by Craig Davis
I Saw the Wicked Buried
The sudden cloudburst caught everyone off guard – a real gully-washer. Poncey was caught driving along a winding gravel road, and the wipers on Zeke Breather’s pickup simply turned the rain into a smear of mud. On top of that, Poncey could tell he was going too fast, even though the truck’s speedometer was broken. Peering through the gunk on the windshield, he could not see the oncoming car in time to get out of the way. Rocks spewed in every direction as each driver desperately wrestled with his steering wheel. Badly outweighed by the creaking old truck, the sleek, shiny car swerved off the road and into a ditch. As Poncey crouched low in the seat, he watched the irate driver in his mirror, shaking his fist at the fleeing truck, the tailgate veiled by cascading water but still legible, “Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard.”
The deluge wetted the hot pavement only to sear off again as steam, replenishing the humid shroud even as the rain still fell, promptly turning the fresh respite into a sauna. Indeed, sticky summer heat is the one thing that West Tennessee is known for. That, and the pork ribs. And music, but mostly the heat. A humidity hangs in the air that no breeze can cut through, combining with the temperature to suck the life out of a man, and the will to live. Some folks swear the red Southern clay they tread upon would be fine sand if it weren’t for the humidity. A simple walk in the sun can leave clothes soaked and dripping even as the body inside boils; something like a lobster in seersucker. Heat waves come to rest over the area, pushing daytime temperatures well into three digits, and leaving overnight lows at a snappy 80˚ Fahrenheit. That summer was no exception; Skullbone broiled for weeks without rain, and the town was as dry as its name.
Wispy white clouds lightly brushed the sky. Poncey and Mack walked a footpath, barely there within the matted grass. Blue as a jay, the stunning depth of the sky disguised its emptiness with empty beauty. The sun ruled the day, with none to challenge its dominance; its beams bore down mercilessly on the two as they made their way, barefoot and dragging ragged towels. Woods loomed near at hand, with not a leaf stirring on the breathless afternoon. The only escape from the moist air was to double down, and so the friends headed for still waters, the abandoned pond at Oopsie’s Trough.
In Skullbone, besides the Diner, the only place to eat is home. For a short time, though, the brave entrepreneur “Oopsie” Brooks had tried to fill that void. Oopsie had been a clumsy child and came by his nickname honestly. As an adult, he proved just as adept at business; fortunately, he came from old money and could afford endless false starts. At eight years old, on just such a day as this, he’d set up the obligatory lemonade stand, sinking all his money into the cheapest drink mix he could find. But he prepared the whole sugary batch at once – thirteen of his mother’s glass pitchers, all in a row – and one unfortunate bump of the table not only spilled his entire supply, but also broke every single pitcher. He followed that disaster with Antenn-Ex, a service that de-installed television antennas, which nobody wanted; Brooks Books, publisher of personal diaries, Christian testimonies and poetry about cats; and Finger Lickin’, a restaurant with nothing but chicken strips on the menu, which failed under legal threat from an international conglomerate. At least the business world was taking notice of Oopsie.
Then he came up with Oopsie’s Trough, a buffet restaurant set within a rustic barn. He built the structure outside of town, deep in the woods where a small pond lay. The buffet, or trough, was filled with such delicacies as fried chicken, pulled pork and pineapple hush puppies (because Oopsie figured fruit was healthy even deep fried). To enhance the appeal of his place, Oopsie invested in exotic animals to keep on the grounds – an American bison, elk, peacocks, llamas, even a zebra. At first diners came in droves, and Oopsie proudly congratulated himself, but he had begun by offering bargain prices and was afraid to raise them. Nothing about a buffet encourages moderation, so he found his customers literally eating all his profits – he had to think of some way to cut costs. Eventually some clever children noticed the buffalo was gone and Oopsie was down to one llama, though none of their parents paid it much mind. But when the zebra disappeared, the crowds quickly fizzled: Oopsie’s Trough had served its last course and stood deserted.
Soon afterward Oopsie relocated to Frog Jump and opened Traffic Cone, a combination gas station and frozen custard stand, attracting tourists by setting up a headstone for fugitive hijacker D.B. Cooper. The likelihood that Frog Jump was the man’s final resting place was doubtful, considering he had jumped from a airliner somewhere over Oregon, but the idea suited the town’s name.
Anyway, the driveway to the Trough had overgrown into no more than the footpath now taken by Poncey and Mack, still leading to Skullbone’s one place to get neck-deep in cool water. The pond had been ruled off-limits for swimming, deemed too dangerous, but the taboo only lured Poncey and Mack with romantic ideas of civil resistance. Besides, they’d risk anything just to get away from everyone in town for awhile. Constable Crapo, the town’s unofficial police force, occasionally patrolled the place, so Poncey and Mack kept a sharp eye out as they walked. One other time when they had stolen the pond’s forbidden pleasures, the sound of a siren spooked them out of the water. Naked and wet, they had crouched in the surrounding bushes, warily watching for Constable Crapo to appear. Tortured by mosquitoes, they finally crept back into the water, only to be alerted out again by the siren. Back and forth they went, until finally they realized the sound was the cry of a peacock still haunting the trees, one of the last refugees from the defunct restaurant. So they no longer trusted their ears.
“Everyone knows Cooper bailed out way far from here,” Poncey told Mack. “Nobody believes he’s buried in Frog Jump.”
“Who cares? If it works for Oopsie, who cares?” Mack replied. He walked in a curious lope, his upper body hung like an awning over his knobby knees.
“I care. Facts are important. If he was goin’ to make somethin’ up, he should have figured out somethin’ believable. People are so stupid.”
“People are crazy,” Mack said.
Heat radiated in the air, even off the grassland. Small clouds of gnats swarmed, twisting and swirling in the air, while cicadas droned in the distance. The pond came into view where the glade bordered the copse; the barn looked weathered but none the worse. Sweat was pouring off the two young men as they neared the dappling water. As their angle improved upon its surface, one spot of blue stood out with dazzling brilliance. Poncey pointed it out to Mack, and Mack pointed it out to Poncey, and drawing closer they saw the blue that was too bright to be water met with brown to rich to be dirt. Next to it appeared to be a pile of long, feathery grass dried stiff and pale.
“That’s one of the peacocks!” Poncey exclaimed.
“Think it’s dead?” Mack said.
“Could be. I used to chase those things around here, never could get close to one. If it lets us get near, it must be dead.”
“Let’s see.”
The bird did not move a muscle as the two crept near, stalking like cats. Its neck arched gracefully backward, the head and elegant crown caught in motion, poised like a ballerina. Poncey and Mack’s careful approach grew increasingly cavalier to match the peacock’s apparent disinterest. Soon they stood over the unfortunate bird, staring in awed silence. Its upward eye was open and bright, the mouth hanging open, and the breeze lightly ruffled its feathers.
“That’s one dead bird,” Mack said at last, sorrowfully.
“Don’t you know anything?” Poncey scoffed. “Look at its tongue. See it moving? Its panting. The thing’s just overheated.”
“Dang.”
“Heat stroke or somethin’.”
They hovered over the peacock silently for a moment more. Bronze glistened in the merciless sun.
“Let’s get it out of here, Poncey,” said Mack softly. “It’s like a king, like a fallen warrior. Let’s get it out of the heat, and it’ll get better.” He went to his knees beside the stricken icon, gazing with mournful compassion. The bird’s crest
lay at ease, a perfect, simple crown to all its finery. Unconscious memories flooded back to Mack, images from the first fairy tale he ever saw animated on a TV screen, the hero resplendent and regal, utterly enveloping his imagination. In his childish way, he had fashioned his own crown, and breastplate, out of paper grocery sacks, and nailed together two thin strips of wood to make a sword. The glory of gallant royalty had swallowed up his life. He pored over every book he found, history and fiction, but never did much reading – he focused on the illustrations, the exquisite portrayals of sovereign elegance. He wondered at two-dimensional pharaohs, bug-eyed Charlemagne, pale and expressionless Hapsburgs. Peter the Great thrilled him, mounted high on a rearing steed; Louis XVI seemed always ready to laugh at something; the kind eyes of Vlad III contradicted his menacing mustache. Mack even mined the pages of his mother’s old gift Bible – filled with pastel visions of ancient Canaan, purely 1950s kitsch – finding in the Gospels a humble king, royalty veiled in mystery.
Perhaps no character engrossed him more than Eustache Dauger, the man in the iron mask. A brother, perhaps, of the sitting king, tragically hidden in horrible mechanical guise, shut away behind stone walls, denied not just the grand eminence to which his heart soared, but also mere esprit d’humanité. Mack could see into the prisoner’s mind, as he stared through his mask and through his window, a man somehow outside of his own time and place, forced into an existence where he could never belong. The engraving in the book told Mack more than the printed words ever could, that the human condition testified to an unknown enemy and an unspeakable aspiration, that injustice could never win nor could it ever be defeated, and that he could offer Dauger only the shared, painful empathy of a trapped soul.
But at this moment his thoughts turned upon Solomon, watching a flotilla upon waters not unlike the pond, though much greater. Solomon himself waited upon the peacocks, part of his menagerie departing the ships of Tarshish, and in that painting Mack had seen the proud bird take the measure of his proud master. Here he saw its descendant, no less worthy of a place in royal courts, no less deserving of life and privilege. If this fowl could represent that venerable bird, then Mack could put on the image of Solomon, and take this suffering creature into his care. “Let’s get this peacock outta here. I’ll take it home.”
“Well, throw it over your shoulder and go then,” Poncey scoffed. “I came here for a swim.”
“That’ll hafta wait,” Mack insisted. “You can’t treat a peacock like a plucked turkey. We can make a stretcher for it with our towels. We’ll hafta carry it out on a stretcher.” He spoke in mellow tones, like a priest on a battlefield.
“I said, I’m goin’ for a swim,” Poncey replied, and to prove the point threw his towel over Mack’s head and dived into the pond. He came up sputtering, shaking water off his head and baseball cap, which never budged an inch. Once he’d cleared his eyes he found Mack working with two long sticks, folding the towels around them and over each other, making his litter.
“Oh, good grief,” Poncey thought, and began to wade out. “Look, you have to use one towel for the bottom, and fold both sides up over your poles. That’s the only way to maintain tension with the top towel. Don’t you know anything?”
“Careful,” Mack said as they gingerly laid the peacock in place. “Rajah is suffering, he needs tender care.”
“Rajah?”
“He is a king, I’m gonna call him Rajah,” Mack said.
“Hail Rajah, king of birds!” Poncey mocked. “Hail, king of Skullbonia! Ruler of all bird brains!” But he did pick up his end of the stretcher. All the way back he wondered, “Why am I doin’ this?”
Mack lived in the old section of town in a worn little house his mother had left when she died. Its age was already evident, and Mack’s natural indifference toward upkeep had not served it well, inside or out. The paint was gray, the wood was gray, and the simple concrete stoop was gray. The windows were too thick with dirt to see through to the color of the interior. But Mack owned his home, and this would be Rajah’s new kingdom.
“Here,” Poncey groused as he let the stretcher drop. “I always thought someday I’d end up givin’ you the bird, so here you go.”
“Careful! Get him inside – he’s still passed out.”
“You’re gonna take that thing inside your house?”
“It’s cool in there. This heat’ll kill ’im.”
“That’s stupid. Peacocks have to be outside. They can’t sleep unless they’re in trees.” Poncey made that up on the spur of the moment, but he swore to find some real fact that would force Mack not to keep the huge fowl in his house.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Fine, take it inside. Don’t blame me if you get mites.”
“It’s just for tonight. Just till he gets better.” Mack tenderly stroked his new friend, and compelled Poncey to help bring Rajah in. The elegant bird did get better, alert and drinking that evening from Mack’s favorite bowl, and the next evening as well, and indefinitely after that. The sun continued its brutal scrutiny through the day, and the neighbors kept watch at night, their faces stern with disapproval and startled at each scream pealing from the grungy house.
“This place looks worse than ever,” Poncey sniffed during a visit. “Is that bird poop over there?”
“Maybe,” Mack said. “It’s hard to keep up with it all.”
“His majesty is doing better, it looks like. Isn’t it about time you kicked him out?”
“I’m afraid he’ll take off. ’Sides, it’s still blazin’ outside. I don’t mind him bein’ in here.”
Rajah had adopted a position roosting upon the back of Mack’s couch. He turned continually, exercising his long train and wings to keep balance, ably preventing any human from sitting there. His cocked eye sized up Poncey with expert acumen.
“What do you feed this canary?”
“He likes tater peelin’s. He caught a mouse the other day – good as havin’ a cat around.”
“Yeah, a 15-pound, psychotic cat that flies. You can feed it a turd, too, if you want. It’ll take it.” Poncey had found his key fact.
“You’re disgustin’.”
“This poop-cock is disgustin’. I’m warnin’ you, if you don’t get rid of it, you’re not gonna see me ’round here any more.”
“Suit yourself,” Mack said. Being alone was nothing new to him. Besides, he didn’t believe the threat.
“I will,” and Poncey held the door open for a moment, tempting Rajah with the great outdoors, before letting it slam behind him. But he wasn’t about to cut loose from Mack; he had no other friend as close, and the opportunity to harass him about the bird was too ripe. Poncey researched as much information about peafowl as he could find, determined to beat Mack over the head with it.
“You know, you could be stuck with this thing here for 20 years,” Poncey offered, leaning back in his chair. Rajah spread his wings and slowly turned around on his roost. “These things can live that long, you know.”
“Naw, I didn’t know that,” Mack said, as Poncey had counted on. “He’s so pretty. He’s the most prettiest, yes he is.” Mack knelt on the floor and leaned into the bird, his narrow nose looking like a mirror image of Rajah’s beak.
“Please,” Poncey groaned. “Its brain is the size of a grape, you know.”
“Naw, I didn’t know that,” Mack repeated numbly. Rajah spread his train, filling the room with eyes and color, appearing like the Spirit of God. The bird let out a call, its species’ familiar crescendo drawing all attention to itself, splitting the air like an arrow.
“Holy cattle!” Poncey clapped his hands over his ears. “How can you stand that?”
“You’re beautiful, beautiful,” Mack crooned. “What a beautiful tail.”
“It’s not a tail, doofus. That plume grows out of his back, and it’s called a train. He’s trying to attract a mate, so I wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” Poncey informed his friend.
Mack genuflected before the peacock, g
azing upon its splendid image with single-minded wonder and longing. Rajah’s garbage awaited him now in a cut glass bowl, slightly rotted and adding a vague pungency to the house. The white spots on the floor had increased, and loose feathers danced daintily along the baseboards, lifted upon breezes too slight to feel. The peacock’s radiant beauty reflected in Mack’s eyes, and he believed he had finally found what made life worth living. He felt that he could see into the bird’s spirit.
Poncey picked a downy feather off his stubbly mustache. “Ugh! This stupid thing is molting all over me!”
“He’s not stupid – that’s just a bird’s nature,” Mack said. “It’s what birds do.”
Poncey began to hate the bird. Somewhere inside its empty head, he was sure, Rajah designed to take over Mack’s will. He thought maybe Mack had finally met his intellectual soul mate. Poncey did not understand Mack’s attachment to such a silly pursuit, with nothing of practical value; he knew everything there was to know about peacocks, and one of those things was they weren’t all that great. As he mulled through his thoughts, he could feel his teeth grinding, and told himself he had to save Mack. If he could get him separated from that stupid bird, Mack would come to his right mind and be his old friend again.
“Oh, man, it smells worse than a pigsty in here,” he exclaimed.
“Really? I don’t smell nothin’,” Mack replied. Rajah had taken to roosting upon whichever piece of furniture Mack settled into, flapping and turning, forcing Mack to relocate, where the routine repeated. Sometimes Mack just leaned against a wall. The bird’s spurs had left long scratches on his neck and cheeks, and the upholstery looked a little shredded as well. Rajah flicked his head toward Poncey and screamed mightily. Poncey could feel the beast trying to impose its desire upon him; he could see Rajah’s plans to make of him a dim-witted subject, just as he had done with Mack.
“Yeah, this is one of those flyin’ pigs people are always talkin’ about. All those impossible things are happening now, because this pig flies.”
“Rajah ain’t no pig, he’s beautiful,” Mack stepped away from his wall until the bird snapped its head in his direction, then he meekly edged back.
“He’s your lord and master. The thing controls you.”
“Nuh-uh. That would be stupid,” Mack protested.
“Yeah, well, you’ve been known to do some stupid things. How many folks do you know who try to OD on estrogen?”
“Well – that was my mistake,” he said quietly.
“Your mistake, sure,” Poncey mocked. “You’d do it again, if you thought this bird wanted you to. No telling what you think this pin cushion tells you.”
“Oh, shut up. It don’t tell me anything.” Poncey’s onslaught left Mack clearly embarrassed.
“Look, I know more than you about it, and somethin’ bad is bound to happen if you don’t get rid of this thing.”
“Nothing bad’s gonna happen,” Mack sounded like he was wavering. “Is it?”
As though it understood, Rajah rose up on his wings and flew at Mack, attempting to come to rest upon his shoulder. Feathers swirled high into the air, and the peacock knocked lamps and picture frames to the ground. Mack ducked in surprise, and took one of the spurs dangerously close to an eye. Rajah veered off toward the couch, as Mack went to the floor – he touched gingerly at the blood trickling down his face, kneeling in broken glass.
“See? I warned you,” Poncey said. “Worse than that’s gonna happen, too – that bird’s just not right in the head.”
“Oh, that’s just a peacock’s nature,” mumbled Mack as he shuffled toward the bathroom. “It’s just what peacocks do.”
Mack’s attitude even after this incident was so idiotic that Poncey could not stand to witness it any longer. “You are a danger to yourself and others. If you don’t do somethin’ about that menace, somebody else will.”
Sure enough, in a couple days Constable Crapo came visiting to Mack’s house. The stifling humidity and drought had kept him in a foul mood for weeks, in no humor for foolishness. He pulled his floppy police hat from his head and stared at the sun, lonely in its cloudless sky, as he pounded on the door with his fist and bellowed, “MacL’noly! Open up! Po-leece!” He almost never got to do such a thing. A scraped and bedraggled Mack appeared and asked what he wanted.
“Got a report here ’bout you got some kinda giant bird or buzzard or sump’m in dere? Got a order to take a look ’round your prop’ty and ’valuate de sitch’ation.”
Crapo got as far as the doorframe when he saw the mess inside – the feathers, guano, vegetable remains lying about, furniture tattered and askew – and Rajah presiding over it all. “You got a sitch’ation here.” The bird hopped sideways along the couch like a crazed parrot. “Dey tol’ me it was some kinda over-growed chicken. Dis here’s a sitch’ation. You steal dis here bird, son?”
“Uh, no.”
“You got a license or an’thang? You got a receipt?”
“No?” Mack was more puzzled than intimidated, but intimidated nonetheless.
“Look, MacL’noly, dis ain’t a good sitch’ation. We gettin’ complaints ’bout dis big bird you got here, ’bout de noise, an’ de healt’ hazard. An’ dis here’s a hazard you got goin’.”
“What?”
“We can’t have folks livin’ like dis here. Bad for de whole commun’ty. You givin’ Skullbone a bad name wid dis house, livin’ like dis here. You gonna get sick from dis here an’ cause a ep’demic ’round here. Don’t you unnerstan’ dat?”
“I guess.”
“You got two choices – either I take dis t’ing offa you right now, or you get a cage or sump’m to keep it in. What’s it gonna be?”
“What would you do with him?” Mack’s voice trembled.
“Well, we ain’t got facil’ties for a bird dis size down at de jail. We’d prob’ly just hafta do him in.”
“Do him in?” Mack gulped.
“Yep. Birdshot, prob’ly.”
“I won’t let you.” Mack’s eyes dilated, and his voice trembled even more. “This is my house and my Rajah. I saved him.”
“Well, den, my advice to you is run down to de junkyahd and find yo’self sump’m ta cage him in wid. We can’t have folks livin’ wid livestock in deir houses. Dis here’s a bad sitch’ation. Gotta take care of dis here right now.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Mack said non-committally.
“I be checkin’ back on you, MacL’noly,” Crapo eyed him sternly. “I gonna get dat bird outta here someway. We gonna take care of dis sitch’ation right now.”
Mack decided he’d best take this threat seriously, so, after making a final offering of breakfast oats and mealy apples, he set off on foot to Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard. He took the threat so seriously, in fact, that he imagined Crapo breaking into his house while he was gone and blasting away at Rajah with a shotgun. So he took the peacock with him, a tether secured around one leg, wrestling to keep the mighty bird on his arm all the way. By the time he got to the junkyard, he felt like he’d been in a boxing match against a set of knives inside an oven while marching on Moscow. He set Rajah down on the tailgate of Zeke’s pickup and tightly tied the tether to its bumper.
Watching carefully was Boneapart, Zeke’s disinterested dog, sitting benignly in the front of the truck bed. Boneapart was part yellow mutt and part pony, from the looks of him. Today he had goggles strapped over his eyes, panting and reviewing his domain with utmost dignity. He gave Rajah a careless look and cast his attention elsewhere. Mack yelled across to Zeke – leaning his chair backwards against the front of his store, fanning himself lazily with his hat – that he was going into the junkyard.
Mack wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he headed toward the section where he knew Zeke kept boards and metal scraps. He was sure he could find some lumber, and he hoped some hurricane fencing or chicken wire might be lying around too. Underneath an old Sinclair sign he found a roll of wire, which he carried back to the gate, and he
was just picking up a few stray two-by-fours when he heard a horrid screech and Zeke yelling at the top of his lungs. Mack’s arms dropped their load, and his wiry legs made a break for the truck.
The first thing he saw was Boneapart, sitting without a care in the world. His red, ugly maw was dotted by a mockery of glinting blue and bronze feathers. Zeke stood at his truck’s tailgate, holding Rajah’s tether with one hand at just about shoulder height, staring downward. Finally Mack’s eyes fell upon his fears, focusing upon the same point as Zeke’s gaze, Rajah dangling by one foot just above the ground. Zeke’s other hand rested upon his hip, and he slowly shook his head.
Mack let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a squeal, and collapsed to his knees at the mangled peacock. Zeke lowered the bird to the ground delicately, and Rajah’s head came to rest at a grotesque angle over his back. Mack gathered the fallen demigod into his arms, cradling the broken body in a protective caress, rocking slightly with quiet whimpers of grief. Zeke lay a hand on his back, and Boneapart panted. Not a single defined thought went through Mack’s head, such was his heartbreak, and all he could speak was mourning. His world had come to a halt: The one thing that had inhabited his home and life since his mother, was also taken from him. The beauty had passed.
“I’m sure sorry, Mack,” Zeke began. “It just happened so fast. I was watchin’ the bird from over in my chair, an’ then somethin’ just happened. It stretched out its wings, an’ Boneapart lunged at it, just lunged at its throat. Then he walked back an’ sat down. That was it – it was all over ’fore I even knew it.”
Mack rocked and sobbed, his face buried in a mess of bloodied feathers.
“I’m sorry, Mack. Boneapart’s not a bad dog. but he is a dog. An’ that’s just a dog’s nature.”
Mack heaved in spasms, but managed to draw to his feet. He gingerly cupped Rajah’s head in his hand, holding the bird like a partner in a tango. The long plumes hung at painful angles, catching upon the ground and the truck, testifying to the utter death of the languid victim. A hole opened up within Mack’s chest, surging with violated accusation and self pity. He had trouble lifting his head as his heart swung from sorrow to resignation and back. He stared emptily at his expired love, his eyes as dull as the bird’s. Zeke felt so bad, he let Mack use his truck to take Rajah and a few boards back home.
“Well, what will you do now?” Poncey asked.
“Gonna bury ’im,” Mack said, slumped against a tree and gazing at Rajah, still in the truck bed, from a distance. “Then I got nothin’ to do.”
“Where you gonna plant him?”
“Out back, I guess. It don’t matter. Nothin’ matters.”
Poncey could not take his eyes off his friend. “I’ll help you dig.”
“Sure. You take the truck back to Zeke, okay? He wants it back quick.”
“Okay. But first I’ll help you dig.”
The two struggled against the hard ground with ragged shovels until they had a hole deep enough to accommodate Rajah. Mack secured him inside a plastic garbage bag, after taking a few feathers from his train. They covered him up, and Mack nailed the boards together to fashion a crude marker. He pounded it into the grave, decorated with the feathers, as Poncey excused himself to go to the bathroom. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, occasionally glancing at his friend through the window, Poncey didn’t find any pills he thought looked dangerous. As he left the house, he saw Mack painting something on the boards, too busy to notice the dark cloud blowing in. “I’ll be right back,” Poncey yelled, jumping into the truck and taking off in a hurry for the General Store and Junkyard. “Don’t do anything.”
On his way the bottom dropped out. Poncey bore down anyway, and churned along the road through the downpour. He knew the way well. Then suddenly he saw the dark spot ahead, and realized it was a car, a car he’d never seen before. Poncey wrenched his steering wheel, his tires spitting gravel angrily, and the other vehicle spat back as it careened away; all he could hear was his own cursing. He checked his mirror warily, seeing only a shadowy figure climbing onto the road, flailing at the rain. Off he sped for Zeke Breather’s, leaving the wreckage in his past.
Poncey sat in the general store, waiting for the cloudburst to subside, talking with Zeke but not really listening. He was thinking about his accident, the trouble he had caused that other driver who would never figure out it was him. All that man would ever know about it was the name on the back of the truck, “Zeke Breather,” and if he ever came by the general store he’d recognize that name. That enraged, muddied driver would let Zeke have it then, never knowing he was completely wrong, and Zeke would have no idea what the guy was yammering about. The very thought of it almost made Poncey burst out laughing. Zeke stopped talking and gave him a puzzled look.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Poncey shook his head and drew his hand over his grin.
Once the rain had stopped, Poncey cut off Zeke’s story about how the distributor from Jackson had tried to give him crushed boxes of saltines and sprinted back to Mack’s house. It was a pretty far piece, so Poncey had slowed to a walk by the time he arrived. He found Mack soaked to the skin, still squatting at the mound of fresh earth, staring at the grave marker. Whatever he had painted there had been washed clean away.
Poncey gazed at his friend for a moment, thinking him a pitiable sight but still glad to find he’d come to no harm. His mood now was too good to join in mourning for a bird he’d hated anyway. He put a hand on Mack’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go down to the Diner – I’ll buy you a cup. It’ll warm you.” The late rain still steamed from Mack’s asphalt driveway.
Poncey and Mack settled into their counter stools, and Mavis served up the coffee and pie. Mack’s hangdog expression hadn’t changed since Poncey first saw him against the tree, and he sat mumbling, still dripping wet.
“He wasn’t a bad peacock. Sure, he caused some trouble, but he wasn’t bad. He didn’t deserve this. Rajah was just doin’ what a peacock does. Now he’s dead.”
Poncey still couldn’t stop chuckling about his near-miss on the road, and about Zeke, and the poor sap standing in the rain next to his car stuck in the ditch, and what a laugh Poncey might get out of it one day. He shared a delicious secret with the one person capable of appreciating it – himself. Even sitting next to his stunned friend, he could not help a kind of elation at what he’d gotten away with. He had left a trail of destruction that still had to play out in its entirety, and nobody could pin anything on him. Life was good.
“Never mind all that,” he told Mack in gregarious humor. “At least you’ve always got pie, right?”
Madness Is In Their Hearts
The long night stretched out dark fingers, a voracious spectre taking hold of the struggling daylight. A distant train whistled its triune call through the blackness. The days had dwindled to their shortest span, and glistening frost in the mornings did little to gladden the gray. The crisp fragrance of chill air sharpened all the townsfolk’s senses. Poncey sighed, and he could see his breath in his apartment.
Poncey glared at the ceiling. He had little reason to crawl out from under his covers. No job called him, and no prospects encouraged him to care. So he vented his silent rage upon the ceiling. He recalled a time as a small boy when he lay on his back in his bed, admiring a toy ring upon his finger, a trinket he’d won at the state fair. Then the ceiling had interrupted his bliss by dropping a piece of grit into his eye, as if giving notice that he should never expect to be happy. Poncey looked away.
The new day stared at him like a blank piece of paper. At that moment Poncey knew where he was; once he stepped out of bed, he wouldn’t know. A broad day promising only distracted ambitions mocked him already. He lurched to his side and yanked the covers up over his shoulder. He hated lying there awake, but he hated more the idea of getting up with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Nobody cared if he slept or awoke; nobody required or even desired his time and presence. He listened
to the clock in the living room mark the quarter hour with its cheap electronic chime. This day offered no more direction for him than a map of the ocean floor.
Mavis knew where she’d be that day, Poncey thought, toiling away at the Diner as usual. Ol’ man Ryan and Snodgrass, and Jip the barber, busied themselves in their stores as well, as did an army of people with jobs at all the little businesses lining Main Street. Poncey knew too where his father was, at the rail yards, as he had been every day since he was sixteen. Each morning at five he arrived there for a full days’ work, sometimes even when he was supposed to be off. By this time, almost half his day was done already. But he’d probably stay late – listening to the musical clank of the couplings, watching the rails bend under the weight of the behemoth locomotives then rising again as if nothing had happened – hanging out with both workers and loiterers in the yard set aside for discarded box cars. His love for the railroad would keep him happily engaged till the day’s cold dusk crept into his bones. Poncey even knew where Mack would be, tucked somewhere inside a hidden sanctuary, a refuge never even noticed by most everyone else. Poncey longed for work, or inspiration, or something that would end his wandering, and he lay in a bed of bitter frustration at the injustice of his forced leisure.
At length he could no longer deny the day, and angrily swung his feet over the edge of the grimy mattress. Both landed squarely on Judas’ tail, faithfully lounging on the floor, and the dog’s piercing squeal shocked Poncey’s attention into surprising clarity. Judas whipped around and snapped at his ankles, and in a panic wet the floor – it seemed like the thing to do – even as Poncey rolled clumsily back and to the side, then finally off the bed altogether. Judas skittered away from his tumbling hulk, and Poncey lay like a beached whale next to the puddle. Judas whined, scratching at the front door with a pensive look. Poncey thought if he didn’t do something quick to lance this futile infection, he would bust.
He thrust open the door of his apartment building, and Judas dragged him out by the leash. Poncey stumbled down the steps and nearly tripped over a pair of legs splayed across the walk, toes pointed skyward. The ragged trousers barely clung to the man’s waistline, a rotund belly rising proudly between his belt and stained shirt. A threadbare jacket gathered under his arms, and a wrinkled tie finished off the ensemble, leading Poncey’s eyes to the bedraggled face of Otis Bender, the town’s most consistent drinker, lying halfway beneath the hedge. His nose bore a tinge of frost. Somewhat cradled in one arm was his jar, just a swallow of clear liquid still rolling slightly in its gentle curve, rocked by each torpid breath. Otis was never seen without his jar, usually more empty than not. A yeasty alcohol smell had Judas dancing away, whimpering at his restraint, and Poncey’s brain felt like it had been hit by a rum muffin. He gazed upon the rumpled man, nestled comfortably on the scrabbly grass, serene upon the brick he used as a pillow.
Even Otis has a place to go, Poncey thought. He’s got an early start at his job, too, he thought, and wondered if Otis had lain down in the shrubbery at the same time his father had gone to the rail yards, as though they were changing shifts. Poncey wondered where Otis got the money for his ’shine, and where he got the ’shine in the first place. Supply always meets demand, even in a dry county, he thought; there needs to be some demand for me. Poncey’s disgust arose in his throat – I need something so bad it’s killing me, I’ve got to have something – and he thought about giving Bender a swift kick just for spite. A siren wailed urgently from the direction of the highway.
I hate this town, Poncey thought, and he was sure nobody had ever hated his own town more than he hated Skullbone. He dragged Judas past every tree and hydrant as he bulled his way down Main Street. A fierce focus burned from his eyes, as if hoping to find something in front of him despite looking at nothing. An image of one of his father’s beloved steam locomotives, glowing red with heat, entered his head and worked its way down into his legs and tenacious stride. He almost didn’t hear the voice from the heavens.
“What’s buggin’ you?”
Poncey stopped like he’d walked into a wall and blankly stared ahead. His mouth hung open for a moment as he wondered how foolish he might look if he asked the voice something.
“Just what’s buggin’ you down there, Poncey?”
“Who’s that?” he ventured. The familiar tones sounded too country-fried for evil, but the TV evangelists always talked about Satan’s deceitful ways, and that made Poncey nervous. That’s all he needed today, a demonic trick. It crossed his mind that he might be going crazy. But seeing Judas gratefully sniff around the weeds at the foot of a stop sign comforted him with its reality. Perhaps he was about to receive an intervention. Poncey shaded his eyes against the sun and scanned the sky for the voice’s source. He could not deny his disappointment when he spotted a faded pair of red sneakers peaking over the edge of the nearest building, an abandoned general store.
Nando Jones was a Jewish merchant who had built a little retail empire over the decades with the cheapest junk he could find. Originally Chaim Liebovitz, in the days of Jim Crow he catered to the black community in Memphis because nobody else would, and chose a professional name his customers could pronounce and remember. Nando’s business plan bore no real fondness for his patrons, but allowed that their cash was the same color as anyone’s. He learned that community’s unique desires and needs, and made a small fortune providing for them. Nando Jones Sundries grew so successful that the old man built stores in select small towns all around West Tennessee. Though his inventory was the worst money could buy, he wanted his stores to project class, so they all featured a garish Victorian-style sign propped upon the roof, adorned with pronounced cornices and gracefully curving flourishes. Unfortunately, in Skullbone the store had floundered, and by now the building had stood vacant for decades, too large for any other business to fill. The sign still proudly declared the original owner, and within one of the decorations – lilting like a huge wood shaving – the stringy body of Mack MacLenoly lay wedged, like a supine gargoyle. He had claimed squatter’s rights to the building as one of his bizarre hideaways.
“What’re you doin’ up there?”
“Watchin’ you. You’re draggin’ Judas aroun’ like he’s one a’ them stuffed dogs.”
“I wish he was stuffed.”
“Well, better to pull aroun’ a dead dog than gettin’ chased by a lion, I guess. What’s eatin’ at you?”
“Come go to the Diner with me.”
Mack slid down a gutter spout. Together they sauntered the last few blocks to the Diner as Poncey vented his frustration. After twisting Judas’ leash around an expired parking meter, Poncey struggled with the Diner’s door for a moment before getting it open, and scowled at the merry jingling as the bell announced them.
“Sorry, sweetie. Been meanin’ to get that latch fixed,” Mavis Davis said from behind the counter.
“Only in Skullbone would you find a doorknob like that,” Poncey snarled, mounting his stool.
“What’s buggin’ you, sugarpie?”
“He’s ticked,” Mack offered.
“I didn’t even tell you about Otis yet,” Poncey groused. “I nearly broke a leg tripping over him this morning. Took his beauty rest in my front yard last night.”
“Asleep with his jar?”
“That’s right. Cuddlin’ with it like a wife.”
“It’s like he’s married to drinkin’,” said Mack. “It’s like that’s his job.”
“That’s just what I said,” Poncey grunted. “It’s the thing that keeps him goin’, an’ it’ll keep him goin’, right up until it lays him in his grave. Otis knows exactly what he’s about every day and every night.”
“But not ’zactly where he’ll be sleepin’.”
“A bed’s a bed, even if it’s a flower bed,” winked Mavis through a haze of cigarette smoke, and poured coffee.
Poncey gruffly returned to the subject at hand: “How come Otis wastes his life an’ comes out so fat an’ hap
py? Where’s he get off bein’ so content? He pours out his whole life into that jar of his, an’ he’s not sorry about it one bit. He’s happy with just havin’ nothin’, an’ I can’t catch a break no matter how hard I try.”
“How hard you been tryin’?”
“Shut up. You got no room to talk, squirreled away on rooftops all day long! I got important stuff to do, an’ if I don’t get to soon, I’m gonna snap!”
“I got great things to do, too, honeypot. I serve up the best pie in the territory!” Mavis chimed in with an enticing smile.
“Yeah, right!” Poncey made a point of not asking for any. “An’ what do you get paid for it? A couple bucks? I’m serious – I got great things in me, an’ I’m gonna be paid for it, an’ paid well. If nobody else gets it, if they’re too stupid to see, then it’s their tough luck. If they’re not payin’, they’re getting’ nothin’ good from me!”
“So it ain’t worth doin’ if you ain’t paid a lot?” Mavis planted a fist on her hip.
“Damn straight.”
“Otis don’t get paid. He just does his thing for the love of it,” Mack noted.
“That’s right. It’s offensive, to me an’ to everyone. An’ if I can’t do what I want an’ get appreciated, then I feel like I’m gonna hafta do some offending around here!”
“Might hafta do that for free, like Otis,” Mack said.
“If you wanna get paid so bad, whyn’t you get a job at the rail yard, sweet pea?” Mavis turned back to her own work. “Bet your dad could fix you up.”
“Oh, no!” Poncey laughed in ridicule. “That may be good enough for him, but not me! Pap may be happy stuck in that daily grind, but it’s not for me! I need more than pushing around a giant toy train to attain my potential.”
“Well, you seem to have it all figured out ’cept for what’s buggin’ you an’ how to fix it an’ what to do after that,” Mavis blew a hard stream of smoke.
“I’ll figure it out, don’t you worry.”
“You be sure to tell me, baby cakes.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Ain’t you gonna buy anything?”
“I’ll have eggs an’ toast,” Mack said.
“Comin’ right up, honeychile. I sure ’preciate you buyin’ my toast. I’ll hafta charge you extra, ’cause it’s the best toast in the land.”
Mack snickered at that, and Poncey turned his back to the prattling. Mavis continued.
“Yessir, folks come from miles aroun’ to get my toast. An’ it’s no wonder, what with all the skill that goes into makin’ it. Best toast anywhere. Funny thing ’bout folks, sugar, is some of ’em like their toast light, an’ others like it dark, an’ some even likes it medium. It takes a worl’ a’ skill to get toast jus’ right. An’ then butter – whooee! No tellin’ what kinda butter an’ stuff folks like on their toast. Jelly an’ jam an marmalade – we ain’t got marmalade! Some of ’em even take it plain! Plain an’ dry as dust. Why is that, Mack? What is it ’bout folks make ’em all like their toast differ’nt?”
“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that. If you wanna know, you just wait for Poncey, he’ll tell you ’ventually.”
“What do you mean by that?” Poncey wheeled around to face Mack.
“You’re always goin’ off gettin’ learned up ’bout stuff nobody with a sane thought would ever care ’bout.”
“Oh, you’re funny. You callin’ me insane?”
“Folks’re bound to do what they’ll do, sane or not. Maybe ever’body got a li’l’ madness in their hearts, all of ’em. You, me, Otis. You been talkin’ ’bout blowin’ up ever since this mornin’.”
“Wow, you’re a real poet, a philosopher. You don’t know anything ’bout it – an’ your yappin’s ’bout to set me off.”
“Well, don’t you blow up in here,” Mavis said. “Place is mess enough as it is.”
“Oh, you’re a riot too. A couple comedians.”
Other customers toyed lazily with their cold breakfasts and stared at Poncey, and Mavis’ mood changed. “Ain’t you gonna order anything?”
“I’ll have water,” Poncey sneered. “And a napkin.”
“Water don’t cut it, hon, long as you’re takin’ up space on my stool. Or is that your vengeance on the world? ’Cause if it is, I’m not sure the world noticed.”
Poncey knew for sure now that Mavis was mocking him. He thought so before, but now he was sure. “You think I’m all talk, don’t you? You think the best I can do is cheat you out of a glass of water? Well, I’ll show you!” He spun out of his seat and strode to the door. Mack called after him, “C’mon, don’t go ’way mad!” “You just watch, I’ll show you,” Poncey barked, and wrestled again with the knob. The spastic bell provided a soundtrack to his struggles. The Diner burst into laughter, and he considered kicking the glass out of the door. Finally the latch gave way, and he spilled outside, Mack’s plaintive voice echoing after him, “C’mon Poncey!”
Judas had gotten his rope so tangled, he looked like he’d tried to hang himself upon the bent parking meter. Poncey cursed as he tried to untie the whimpering dog, who in turn pulled nervously at the leash to make the job harder. Mavis and Mack, all of them, Poncey thought, they all took him for a fool. Well, he’d show them. He’d have the last laugh, and whatever he decided to do would shock them, and disgust them all, and they’d never stop talking about it. He just had to think of what it would be. Just had to think, to think, and get this damn dog untied. Poncey broke into yanking on the leash uncontrollably until it snapped in two, and Judas headed for the hills. Poncey stood there watching dumbfounded until the dog disappeared around a corner, dragging half a rope, then gave chase. A motorcycle engine blared somewhere well beyond the buildings of downtown Skullbone but still echoing off their façades.
Poncey rounded the building and stood scanning the gravel streets laid before him. The sun had taken the frozen crunch out of the dormant grass growing within the broken pavement. Poncey hung his hands upon his waist and strained his senses for any clue to Judas’ trail. A bark might have come from the area of Finger Alley, he thought, and he made a beeline toward the mostly forgotten passage splitting the line of old brick structures. “Judas!” he screamed as he ran into the dark, narrow lane, splashing through potholes that never dried out, until he felt his feet not keeping up with his body. The cobble stones caught him harshly, giving no quarter to his chest and elbows as he crashed. Moaning, he rolled over and looked back where he’d come from; he saw a ragged pair of trouser legs leading to shoes resting upon their heels, toes pointing skyward.
“I know who you ah. You dat Poncey Muldoon – ol’ Ransom Muldoon’s boy.” It was Otis Bender, lying half-in and half-out of a hidden doorway. With him was his jar.
“You! This is the second time I’ve run into you today!” Poncey growled, rubbing his wounded knees.
“Dere’ll be a third time, too, boy. Always come in threes.”
“You need to watch out, stop leavin’ your legs lyin’ around everywhere. My dog come through here?”
“No.”
Poncey waited for more, but after an awkward moment, clearly there was no more to say. He gingerly rose to his feet to go after Judas again.
“I known yo’ pappy for long time.”
“Well, that’s good. Don’t think he ever mentioned you.” He craned his neck, wondering which direction might be best.
“Yep, known him well. He put me here.”
Poncey looked back at Otis. “In the alley?”
“Dis jar my home. All I got in de worl’. Only frien’ fo years an’ years now.” He’d clearly been communing with his friend all day.
Poncey decided that finding Judas was a lost cause, but he was still only too happy to use the mutt as an excuse to break away from this conversation.
“You sure you didn’t see my dog?”
“Din’t say I din’t see ’im. See ever’thing. Dat fat woman inside de smoke, seen her. Seen dat boy settin’ like a bird in de sky.”
All this sounded to Poncey like no more than a crazy man babbling. He thought Otis could say anything in his condition and sound like he believed it. “If you saw my dog, tell me which way he went.”
“You don’t care ’bout no dog. Runnin’ away all de time – dog ain’t no good frien’ like dis here jar. Dog home by now, anyhow. I know yo’ home.”
“Yeah, I know, I saw you there this mornin’.”
“Know how to get there. I can get to yo’ door ennytime I want. Under yo winda.”
Otis began to make Poncey’s skin crawl, and he wondered how many nights the drunk had spent lolling outside his apartment building. He shuddered a bit and edged away.
“Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got somethin’ to do.”
“Yo’ sho’ do, boy. Got sump’m impo’tant on yo’ mind.”
“How do you know?” Poncey felt a weird cloak drawing over him, binding his arms, but he couldn’t seem to tear away.
“Hoodoo man, boy,” Otis never looked at him. “Don’t you know? Yo mama come from N’Ahlins – she know all ’bout conjure. Hoodoo man from way back.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Hoodoo strong, boy. Hoodoo tell you what you wanna know. Hoodoo p’tect yo’ health, make you rich. Healthy, wealthy an’ wise. All you needs is de words, an’ sump’m special.” He threw Poncey a glazed-over wink, never really looking, only addressing him in a sideways manner.
“It got you where you are today?” Poncey was skeptical.
“Yessir! Hoodoo done p’tected ol’ Otis all his life. Hoodoo an’ Rance Muldoon – ol’ skinny-ass Rance Muldoon. Knowed him down at de yahds. One day he tryin’ to close a boxcar latch, an’ it stuck. He doin’ chin-ups on dat latch, tryin’ to get it down. Hoo-hee! Evah-body laughin’ at dat! Too skinny to even move dat latch. He still at de yahds, an’ here I sit.” Poncey tried to read Otis’ face, but could not pull back the mask of shadows and drink. “Ol’ hoodoo take care a’ me! You lucky you made it all dis time widout de hoodoo. It go all de way back – ol’ witch of Endor, she know hoodoo. Ol’ Balaam, he know – he know de rootwork. God hisself de greatest hoodoo man of all! Ever’thing His hoodoo, an’ ever’thing dat happen fit inside His hoodoo. He give it to Moses, an’ Moses write it down. You know Moses’ five Bible books, but I bet you don’ know books six an’ seb’m! Hoodoo books, straight from Moses hisself! Even ol’ Nando Jones know ’bout dem! Use ta carry ’em in his sto’, right here in Skullbone. Even Skullbone a hoodoo name – pow’ful hoodoo name.”
The throaty bay of a coonhound rang from over the horizon. Otis’ eyes were cloudy, the whites not much lighter than the deep brown irises. Poncey still massaged his injured elbows, and thought maybe he should have read his Bible more closely. He didn’t know anything about what Otis spoke of, and he didn’t have time now to study up. “How’s it work?” he asked.
“All kindsa ways hoodoo work,” Otis rubbed his gnarled fingers together. “You kin make you up some charms, or a doll, an’ set it under a plant – rootwork. Den you start dreamin’ lucky, or dreamin’ de truth. Ennything you wanna know, you kin fine it out wit yo’ rootwork. ’Cept ’nless someone move it. Work best wit numba’s, lucky numba’s for you. Or you kin draw what’choo want – if kin you draw – draw out what’choo want an’ hide it away somewheres by moonlight. You gotta say de charm, dough, say de charm over de right herbs, or it ain’t gonna come to nuttin’.”
Poncey fell into rapt listening, even as his educated mind fought to argue.
“Bes’ way is ta git sump’m special, sump’m purs’nal from a individule. Could be a piece a’ clothin’, or some hair, but best of all is sump’m liquid. Sump’m from the body itself – like maybe blood. You want sump’m, ol’ Otis can git it, but you gotta give up sump’m.”
Poncey kind of grunted at this, and Otis continued.
“You got sump’m to make water in? That’s the bes’ an’ most easiest way to go. I ain’t got nuttin’ here but my jar, an’ can’t have you pissin’ in her. Jar’s my bes’ frien’. But if’n you got sump’m to hold water, dat’s a good way. You make yo’self a honey jar spell. You got sump’m?”
Poncey searched himself in a useless way to indicate he didn’t.
“Well, dat’s okay, we don’ hafta have it. But dat would be bes’. We kin fine sump’m on you dat’ll work jus’ fine. One time I use a single hair from a feller, girl brought it in from his comb, an’ afore you know it they’s married. ’Nudder time, nuttin’ but a paper towel a man dries ’is hands wid’. Brotha wan’ed de juju put on ’im, take away ’is job, an’ picks de paper towel outen de garbage. Sho’ ’nuff, he gone from dat job in a week. Hoodoo, you don’ mess ’round wid it.”
Poncey remembered his frustration and desire to ignite upheaval, some kind of conflict that would bestow to the town a taste of his indignation. His opportunity had arrived, he thought, a means to find the perfect outrage had been delivered to him right there in Finger Alley. He squatted into Otis’ eye level, and played tentatively with some of the debris on the pavement. Something in the back of his mind begged to walk away, but a red flicker danced from his chest into his throat and spoke for him, “What about me?”
Otis started a kind of chant in a sing-songy voice, “Son, you don’t hafta live so rough, I’m gonna fix you up a mojo, oh Lord, so you can strut yo’ stuff. Tell you ennything you wanna know, ennything that makes you go.”
“What I gotta do?”
“Fust you gots ta show me Mr. Lincoln. Fie-dollah bill gits you started.”
Poncey dug out his thin wallet and found a crumpled bill. He held it toward Otis, who pushed both palms out before him and said, “Nossuh! Don’ be foldin’ dat bill back to yo’self! Dat bill comin’ my way. Fold it out tow’ahd me. Da’s right. Da’s de way.” Distant, acrid smoke, harsh and choking, wafted into the alley from an unknown source suffering its final throes.
Confused, Poncey looked at the bill and held it back out with the ends pointed toward Otis. The old man’s face brightened as he took the money, muttering under his breath, “Well, looky here, jar.” He inspected it back and front, then folded it carefully toward himself and tucked it deep within his shoe.
“What’s you wanna know? How to win yo’ wife? Dream up some lott’ry numbas?”
“I want to do somethin’. There’s somethin’ inside me I’ve gotta do, or it’ll bust me wide open. I’ve just got to know what I’ve gotta do.”
“You at odds wid de worl’, boy.”
“That’s it. The world isn’t the place I want it to be.”
“You gotta bend de worl’ to yo’ will. You gotta use de conjure to bend de worl’, but you gotta go t’rough de pow’rs. Hoodoo will bend nature to yo’ will. It’ll bend de angels and God Hisself to work things yo’ way. You gotta get you a mojo.”
“I want it. I’ve gotta find out what I can do against the world.”
“Gotta give me sump’m purs’nal fust, son. I gotta have sump’m from you to charm up a mojo fer you.”
Poncey tried to think of something he had on him that he was willing to give up. None of his clothing could be considered expendable. His pants pockets came up empty. His hands explored deep within his jacket pockets and found an old matchbook, a wrinkled receipt and a Buddy Poppy – nothing particularly personal. Then he discovered a small, hard disk, and produced a button with some tortured thread dangling from its holes. He recognized it as coming from one of his jacket cuffs, never missed after long years out of service. “This do?”
“Dat’s fine, jus’ fine. Jus’ what we need ta c’nect you an’ de pow’rs. To bend de angels, we gotta go to de source,” and Otis pulled out a pocket New Testament. “Dis got de Psalms in ’er, jus’ what we needs to bend de angels yo’ way.” He opened the little book, and, using a stub of pencil tucked inside his shapeless fedora, wrote something that Poncey couldn’t make out on the page. The alley’s shadows had closed in on them, but Otis’ face seemed to emit an eerie glow. He began to
sing again, “You sprinkled hot foot powda’, hmmm hmmm, all aroun’ my do’h … hmmm hmmm … dere’s a hellhoun’ on my trail, hellhoun’ on my trail …” Poncey felt a creeping sensation along his spine, and tried to blink his eyes clear. The odor of that morning came back to him, but somehow twisted and swirled into something more pungent, and sickening sweet.
Bender stood and turned to face the west, where the sun sank behind the trees and the rail yards lay beyond town, and read, “ ‘He shall give ’is angels charge concernin’ thee, an’ in dere han’s dey shall bear thee up, les’ at any time thou dash thy foot agains’ a stone.’ Ol’ hot foot powda, do thy biddin’! Dash thy foots! Do thy work, hot foot powda! Seek out Ransom Muldoon an’ do thy work! Dash ’is foots ’gains’ de worl’!”
Bender turned to Poncey and finally made eye contact. “Ha ha! You curse yo’ own pappy! Fine’ly I get my revenge, an’ curse dat ol’ man t’rough his own son! Haaa!”
Poncey stood there, stunned and silent, and he could feel his eyes gaping. “What are you talkin’ about?” he croaked.
“Ever since he got me fired, I been wantin’ my revenge. Years an’ years a waitin’, an’ fine’ly hoodoo has its way! Dat’s fer gettin’ me fired! Dat’s fer snoopin’ ’roun’ an’ findin’ me drunk! He got no ’count to repawt me to de boss! Evah-body drinkin’! ‘Why you doin’ me this-a way,’ I says, an’ he say ‘Git yo ass outa dese yahds,’ he says. I don’t fo’get! All dese years I don’t fo’get! Now I get you back, Rance Muldoon! Dat’s fer stickin’ yo’ nose where she don’ b’long! Hot foot powda burn, burn!
“Oh, you smah’t boy, you an’ yo’ starin’ at me! I sprinkle de hot foot powda all ovah yo’ po’ch dis mawnin’. How come you t’ink you ta come ’roun’ to dis alley? Hot foot powda do it! Now I cast its mojo on ol’ Ransom! Bad mojo gonna fall on ’im, bad mojo! De angels bend ’gains’ ’im, all de worl’ bend ’gains’ ’im now! ’Cause a you, boy, ’cause a you an’ yo’ desires! Hoodoo do it, hoodoo do it! Hee hee!” The old man danced a wobbly jig, gleeful even in its lunacy.
“You!” Poncey’s shock gave way to rage. A righteous outrage exploded within him, against himself, the incredible foolishness of being caught up in such a charade, and against Bender. “You old fool! You stupid old goat! You’re nothin’ but a lyin’ old idiot! You’re a thief and a crook and a liar!” he screamed at the silhouette that Bender had become. Poncey burst from the alley with no thought of retrieving his money, and Bender’s laughter cackled behind, “Oh, you kin run. But de conjure, she always come in threes.”
Poncey’s arms punched wildly at the air as he half-ran down Main Street. How could he be so stupid, so gullible? He growled and screamed as he shook his fist at himself, at God, at the world. The street lights gleamed half-heartedly in the early evening, and a killdeer’s lonesome cry tore at the dusk from her fleeting retreat. Now Poncey knew for sure he would burst at the seams, if he could not vent his frustrations somehow. A black intent led him by the roiling within his chest, drawn into an unknown deep. The heart in him beat like the marching of an oncoming army, bent upon pillage. Hatred for everything within his grasp, and for that unknown essence persistent in eluding him, set him like flint to exact mayhem upon this town and upon this night.
Then he got his idea, what he had waited for all through his troubled day. He would rest until dark had fully fallen, until the townsfolk had turned in and slipped away senseless to life itself. Then he’d draw them out again in awful amazement.
A sensation of calm and even goodwill came over Poncey with the settling of his mission. He sauntered along the city streets and felt a kinship with the stark branches of trees darkly cast against the sky, pointing heavenward with accusing fingers. Skullbone had taken on the silence of winter, with only glimmers of warmth peeking from windows, hidden deep within solitary homes, only the ghosts of the hearths within escaping through chimneys. Poncey zipped his jacket all the way to his chin, and his hunched back bore witness to the chill, but also to his resolve to finish the task he had set. With slow assurance his feet walked his route, until at length crossing a line of railroad tracks.
With no moon nor streetlights to compete, the stars shone against the night with brilliant precision. Poncey measured his steps upon the ties as he followed the track. He knew no trains ran this time of night, but still he entertained thoughts of facing down an onrushing locomotive. Humming quietly, he laid his plan out in his mind, working out details, anticipating complications. Soon he was coming up on the rail yards – there he would seek out the same sublime fulfillment that his father had enjoyed for decades.
Poncey stealthily moved from trees to outbuildings to signals, careful to hide from the small night crew. He worked his meandering way to the lot for discarded boxcars, and as he went acquired a collection of greasy rags and small scraps of wood. In the back of the lot he eased open the door of a tool shed and sneaked inside. He settled upon the frozen ground, and leaning against a wall, he waited, as the minutes stretched beyond their limits, bringing along the full depths of the night.
A sudden jump, and he awoke. How much time has passed? he thought. He’d set his heart on midnight, and now he didn’t know what time it was. No matter. Nothing could stop him now from delivering his wrath upon the world’s injustice. He carefully stuck his head out the door and saw only stillness in the yard.
Poncey crept underneath the first boxcar at the furthest reaches of the lot. He jammed the old rags and kindling into the gaps between the car’s steel carriage and wooden floor. One, two – finally the third vaguely damp match struck, and he set a little yellow flame to the rags, dangling as if from a giant Molotov cocktail. For a moment Poncey merely gazed, facing the growing reality of his will, then ran in a crouch from the car. He withdrew into remote shadows, able to watch the fire take hold and grow; but still he could not be seen within the darkness.
For some ten minutes the car sat without event, only wisps of intermittent smoke seeping through the doors. Then with a belch flames shot out of a vent in the roof. Within seconds the parched car erupted into a glaring blaze, leaping dozens of feet overhead, grand as leviathan breaking from the sea. Sparks flew upward like heavenly bodies scattered into a spiraling primordial creation, and Poncey looked upon his work.
The blaze now quickly arrested the attention of the night crew. Together they strained to move other boxcars out of harm’s way, and ordered each other about aimlessly with much yelling and gesturing. One phoned Constable Crapo, who in turn stirred up Skullbone’s volunteer fire brigade, but by the time firefighters arrived the car was fully aflame. Along with them came a crowd, those who could be roused from their cozy houses, and the billowing inferno grew into the biggest show to hit town all year. Poncey had finally acquired the food his soul hungered for, and he stood mesmerized.
A voice from the murky dark startled him. “Anybody look inside that thing?” Mack stood close behind Poncey.
“What? I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, sometimes Otis spends the night inside those things. Keeps ’im warm.”
Poncey’s eyes returned to blankly stare at the angry fire, roaring like a crazed animal, and his face burned hot. Flames whipped and writhed, dancing skyward in insane prayer to God, demanding answer. The oily smoke raged against the crisp air, only to disintegrate into the blackness of the night, and the flickering light revealed a new confusion and realization in Poncey’s countenance. Fears and ambitions tangled together in his mind until he no longer knew what to desire, what there was in the world – good or ill, or that born of whatever twisted conspiracy is struck between the two – worth the price of his heart. The self-absorbed furies within him, and the willful satisfaction he’d finally achieved, sank into a slow panic of guilt and terror – his terrible designs came to something, and they came to nothing, the madness of sin. Abruptly he turned to Mack, “I gotta go.”
With that Poncey ran home, and looked in on his father, blissfully asleep.
