Wicked Temper Part 24

"I don't know," the boy whispered, sliding off the bed. She followed.

Alongside the four-poster's headboard, a window looked out onto the yard behind the house. They pressed their faces to the open screen. The nightsky was clearing and a shard of moon pierced the timbers, lit upon Tizzy's wonderment. Matthew's craving. The air smelled damp and earthy through the screen. There was a dim motion outside--then they spied him.

"Shhhh..." Matthew jabbed her. Tizzy never knew it.

Out back, beyond the privy and clothesline, Bob was calling to the woods. He was stark-white, beefy and st.i.tchless except for his underpants.

"Buuut-ton---" His bare feet paced back and forth over the dewy gra.s.s. The thick pine forest closed around the place, forming a tangled mystery. Every so often, the near naked Bob would cup his hands and plead with the black woods.

"b.u.t.ton--come on girl. Come on back in this house now---"

The woods didn't answer him though. Tizzy knelt, petrified, gripping the windowsill, afraid to even glance over at Matthew. Afraid Mad Dice might sneer, boo or split a gut. Worse, afraid he might up and go; leave the room. Leaving her alone till dawn. With that man out there. The mountainside wasn't singing anymore, her winds were quelled. Vainly, a lone hootowl began to hoot at Bob.

"b.u.t.ton--?"

After a spell, Bob gave up and strode back inside, slamming the kitchen screendoor as he came. Until then the little lovers held tight. Spellbound they were, and they did not dare move.

S T E P 7.

When Tizzy awoke, her first vision was of b.u.t.ton. And b.u.t.ton wasn't lost. The itsy-bitsy girl was outside, hooked in the porch window, watching Tizzy sleep. Through stuck eyelashes Tizzy detected her. Tizzy sat up fast and the child ran away, chased by Tizzy's yawn.

Lying back, Tizzy cleared her head, pondering the long night's doings, reciting chapter and verse by rote. Thank heavens they would leave today. She wanted away, someplace away. But then, who knew what Mr. Wert Birdnell's hospitality had to offer? He would be, after all, an Upcountry Birdnell. And they were not the purest lot. Matthew for instance.

The c.o.o.n's age came and went and came again before Tizzy ventured from bed. She dressed, then went out into the house. It was grey morning; the house was empty. She searched down the hall. Bob was nowhere to be found, not in his bedroom or the other smaller room beside his, nor farther along in the worn linoleum kitchen. The kitchen screen was propped open with a rock, the pump dripped over the sink, but she didn't hear the man's heavy footfalls or any other echoes of life. She wondered where the little girl hid.

There were chickens outside. Tizzy found Matthew on the sideporch swing, snoring to beat the band. A sparrow and several rowdy goldfinch were springing after the scattered grain in the yard. They would have to be quick and lucky though, to beat the clucking crowd of white brooder hens which roamed freely, even up onto the porch and outward, spilling into the trees. A leghorn rooster kept crowing, ragged like he had the croup, but crowing nonetheless as Tizzy snuck up on Matthew asleep. Matthew might be able to ignore roosters come morning. It was one hootowl's hoot too many that finally spooked him last night. He'd lost most of his vinegar after Bob came inside; Matthew kissed on Tizzy, another peck or two, but kept turning back to gaze out the eerie window. Soon, he and his drowsy kisses began to fade, so Matthew returned to his own pillow without complaint. That was alright with Tizzy. She wasn't so swept away by love anymore, not once her heart settled. Not after hearing that stagman's midnight brogue.

Tizzy poked Matthew in the ribs, making him stretch. Wings flapping, a white hen hopped onto the porch at Tizzy's feet and Matthew startled, his eyes popped open."Whuuutha-h.e.l.l...?" he croaked.

"Shhh--she's just an ole hen," Tizzy said. Matthew was still rolled in patchwork quilts when she sat on the edge of his swing. He raised onto an elbow, squinting around the place, a heavy, clouded morning sky.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the tiny girl, b.u.t.ton was beneath their feet. She crept from the crawls.p.a.ce, out under the wide cracks of the porch, listening.

"He's gone."

"Who'd that be?" Matthew scowled, groggy, rubbing the rosy knot on his head.

"Who else?" Tizzy insisted. "That feller, that Mr. Lloyd."

"Bob, ye mean. Well where's he at?" All in all, Matthew didn't seem too concerned about getting off the man's place.

And this didn't make Tizzy very chipper. She wanted to find Matthew's uncle or better yet, give some serious thought to turning themselves over to the authorities. Tizzy had begun to think, maybe they'd convict her and send her down to some children's home. Or a reform school someplace in the city. That would be alright, maybe. She could live with either of those. Then, just maybe, Tizzy would never be released to Preacher Polk. In a few years, perhaps even before she was an old lady, they'd have to let her out and she could get a laundry job or do missionary work. She was pretty good at cleaning things. She'd probably never have babies or a nice house, n.o.body would want an old maiden, but her heart wouldn't be so full of stain. Her conscience would be clean, washed in Jehovah's blood. The true Jehovah. Tizzy wondered if Matthew would go for any of that.

"Danged if I know where he is, let's just git our shoes and go. That little thang, b.u.t.ton, she dern near skeered the hooey outa me, starin in the window when I woke up. She's tucked around here somewhere--"

"I figgered to get my bearins from ole Bob," he yawned. "That storm kinder confused me."

"You was borned with confusion Matthew, and hookworm, I swear--"

"Ain't so sure I'm knowin jist whichaway to turn to find Uncle Lewt. Besides, who says I kin thow that stuck tire back on the road by my lonesome?"

"I'll help."

"Sure thang, mama, a little ole whit like you. Naw, I believe we oughter layback till he shows and ask a few dumb questions."

"That should be easy shakes fer you," she pouted, she was ready to go.

"Lookee hyere, we pro'bly notorious by now, I reckon our names'd strike fear in the belly o'Colonel Renfrew. And he's been dead fer fifty year. I know cause I danced on his grave last week."

"Bout like a dumb ole hogboy, disrespectin the dead--"

He started to untangle his covers.

"Jist watch and learn, baby. I'm takin care of business. See? Besides, I ain't so sure he's a Bob, or a Lloyd neither."

"Who really cares, knothead? Promise me we'll head out soon as he gits back. After some breakfast o'course."

"Know where he hid my gun?" the boy asked, sitting up next to Tizzy. He wore his jeans, but she was still embarra.s.sed; Tizzy wasn't quite used to being flush with some boy's naked white ribcage. Matthew looked kind of rickety and malnourished to her. Tiny red pustules spotted his back.

"I don't know where he put the gun. Somewhere in his room. It'uz awful dark in there..."

"Yeah," Matthew posed. "Well, I reckon we'll jist steal her back, shoot---whatsat?!

Glancing down, betixt his dirty toes, he'd seen a sliver of b.u.t.ton's eye.

"Where--?!" Tizzy startled.

"It's her--" Matthew knelt quickly, scanning from crack to crack, as shuffling got loud beneath them. b.u.t.ton shot out from under the porch.

"Hey you nubbin, git on back hyere!" he hollered, but the girl skittered off, chickens in an uproar.

"She'uz under there a-snoopin on us, Matthew." Tizzy whistled sharp as b.u.t.ton leapt into the chicken pen and squatted. They both stood on the porch for awhile, studying her. The teeny ragam.u.f.fin hunkered amongst the chickens, eating goobers one by one and staring back at them. Dirt clung around her cupid lips and her pale lashes were dozy.

Matthew called out to her a few more times, but b.u.t.ton didn't move or make a sound. Rather than approach the pen, muchless bother with the girl, Matthew decided they should search the house for his pistol and maybe snitch a tater or two for the road. This was an instant hit with Tizzy who advanced the theory that anything which kept Matthew Birdnell's mind busy was a blessing to all humankind; it kept his herky-jerky desires from wandering around to sinful matters or murder. In fact, her tummy was aching for some breakfast. At the very least, there were eggs aplenty to be rustled and fried. That way they'd be road ready for travel as soon as the man reappeared.

In the kitchen, they found a pantry and substantial stores. Canned goods, flour sacks, rice, sawblades and rat traps like neither of them had ever seen outside a store. A king's ransom in the house of poor folks. Tizzy filched a sardine tin and matchbox while Matthew's head was turned. There were herbs. Quart jars lined the counter left and right of the sink, filled with a parade of dry grains, ending at the kitchen door. Under a tarp on the back porch, Matthew found several crates of bonded bourbon. A rare thing in these hills. He heard an acorn snap, and dropped the tarp, just as Bob was approaching.

Matthew sidestepped, hoping his snoop wasn't seen. Tizzy quickly sat on a kitchen chair inside and waited as Bob scuffed up the back steps, a dead snake in his hand.

He didn't stay long, nor was he too surprised by b.u.t.ton squatting in the chicken pen.

"Ho there, Bob," Matthew drawled, trailing the man into his kitchen. "That girl o'yourn--"

"--b.u.t.ton," said Tizzy.

"--yeah, that b.u.t.ton is out there a-hunkered in that pen and don't come when ye whistle at her."

"Yep. She'll do that," Bob allowed, unmoved, as he tossed the snake in the sink. "Reckon y'all gotta eat. Eat afore you go."

He went back outside and grunted something at the tiny girl, something they couldn't quite decipher. Apparently she understood, because shortly b.u.t.ton appeared in the kitchen carrying a hatful of brown eggs. It was an old bluestraw sunhat, almost falling to pieces. Her tiny barefeet shuffled over to the stove--afraid to falter or drop her charge--where Bob was already frying sowbelly in a huge skillet. It was a good thing she had finally come inside, since now a light drizzle had set in, turning the mountain place colder and misty.

Tizzy wanted to scoot closer to the stove, but didn't care to hang that close to the man or the strange girl either. Bob paused, reached in a baggy pocket and hauled out the pistol. Slapping it down on the rough table, he returned to the stove.

"There's yer piece. Wouldn't wanna lose nothin."

Sheepish, Matthew restashed the gun on his backside. This surprised them both, but mainly Tizzy yearned for the hickory warmth she knew that little girl must be feeling, crouched betwixt the woodbox and stove.

"Where'd you get yer snake, sir?" asked Tizzy.

"Horn snake. Rolled up and took a stab at me."

"h.e.l.l Bob, hope ye stabbed him back," chortled Matthew, leant in the doorway now, a finger rooting in his nose.

"Naw, I kilt him with a rock."

"Will you skin him out?" asked Tizzy, blank but curious what such a man might do with such a viper. "Will you cook it or what?"

"Never eat a snake in my life," Bob muttered, breaking eggs into the grease. "I'll be a-cuttin off his tail stinger. They's uses fer them."

Tizzy didn't ask. b.u.t.ton had left the kitchen and soon they heard thin, zither music trickling from the parlor. It was the Victrola, wound by her tiny hand no doubt. Before long breakfast was fried and Bob sat down. Matthew and Tizzy elbowed up to their plates of grub then both wolfed like they hadn't been fed in days. The grits hadn't made much of an impression on Tizzy's ache the night before and she was starving. Bob ate slow, gazing out at the drizzle, lost in some secret buzz, where a dirtdobber out there might lead him back to a neglected place, a job to be done, or just back into the dark of those woods where he'd forgotten something. Tizzy tried not to, but found herself sneaking peeks at Bob's jowled face; tearing sowbelly with his canine teeth, chewing seriously. As if no tomorrows ever came up here. She found it hard to square this man with that long naked craw she saw last night, hairy-legged in his underpants. He looked different in his work clothes, not much friendlier but different.

The fourth plate sat untouched at the fourth chair. Tizzy asked about the girl's breakfast and Bob told her it would be gone pretty soon, that the youngster wasn't used to eating at a table. Every few minutes the record would start over, tinny music wafting down the hall, somebody's tuneful soul returning to haunt them. Matthew scarfed his feed. A wild mongrel fed with more grace.

"Say...where's yer birddog, sir?" she remembered, suddenly.

"I don't rightly know. He keeps to his own. And he ain't no birddog."

The drizzle had begun to let up when Bob slung his horn snake over his shoulder and scoured the plates. He pumped water, rinsing the grease off his fingers. Then he took out makings and rolled a smoke.

"I got business still needs tendin. Be back directly," he gauged Matthew who was tilted back in a chair, legs squeaking, a satisfied grin. Bob simmered, cutting his eyes toward the clucking outside. "Mebbe you could pluck a bird fer the pot, boy. When I git back this afternoon we'll git you outa that ditch and pointed fer yer cousin's ridge."

"Sure Bob, I'm able--" Matthew popped off, c.o.c.ky as a firecracker.

But Tizzy wanted no part of it. She was bound and determined to flee and flee now. Her mouth dropped open to speak--but nothing came fast enough, because Bob promptly unslung his snake with a beefy hand and was out the door. Screen clapping, they heard his labored footfalls, softer and softer.

"But--" Tizzy left her chair, shuttling to the screen just as Bob faded into the woodline. The same trees he'd called to in the wee witching hours.

"We'll gitalong mama, in no time a'tall," Matthew advised, smirking, creaking back in his chair. "Naturally, I suspect they may be gold hid around hyere somewheres, under a board er somethin. Could be, what with all these groceries laid in and sich."

Bullets were still in the gun. He showed them to her then they moseyed outside. The ground was wet but hard; hard mountain earth. Matthew said that was because it was all rock underneath and the hardest graves to dig were in these parts. "Dirt don't run deep enough," he lectured. "No matter the spot?" she asked and Matthew had to allow that certain places the soil sat deeper, a good digger's feet could tell him, it was the sort of thing you were born with. Like nighteyes.

"Well, I knew a man who could recite the Psalms of David," harped Tizzy. "And he sure ain't settin high on a rock farm, a-runnin from the law."

"Yeah? I doubt he's a man of means neither."

"Matthew, I'm bored."

"Me too."

"What we gonna do about it?"

"I dunno."

"Do you wanna kiss?" she asked.

"Naw, not really. What ye know about the best way to choke a chicken?"

Matthew headed down toward the pen, scattering the white tongue-clucking flock, they darted and leapt around him, a flurry of wings. She sat, hugging her knees up on the porch. Tizzy watched him rubberneck, choosing his victim, he pointed out a scrawny hen dithering in circles a few feet away.

"How's that'n look to ye?!" he wanted to know.

"Appears awright to me," she called back.

He leapt for it, but the scrawny hen ceased running in circles and gained substantial flight before Matthew could reach her. He whirled and locked down on another, a fat old eggcharmer trotting toward the pen, pretty as you please.

"What about her?!"

"Yeah--" Tizzy yawned. "--she looks perty fair."

Matthew went dodging after her and she wasn't so old after all, for she too flew threw his hands. He tried another. Then another.

"Aw she'uz a loser--howz about that'n--"

"Uh-huh, she's perty fair--"

This went on long enough for Tizzy to write her name twenty-six times on the inside roof of her mouth. She also noticed b.u.t.ton perched on the gristmill, watching Matthew scatter chickabiddys. The Victrola notes echoed out the window, tw.a.n.ging, hanging in the trees. He got more red-faced and began to pop sweat. Matthew pounced on a young white pullet who charged in fright, flapping right betwixt Matthew's gandy legs. Tizzy tried not to laugh. b.u.t.ton was sober. But they were both startled when Matthew unwound and fired his pistol. KA-BANG! He missed the pullet but nailed a nearby hen. KA-BANGBANG! He popped two more. The yard squabblers took on a new edge as he aimed--BANG!---and missed one. KA-BANG! Another hen flipped in the air and fell dead. He wasted fewer bullets. He shot two more, his sights were getting better; he reloaded. Chickens clashed, flapping, they sprang and shed white feathers galore as Matthew emptied his next cylinder into the flock. Gunfire ricocheted off the porch.

Pretty soon, Tizzy saw Bob emerging from the woods. Sulphur and smoke wove a shroud around Matthew as the man approached, smiling. Tizzy stood up, she didn't know what to expect. Close to a dozen chicken corpses were scattered about the place, white lumps with b.l.o.o.d.y-red splotches. They'd piled up in a hurry.

Bob's eyes were slit, but the thin smile never left him.

"You like to kill thangs do you?" he said, too quiet.

Matthew looked stupid to her, snorting and spinning the cylinder.

"Sure nuff, man, when they rile me--" he winked at Bob's stony, fossilized grin.

"Did they rile you?"

"Sh.o.r.e did. d.a.m.ned if I ain't done ye a favor, Bob, ye got yer chicken dumplins fer a month o'Sundays."