.” She smiled again. “You want to know why I was shocked the night I met you?”

  “That’d be nice.” Hank pushed his legs back and forth, trying to balance the need to know more, but also to do something—stop her.

  “You know our little Delilah Mae, she ain’t no saint. She’s an angel, perhaps, but no saint. And even though she’s had relations with men at the bar, maybe even at her place in Nashville, she’s never brought a man here to her sanctuary. The day she met you, she called me up and said, ‘My Shuger’—she calls me Shuger sometimes—‘My Shuger, I met a man and I’m terrified of him.’ I laughed, thinkin’ she was pulling my leg. She was serious as a heart attack. I said to her, ‘Na’, baby, why would you be so afraid of a man?’ And you know what she told me?”

  Pepsi waited for Hank to ask “what” before she continued.

  “She said, ‘It was like he had a fully loaded gun to my heart, and for the first time, in a very long time, I felt it beating again.’ The beating of her own heart frightened her. Can you believe that? Like I said, I miss that baby girl sometimes. I miss the innocence in her expressions. I miss that for her.”

  Hank stopped rocking and leaned over his legs. “Ms. Pepsi Shuger, you know you’re the only one who never pushed me to ask her if she was Pistollette or not? The only damn person in my life who never thought I was crazy for not asking.”

  “Na’, I didn’t say that.” She laughed and slapped at his arm. “No, but I guess I didn’t.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh well, I don’t know. I just figure, you love her enough not to care.”

  Hank choked for a second before his head fell and hot tears spilled down his cheeks.

  Pepsi patted him on the back and shook her head. “It’s all right, baby. You just go ahead and get that out of your system now.” Pepsi started whispering a prayer, asking her sweet Jesus to make things better for Hank and Delilah. “That’s all you gotta do. You just have to pray and give it over. You know any love worth having don’t come free. If you love Delilah Mae, you just keep doing what you’re doing. She’ll come around. One of these days. Oh Jesus, I don’t know. I hope so.”

  Hank wiped at his eyes and nose. “I just can’t let her go. I know I did wrong. I missed the target by a mile. I’m scared, Pepsi. I’m terrified that I’m going crazy without her. If she marries that man, I won’t be able to stop it…” Hank shook his head. “I’ll kill him. What do I have to do to make her understand? I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread.”

  Pepsi leaned forward, making him look at her. “Hank, why did you run behind Pistollette?”

  Hank sniffed. “I fell in love with her, first. Before I met Delilah. I thought it was love, and I do love her. It’s just that, for some reason, she completes something—she belongs in a way, absurd as that sounds. I am still trying to figure out how she completes things. I didn’t ask her who she is either.”

  “You were too afraid.”

  Hank nodded, wiping away the cool wetness left to linger on his cheeks. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life. Not of her, even with the gun. I was afraid of the answer. Of the truth. I’m terrified of honesty, more than I could ever be of her bullets.”

  Pepsi sat back, tightening her sweater, mmmhmm’ing. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That devil of a man brought them together. Pistollette saved Delilah’s life, you know. Now it seems like an angel of a man is driving them apart.”

  Hank looked up. “I’m driving them apart?”

  “Mmmhmm. You sure are.” She held a hand up. “I won’t say anymore. And you can’t make me, preacher’s son or not. I said enough already. That woman is going to kill me one of these days.”

  “You know Pistollette?”

  “I was talking about Delilah, but mmmhmm, I know her well enough. And let me tell you something, Pistollette ain’t your regular girl. Pistollette can see things that regular people can’t. Pistollette can hear things that regular people can’t. Pistollette has an intuition that most people would kill for. The only person on this earth that Pistollette has ever slowed down for is you, Hank. You’re the only one. The only one. You bring rest to one; you bring peace to the other. If there was only a way for you to give them both what they need, without taking from the other. Maybe one of those miracles I’ve been praying for would happen.”

  Hank stood from the rocker, walked along the porch. He stared at the picture drawn on the easel for a moment. It was a man that looked a whole lot like Hank, kneeling on the ground, holding a woman in his arms. She was draped in his arms, like she had collapsed. The drawing style was very similar to the ones in his back pocket. The cards.

  “Who drew this?” Hank pointed.

  “A very good friend of mine. She’s an artist. She’s the one who drew all the pictures in Delilah’s house.” Pepsi met him by the painting, milk in one hand, and a cookie in the other. She pushed them toward him and told him a deal was a deal.

  He took a bite, chewing but not really tasting, and then asked, “Where is she, Pepsi?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, you hear? Promise!”

  He promised.

  “She’s in Greenville, Louisiana.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “Ah, reminiscing, I guess.”

  “Can I have the address?”

  “Tomorrow, after you’ve eaten more food and had a good night’s sleep. I don’t trust you backwoods southern lawyers. None of you.” She threw her head back and laughed.

  “Like you didn’t trust those agents?”

  “No, I don’t trust any of them. Just as much as I don’t trust a woman who don’t care for sweets. There’s something unnatural about that, Hank.” She shook her head. “You know they’re dirty, don’t you? They got them evil eyes on you, Hank. Watch out, baby. Watch out.”

  “She’s not getting married soon, is she?” Hank’s eyes pleaded for the truth, even though he was terrified of the very same thing.

  Pepsi looked up at the roof for a moment. She said a silent prayer. “I’m not sure.”

  “If I can’t find her tomorrow, tell me you’ll tell me if anything happens. Please, before anything happens!”

  “All right, Hank. Only ’cause you told me I was worth more than a million bucks. You’re a sweet boy, I’ll say that much. Maybe that’s why I like you so much. I like sweets, Hank. They’re my devil sent straight to earth to tempt me. And let me tell you, I’m tempted quite a bit. I can’t seem to help myself! My friends say, ‘Pepsi, you can’t have that. You promised.’ And I say, ‘Oh, life can’t go on forever, might as well enjoy it while you can.’ Then one piece of pie magically turns into three!”

  They laughed.

  Lights went up and down, both Pepsi and Hank shielded their eyes from the glare, as a car drove up.

  Pepsi stiffened. “Na’, Hank, don’t get all buggie on me, please!”

  Hank narrowed his eyes and recognized the car. The man they called Doc Houston. Hank turned his hat backwards, jumped clear over the porch rails and went after him. He grabbed the stunned man by the shirt and punched him in the nose.

  Hank never had any use for words when it came time for the fight. He was quick, and words just seemed like a waste to him. If he had something to say, his fists would do the talking.

  Hank and Doc Houston started fighting in the front yard while Freud bayed and took snips at the Doc’s legs.

  “Lord, that boy done lost his damn mind! Boys, boys!” Pepsi screamed.
“Where you at? Come out here and get that boy!”

  Hank’s friends ran out of the house, the Pabst blue girls right behind them. Ginger Gnat, who was small but burly, helped separate the two men. Hank and Doc Houston were panting heavily, still trying to lunge for each other.

  Doc Houston wiped at his bloody mouth. “What in the world did I just walk into? What the hell did I do?”

  Hank was too angry to answer. He licked the blood off his own lips. He went to lunge again when Tommy yanked him back.

  “It was just a misunderstanding, just a big old misunderstanding.” Pepsi’s hands waved frantically.

  “I just came by to pick up something for Melody in the area and Delilah needed some more clothes. So she asked me to swing by and pick them up for her. You know how she is about her heels. She can’t perform without them. And this sonofabitch attacks me! What did I do?” Doc Houston demanded. He was plainly stunned by what had just transpired.

  Hank went to punch Doc Houston again. Dylan pulled him back, his years of dealing with the demented kicking in and taking hold.

  “You’re a lying bastard!” Hank shouted.

  “Do you need me to call someone to get him taken away?” Doc Houston asked Pepsi.

  “No, he’s all right. Just a little upset.”

  “What did I ever do to you?” Doc Houston asked Hank.

  “I’m not going to let it happen. I’m going to bust in there kicking and screaming. I’ll kill you before I let you marry her.”

  “Wha—”

  Pepsi grabbed Doc Houston by the shoulder, practically dragging him toward the house. “Come on, Doc, let’s let Hank cool off.” She patted his shoulder gently and talked to him as though he was a sullen toddler who had just been bullied on the playground.

  Bullied my ass, Hank muttered to himself. “You better watch your back, Doc!” Hank screamed in fury. Doc Houston tried to turn around to look at him again, but Pepsi pulled him even harder.

  Hank didn’t see the sly, good for nothing Doc after that, even though he was waiting out back for him. He paced underneath the window, trying to breathe as his friends shook their heads in disbelief. Hank looked up for a moment, his eyes catching sight of a wispy shape of a woman standing in the glow of a lamp burning softly.

  He blinked his eyes, wondering if the woman was a fragment of his imagination. She seemed ghostly, not entirely real. When Hank reopened his eyes, the shape was gone. He had imagined it then. Delilah was, beyond a doubt, stealing much more than Pistollette ever did.

  Hank slept in Delilah’s room, his mind turning with the images of Doc Houston and Delilah together, torturing his heart unmercifully while he lay on her pillow. As the minutes ticked on, his anger only flared. He was imagining Doc Houston driving to Louisiana before he got to her. Pepsi promised him that wasn’t the case, but he was shaking with anger.

  After a while of stewing, he opened his wallet and pulled out all of the cards Pistollette had left for him. He laid them on Delilah’s table, around the frame of the little girl in the picture.

  All his cards were on the table now. Hank wouldn’t bluff one day longer. Hank was going to win back his Delilah. He couldn’t live one more day without her.

  Pistol pressed the small silver buttons, dialing a number she knew by heart. She put the receiver to her ear and rested her head against the old payphone.

  The operator came on the line with, “Hey, doll.”

  “Hey, doll.” Pistol took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “I would ask you how you’re doing, but by the sounds of it, someone could be better.”

  “I suppose. What are you up to?”

  “Oh—” there was a long pause “—nothing much. Just fixin’ some cocktails.”

  “Mmm,” Pistol moaned, but it was both from the sound of a good cocktail and the suffering in her heart. “That sounds good.”

  “You bet. Deliciously lethal! I have one just for you.”

  “Can’t beat your cocktails, baby doll. Yours are the best in the south.”

  “Doc Houston thinks so.”

  “Is it strong enough to make you forget?”

  A strong laugh reverberated through the distance, almost causing Pistol to smile. Almost. “Doll, it’s strong enough to make you forget, make you see visions, and make you sing hallelujah all at once. I call it Sasipistol Sauce with a touch of that ole magnolia wine, plus sarsaperelli. A real root fizzy.”

  Another long pause while Pistol twisted around with the phone. She wiped at her eyes, shook her head.

  “Tell. Go on na’, tell me.” The voice on the other end was strong, but with the perfect amount of empathy mixed in.

  Pistol twisted back around, fiddling with the coin return. “You know that island we always talking about? Well, it’s been raining a whole lot on that island. I’ve just been thinking twice about visiting it, you know? It’s flooding all the time, a real mess.”

  “How long has it been since it rained that badly?”

  “Years. The locals don’t even know what to do.”

  “Hmm.” There was a long sigh. “Sounds like a real mess, doll.”

  “Truly.”

  “What do you want me to do with this cocktail you had me think up?”

  “Just save it for me, will you? I have a feeling if he wants to meet her, he’s going to need it.”

  “Don’t you think it would be easier to just walk away? Set ’em free. If it comes back, it was meant to be, sort of situation?”

  “I’m not sure that’s an option at this point. I wish it was. Oh, how I wish it was.”

  “Who would’ve thought?”

  “Not me,” Pistol said.

  “Me either, Pistolette. Me either. Never in a million years.”

  Two sighs and then, “Woo hoo.”

  Then the call went dead.

  “What in the hell do you think she’s doing out here?” Dylan said as he stared out the window.

  As the boys traveled down those old Louisiana back roads, Hank wasn’t sure what he was headed for. It was a much different world out here. One road lead to another, and the farther they journeyed, the more it seemed like life had turned back the hands of time—they continued to go deeper and deeper into a time long gone.

  Right turn; shave a few years off of the celestial clock.

  Left turn, and a few more years disappeared into thin air behind them.

  Forward on those old, dried-up Louisiana dirt roads, and brown dust smoked behind the car as they drove. Cotton fields stretched for miles around, white snow on the tan ground. Long stalks of corn, like a maze, were planted here and there. In between, along the way, tall sugarcane laced the air with what smelled like toxins when they burned.

  The sun hung high in the autumn sky, blistering as it looked down on its helpless people. Hank could imagine old striped jumpsuits and prisoners whose pace was steady, their rhythm in perfect harmony. Clack, clack, clack went those old tools, while that lawman with the imposing hat, the sun ricocheting off it like a bullet to a wall, rode high on his thoroughbred, his long shotgun at his side, a piece of straw dangling from his mouth. He’d kick that horse a bit and make a few circles. More dust, more harmony, more clacking.

  Hank could hear them singing, slow and steady…“She’s a dangerous woman, na’,” those imprisoned visions chanted. “Lord, Lord, she’s a dangerous dame, na’. Don’t play, don’t play mouse with huh, na’”…clack, clack, clack…

  “I know what she’s doing here.” Tommy hit the glass with his knuckle. “What’s the address again?”

  Hank glanced at the paper Pepsi had given him. He read the address aloud.

  “This is where Lil-lil-Lily Beth was killed, Hank. She c-c-comes back h-here for a r-r-reason,” Tommy said.

  “I don’t know why.” Curly cleared his throat. “This ain’t nothin’ but a graveyard. A backwoods graveyard for prisoners to pick their due.”

  “Ex-ex-exactly,” Tommy said. “Cray likes to keep his women like prisoners. Th-th-this would
make sense.”

  They drove on a few more miles before they came to an old store on the corner of a cornfield. The stalks were tall and golden, bending with the mastery of the wind. It was an ancient wooden place, Coca Cola painted in red against a chipped white square. One gas pump stood like a white flag for those in need. A young woman pushed herself back and forth in a rickety old chair by the entrance.

  Dylan slowed the van to a crawl before he turned into the parking lot. The woman’s tender voice floated toward them. The melody of it could lend sugar to the fields around them, Hank thought. It was purely delightful, but with a haunting edge. Her eyes shared the same eerie undertone as her voice.

  The young woman’s blue flowered dress was tight around her growing watermelon belly, loose around her swelling legs. She looked up at him in the glow of the sun. Hank couldn’t see her face anymore. All he could hear was that voice.

  “I am weary, let me rest…” She rocked and sang. Hank walked past her just as she sang that last part, and she met his eye when she did. Then she nodded and continued singing and rocking.

  Hank walked into the cool air of the little wooden shop. It smelled like cold dill pickles and root beer. He looked around the store for a minute, at all of the candies on the shelf—those old-time watermelon candies that Delilah had bought.

  An older man appeared from the back, hunched over and lifting his hat so he could take a good look at the customer who had entered. The old man smiled, exposing empty pink gums. He had more miles on his face than those roads. One brown eye moved, while the blue one stared straight ahead.

  “Anything this old timer can help you with?” the man said, his voice raspy from years of use.

  Behind the counter, two deep wooden barrels were filled with pickles, floating like frogs in swamp water. And Hank’s mouth instantly clamped shut, his jaws clenching from the memory. Forevermore Delilah would be associated with that memory, and his heart clenched in automatic response.