Smonk or Widow Town Part 17

Inside she sank to all fours and skittered over the floorboards and crept along the wall in the front room. Here was the town's dead lawyer displayed on his own desk and his widow asleep in her chair, head thrown back. Evavangeline circled her on the floor and twined through the chair legs and buried her head in the lady's skirts. She chose the left calf and warmed the skin with her breath then kissed it open-mouthed, nuzzled the soft meat, slowly latching on. Above her the widow stirred but Evavangeline chewed so gently the crone only sighed and slumbered deeper into a dream of the trip south early in her life when her family slept beneath the wagon and a coral snake crawled into Uncle Lloyd's bedroll and bit him several times. Uncle Lloyd never woke because such a snake chews, doesn't strike, its poison in.

At the town clerk's house she found his widow strewn across her bed, the husband unattended in the next room, his humors puddling on the floor. Evavangeline lay on the bed alongside the woman's thigh and peeled down her stocking and kissed her behind the knee and tongued the mole that grew there and rubbed her teeth against the skin as the woman s.h.i.+fted and groaned and the girl nibbled and tasted blood and closed her eyes. Her skin buzzing and hot. In one house the stolen children were sleeping on the floor and their guard sleeping in a rocking chair. Evavangeline bit the guard on her side and, as she crawled through a window, one little girl raised her head but saw only drapes flapping.

Evavangeline found the liveryman's widow awake, gazing at the empty jail cell, and used a hoe to knock her flat and bit her under the right t.i.t which had plopped out of her dress when she fell. She found the doctor's widow tied to her chair but asleep and without wondering at this oddity gnawed the ray bees into her calf which was shaved and soft.

She dropped from a rafter behind the guard at the blacksmith's and boxed her ears and slugged her across the face and left a reddening imprint of her teeth on the left cheek of the woman's a.s.s and at the opposite end of town shattered a bottle from the bottle tree over the guard's head and bit her on the neck. She bit Mrs. Hobbs, the undertaker's widow, on her nipple and the woman convulsed but never woke. On through the town, house to house, widow to widow, calf to armpit to lower back to thigh, the women dreaming of moist sugarcane you bite and suck. Of their nursing babies of long ago, the p.r.i.c.ks of pleasure from their first teeth. Of Snowden Wright in his heyday as he swung his ax in that onehanded way of his, visiting each lady as he did in the dark hours and ministering to their needs as their husbands would have had they not been off killing and dying.

Lastly she walked along the street with dust curling over her feet. Evavangeline Smonk. In her left hand the Mississippi Gambler and in the right a four-ten snake charmer unclenched from a sleeping widow's hand. She had one sh.e.l.l. She ran her tongue across her teeth. In the moonlight she could smell him. A thick odor, woodsmoke with old meat cooking over it. She wanted to bite something. She took the porch stairs in one step and crossed the planks and the door swung in.

She heard voices. A man's, a woman's. She floated through the dark, drunk on his scent, repeating what Ike said.

You don't need to see him. No matter what.

She opened the parlor door and there he sat. In his red enormity. Eugene Oregon Smonk.

Upon her entrance he'd simultaneously raised the over & under barrels of his 45-70 and snuffed the candle. But it didn't matter, she could see in the dark. Could see a detonator and its wire coiling out of the room. See tiny Mrs. Tate contained in a sheet, only her neck and head showing. The points of her feet. Her dead husband on the table with a cloth over his face and another dead fellow half-naked on the floor, his guts soaking the rug.

Evavangeline closed the door. Smonk lowered his rifle and sat it across his knees and took a long hard pull off his gourd, watching her. Where'd ye come from? he growled.

She shrugged. She liked his blue gla.s.ses.

What town, girl? The air sulfury with his breath.

I don't know. I been in Shreveport.

Shreveport, he said. I been there. He showed his teeth.

Mobile, she said. I been there once.

Yeah.

She liked his voice. San Antonio.

Yeah, he said. I spent a year there one week. He flapped a hand at her. Put that gun down, youngun, so we can enjoy our reunion here without fear of getting shot. You wouldn't murder ye daddy, would ye?

She kept the four-ten aimed true at his heart. I ain't decided yet.

Ain't decided yet. He grinned at her. What about ye momma?

I never knew her. Is my name Smonk?

No. It was Mrs. Tate who answered. Smonk is a darky word, she said, not to be spoken within these walls.

Shut yer yap, Smonk said. He pulled on his beard.

Snow! Mrs. Tate hissed. Light a candle so I can see my great-niece.

He twisted the broom handle and air squeaked out. Call me that one more time and I'll crank so tight yule bleed from ever hole.

No, the girl said. Don't kill her. Not till I figured this all out. Jest go on light a d.a.m.n candle. Daddy.

He struck a match up his leg and touched the flame to one of the candles on the table by the late Justice Tate. For a moment Mrs. Tate squinted at Evavangeline, trying to puzzle her out of the dark. Then her wrinkles narrowed.

You!

Yeah, said the girl. It's me, escaped. Now say ye d.a.m.n piece.

Mrs. Tate haled in a breath of air and exhaled it and did this several times as her color paled to its normal white.

Why don't ye come over here, Smonk said to the girl. Set on my lap.

Listen at her first. Evavangeline pointed the knife at Mrs. Tate, but Smonk wouldn't take his eye from the girl.

This is hard to tell. The old lady frowned, as if she needed to belch. But my time, she said, with Daddy, it bestowed Chester unto me. Chester. He was the only boy to survive after Lazarus the Redeemer blessed him. But even though Chess didn't die, he still wasn't-She writhed within her sheet, as if she needed her hands to talk. He still wasn't right. In his head.

What about before ye let that dog at him? Smonk asked.

She didn't answer.

What about him? the girl asked, pointing the knife at Smonk.

Mrs. Tate sagged in her sheet. My sister Elrica, she said. My sister Elrica's time with Daddy resulted in him.

E. O. Smonk, he said, patting his thigh for her to come sit. At yer service.

That Ike, the girl said, her arm growing heavy with the snake charmer's weight, he said we evil.

Evil! Smonk spat on the floor. Horses.h.i.+t. If we so evil how come Ike never killed us? I seen him kill plenty of evil folks but he never killed me. Did he kill you? He tossed the gourd to the gal.

She caught it in her elbow crook and uncorked it with her teeth and turned it up.

Stop drinking, both of you, Mrs. Tate said. Don't yall see? If I bore Chester from Daddy's seed, and Elrica bore you, Snow, from Daddy, then it's obvious that it's something within our family. I don't know who this girl is but she must be some relation of ours, a second or third cousin, there are Wrights all over Texas. The ray bees have chosen the Tates. Chester wasn't right in the head but the ray bees didn't kill him, either. Somehow he lived. That must mean we-we Tates-are carriers of them, of the ray bees. Our family alone. Don't you see, the two of you? Don't you?

I see a perty little gal, Smonk said, grinning at Evavangeline. That's what I see.

I don't see s.h.i.+t, the girl said.

Mrs. Tate leaned forward. You must seed this child, Snowden, right now, or our name will die. Our kind will.

Oh I plan to, Smonk said, but I done told ye about calling me that. He laid his hand on her tiny shoulder and shoved himself upright, upsetting her so that she squawked and tipped and crashed to the floor, still affixed to her chair.

Smonk stood on uncertain legs, opened his arms. Come here, gal, he said. Give ye ole daddy a hug.

Evavangeline took a step forward. The knife dropped to the floor and stuck upright. The gun slithered out of her hand and fell to the rug. It's evil, she said. But when she looked at Smonk a strange thing happened. Somehow he didn't seem evil and he wasn't ugly and misshapen and old and b.l.o.o.d.y. He was her daddy. He was only her daddy and she thought he was beautiful. Her guts felt like they'd s.h.i.+fted in his direction and she could feel the ray bees all through herself. They were buzzing in her teeth. Her hair stood on end, her skin tingling. Her nipples hot k.n.o.bs. The gourd fell from her grip and her hands when she raised them to her mouth were shaking.

Meanwhile, the town seemed peaceful, somnolent, not a "smidgen" of evil in the October moon's crimson light. But while it might appear lovely, Walton had learned that in such desolate southern climes things were "seldom as they seemed," a world of plague and temptation, madmen and monsters. He broke open the shotgun and a sh.e.l.l's bra.s.s b.u.t.t rose from its port. Should've further searched the old Negro for additional ammunition. He thumbed it back in and closed the gun quietly as folding a handkerchief and ducked between the rails of the fence and hurried past a pungent pile of burnt animals and rested in the shadow of a cane wagon.

He crept through a long alley and faced the main street, peering out to look it south and north. No sign of movement, the street bright in the moonlight. The windows dark.

Except-he craned his neck-for one. The large residence at the end of the street. In a front room the window pulsed with candlelight. Perhaps a citizen with insomnia. Unthinkable as it was to drop by without an invitation, Walton shouldered the shotgun and marched down the street.

He nearly tripped over an elderly woman flat on her back, clad in a veil and a long, black funereal dress. He knelt and eased his hand behind her neck and raised her head gently and folded back the veil.

Ma'am, he whispered. Are you ill?

She stirred. Her eyes fluttered. Help us, she said.

Smonk, meantime, loomed over Evavangeline and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his outspread arms and be hugged to death. She heard Ike's voice-Don't, don't, don't-and took a step back. Her foot touched something and she picked up the snake charmer.

Get her, Snow, Mrs. Tate hissed. Seed her!

Smonk swiped for the girl but she ducked. Daddy, she said, wait- Come own, he said.

Evavangeline was backing across the room and didn't see Mrs. Tate s.h.i.+ft her legs.

Daddy- Dragging his foot, he came at her, the rug bunching at his ankles, the disemboweled bailiff flopped aside, Smonk's enormous fists balling and unballing and the air aswirl with sulfur.

Do like ye daddy tells ye, he rasped.

We got to go git them younguns, Evavangeline said. She tripped on Mrs. Tate's legs and fell. Before she could get up Smonk's face contorted with teeth and he kicked the old lady out of his way and stood panting over the girl.

Take off ye clothes.

She raised the snake charmer. Get back, I'll shoot ye.

Shoot ye daddy?

If you don't get back I will.

s.h.i.+t. Smonk feigned away as if giving up but quick as a rattler grabbed for the gun. She fired into his trunk then he had the snake charmer tossing it away. She tried to dodge him but he caught her by her midriff and raised her into the air with his left hand and backed up, tangled in the rug. He shoved the dead justice from the sideboard and threw her across the tablecloth there.

From the floor, straining to watch, Mrs. Tate began to speak in tongues. Hela-bo-sheila-bo- Smonk pinned the girl and tore her dressfront away as she kicked and scratched and bit and thumbed out his gla.s.s eye which landed on the sideboard and rolled onto the floor and down a groove in the rug and past Mrs. Tate's face squinched in babbling prayer. Holding the girl, Smonk opened a brown bottle from his pocket and spilled liquid over her face and she ceased to battle and he fell across her, panting.

Do it, Snowden, Mrs. Tate hissed. Do it now.

So much for peace!

Walton had carried the elderly woman to a porch and laid her down. He'd returned for her shotgun and his own, intending to investigate the large house down the way, when, almost simultaneously, a gun discharged in that very house and now here came a child running toward him from the other end of town. Walton raised his hand for attention and the boy slid to a stop before him.

h.e.l.lo, young man, the Christian Deputy leader said. Are you a resident here?

It's a bunch a resurrecting folks up yonder, the boy gasped. In the church.

Walton squatted before the boy and took his shoulders in his hands. Resurrecting folks?

The church ladies killed em, the boy panted, and Mister E. O. Smonk killed the men. We got to find h.e.l.l Mary. Cause them dead younguns down yonder's done come back to life.

Hail Mary? Are you a little Catholic?

Let go, sissy! The boy jerked his arm free and ran up the street.

Walton stood. Sissy?

Behind him screams and banging doors. They were spilling onto the street, he saw, women in black, each armed. The one on the porch had sat up reaching for her gun.

More than a little "spooked," Walton broke into a run. He followed the boy to the large residence and hurried up the porch steps and stood peering in the open front door.

Excuse me? he called. He rapped on the doorjamb. Anyone home?

He heard raised voices. Through the foyer door he saw movement. He crossed the threshold and came forward behind his shotgun and what he beheld when he entered the parlor struck him like a boot to the nose.

The large "booger-man" known as Smonk was peeling a stocking off of Evavangeline's leg, the girl comely and p.r.o.ne and seemingly unconscious on a table. Also p.r.o.ne, but on the floor, bound by bedding, was an elderly woman, black juice dribbling down her chin; a snuff-dipper, like Walton's own mother. This lady was speaking rapidly in a foreign tongue, perhaps German. Beside her-Walton blanched-the mauled and near-naked body of an eviscerated man, a cornucopia of entrails in the rug's hills and channels. And finally, completing the mix, here came the little Catholic boy from outside, flinging himself against Smonk's back.

Killed my daddy, he was yelling. Killed my daddy!

Everyone, Walton called, stop! Cease or I'll fire!

No one seemed to notice his entreaty over the boy's yelling and the p.r.o.ne woman's babbling and Smonk's own loud exhortations of breath, so Walton hurried forward. His intention was to grab the young boy but instead his foot slipped in blood from the disemboweled gentleman and Walton's ballet skills aided him once again and he spun in the air, his right leg outspread, and landed on the opposite foot. The elderly woman began to scream-in English-at the boy on Smonk's shoulder.

Let him be, Willie, she cried. Let him be! He'll save us all!

Smonk, who had Evavangeline nearly out of her clothing, shrugged the boy off like a peacoat and sailed him across the room where he bounced from a wall and landed on all fours. Smonk tilted back his gourd and drank while he pulled down the girl's last stocking.

Stop, Walton yelled, or I'll fire!

No one stopped; instead, the boy clambered up holding a knife and raced across the floor and up Smonk's back and grabbed him by the hair.

Killed my daddy!

Smonk rolled the bludgeon of his head and bucked but the boy clung on, his fist embedded in that matted red hair. There was a sound like something uncorked and yellow bile spewed as Smonk's goiter burst and then, while Walton watched, fascinated, a great wash of blood sprayed the girl where she lay on the sideboard. Walton understood that the boy had cut the one-eye's jugular and was currently riding out Smonk's death throes, the big "cyclops" jerking and swinging his arms like poles, shattering a lamp and raking pictures off the walls. He staggered past a detonator as the boy rode his neck. He tripped over the woman screaming on the floor and tottered over them all, the boy leaping free as Smonk's life bled down his chest like water over a fall.

Snow! croaked the old woman from the floor. There's still time.

But Smonk was done for. When he crashed to his knees the window-panes rattled. He fell forward and grappled for the handle of his detonator but his reach failed and his gla.s.ses slid over the floor and his hand thudded on the wood and the fingers unfurled from the fist they'd made and his palm lay open like a bear trap. Lying on his stomach, he flashed his eye once around the room and said, I knew I should of-And then his body sagged out its last hale of air and Eugene Oregon Smonk closed his eye forever.

Meanwhile, William R. McKissick Junior bent over the p.r.o.ne Evavangeline and was wiping blood from her eyes and saying, Get up, wake up. Mister E. O. Smonk killed my daddy but I killed Mister E. O. Smonk. Get up.

Walton backed to the wall, letting it support him, and was therefore out of sight when the town women, young and old, began streaming into the house. They saw Smonk and saw the girl Evavangeline and the boy William R. McKissick Junior. They saw Mrs. Tate screaming and writhing on the floor like a carp and when the Hobbs daughter saw the gutted bailiff she began to scream.

Hush, said her mother and the girl jammed her fist in her mouth.

Quiet her, too, Mrs. Hobbs said of Mrs. Tate, and two women hurried forth and knelt beside the flouncing widow and tried to keep her still. And get him, Mrs. Hobbs said of William R. McKissick Junior, still brandis.h.i.+ng his slick Mississippi Gambler. A young woman obeyed, jabbing her rifle barrel at him until he dropped the knife. She took him by his s.h.i.+rt collar and shoved him into a corner where he froze, watching their guns play on him.

Smonk killed my daddy, he said. I killed Smonk. I ain't scared.

It's the McKissick boy, one said.

Let's take him to Lazarus!