I couldn’t look him in the eye. “You want me to tote this crate or what?” But my sassy voice come out all squeaky so I cleared my throat and spat again just to show who didn’t give a good goddamn. Mister Watson gazes at his boot, nodding his head, like inspecting another feller’s spit is common courtesy. Then he’s looking me over again, still waiting.
“Well, heck now, Mister Watson, sir, ain’t you the daddy of that baby girl up in the house? Ain’t we your people, too?”
He blinks for the first time, then turns his gaze away like he can’t stand the sight, same way that bear done when it give a woof and swung down to all fours and moved off into the bushes. He steps back over to the deck and swings me another crate, hard to the chest. “What I’ll do,” he says, “is train my oldest boy to do your job—”
“I knew it! Gettin rid of us—”
He raised his palm to still me. “And you and Tant can run the boat. I’ll need a full-time crew.”
He seen the tears jump to my eyes before I could turn away. Know what he done? Mister Watson stepped over to the dock and took me by the shoulders, turned me around, looked at me straight. He seen right through me. “Erskine,” he says, “you are not my son but you are my partner and my friend. And Ed Watson needs every friend that he can find.” Then he roughed my hair and went off whistling to make his peace with Henrietta Daniels.
I picked up a crate, set it down again, turning away to dab my eyes with my bandanna in case they was laughing at me from the house. At sixteen years of age, a man could not be seen to cry. For a long time I stood there, thumbs looped into my belt, frowning and nodding like I might be planning out ship’s work. My first plan was, I would be the captain. Tant might be four years older and a better hunter but he wouldn’t never want the responsibility.
That afternoon, to get away from Henrietta, Mister Watson brung his hoe into the cane. Me and the niggers clearing weeds was near sunk by the heat and Mister Watson outworked everybody. Sang all about “the bonnie blue flag that flies the single star,” and straightened only long enough to sing the bugle part—boopety-boopety-poo! tee-boopet, tee-boopet, tee-boopet, tee-poo!—as he marched around us, hoe over his shoulder like a musket.
Mister Watson usually wore a striped shirt with no collar that Henrietta sewed him from rough mattress ticking. Never took his shirt off, not even when it stuck to them broad shoulders, but no ticking weren’t thick enough to hide the shoulder holster that showed through when he got sweated. Even out there in the cane, he had that gun where he could lay his hand on it. Never hid it from the niggers, neither; they hoed harder. “Keeping your shirt on in the field is just good manners,” he said. “You never know when you might have a visitor.”
Tant spoke up. “From the North?” Mister Watson turned and looked at him then said, “Don’t outsmart yourself,” which wiped the smile off that boy’s face almost till supper.
That was the day that Mister Watson, chopping a tough root with his hoe, swung back hard and struck me up longside the head. Next thing, I was laying on the ground half-blind with blood, and them scared niggers backing off like I’d been murdered. Mister Watson went right ahead, finished off that root with one fierce chop—“That got her!”—then stepped over and picked me up, set me on my feet. Blood all over and my head hurt bad. “Got to give a man room, boy, that’s the secret.” Never said he was sorry, just told me to go get Netta to stick on a plaster.
Henrietta was caterwauling in the kitchen. “I bore his child!” she howled, jouncing poor Min, kicking hens, and banging a tin pot of sweet potatoes on the stove. When my mother seen my bloody face, she gasped straight off, “He done that a-purpose!” That scoundrel was out to murder her poor boy, she concluded, having heard tell that he had killed in other parts. She was taking me straight back to Caxambas was what she yelled as he come up on the back porch. “Don’t never turn your back on that red devil!” Folks might say that Netta Daniels was short on good sense as well as morals but no one ever said she lacked for spirit.
Mister Watson paid her no mind whatsoever. He washed his head at our new hand pump from the cistern—the only pump down in the Islands at that time, we was pretty proud about it. But when he straightened up to mop his face, them blue eyes sparking like flints over the towel, he caught me gawking at the dark place under his arm where the sweat outlined his weapon. He held the towel there under his eyes until Henrietta stopped her sputtering, started to whimper. Then he snapped it down, gleeful cause he’d scared her. He got out his private jug of our cane liquor and sat down to it at a table in the other room, keeping his back into the corner same as always.
For once, she was too scared to nag him for tilting chairs back and weakening the legs—her way of showing what good care she took. Home Is Where the Heart Is At was needlework hung on our parlor wall to make things cozy and hint what a good wife she would make a man of taste who could appreciate the fine points.
Mister Watson took him a long pull and sighed like that old manatee when Tant shot her baby calf for sea pork. Finally he whispered, “Mind that loose tongue, Netta. Even a red devil gets hurt feelings.”
She pulled me out onto the porch. “I ain’t leaving you alone with that man, Erskine!” She was whispering loud in case he might be deaf, and he made a funny bear growl for his answer; he was laughing at us. “You’re coming home with me, young man, and that is that!”—the very first time since I was born that Henrietta ever planned to take me anyplace. She never even brought me here, it was me brought her, and she didn’t have no home no more’n I did.
“Home,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Where’s home at? Where the heart is?” I felt meaner’n piss.
“That nice needlework come down in our own family!”
“What family?”
“Our family! Your grandma married Mr. Ludis Jenkins that pioneered on Chokoloskee twenty years ago! Jenkinses and Weekses and Santinis!”
Old Man Ludis never come to nothing, I knew that much, Jenkinses neither. Had enough of it one day and blew his brain out. I said, “Tant’s daddy weren’t no kin to me at all.”
Tears come to my young mother’s eyes, made me feel wishful. All the same I whispered, “I ain’t leavin, Netta.” And she said, “Don’t you dare to disobey, you are my child!” And I said, “Since when?” That hurt her feelings, too. Anyway—I am still whispering—“I ain’t no kid no more, I am the new captain of that schooner.” “Since when?” she said, rubbing the blood off my hair too rough, like she was scraping vegetables. “Look out!” I yell, “I ain’t no sweet potato!” “Since when?” she said. We break out giggling like kids, our nerves, I guess. She hugs me then and cries some more, wondering where her and Little Min would go to starve to death.
I went all soft and lonesome then and hugged her, too. I missed somebody real bad but didn’t rightly know who it could be. I ain’t so sure I found out to this day but it sure ain’t Jesus. Mister Watson was the one cured me of that.
“Called her Minnie after his rotten old sister. I hate that name and Min will hate it, too.”
When Mister Watson is drinking, his silence comes right through the wall. That talk about his sister Minnie made me nervous and I hushed her.
“Get in here, Captain.” Mister Watson’s voice was so low and hard that Henrietta clapped her mouth, her big eyes round. Had that man heard us? As Tant says, Mister Ed J. Watson could hear a frog fart in a hurricane. That don’t come so much from hunting as from being hunted.
THIS DIARY BELONGS TO MISS C. WATSON
SEPTEMBER 15 1895
The train from Arcadia stayed overnight at the Punta Gorda deepo before hedding north again so the kind conducters let us sleep on the red fuzz seats after brushing off the goober shells and what not. Papa had wired that we were to rest up in the new hotel as soon as we arived but Mama said she has lernd her lesson not to count on any rest in life or anywheres else so we was not to spend good munny on hotels in case something went wrong as it usely did and Mr. E. J. Watson faled to ap
pear and anyway this mite be the wrong Watson. Her husband was Mr. E. A. Watson when she knew him. Mama was in a funny mood and no mistake.
Last nite I was so tuckered out I was sleeping and sleeping. Had a dretful nitemare about Florida crocadiles but luckily waked up. At daybrake they shooed us off the train like chikens and left us in a little huddle on the sand. The train gave a grate whissle and hard bang and pulled away getting smaller and smaller down to a black smudge. We waved and waved and waved then the train was gone no rumble and no echo only two thin rails like silver arrows thru the sand and scrub. Where the rails came together their shine made a brite point against the sunrise.
The deepo is locked until next week and not one sole to be seen. Here in southern Florida the sky is white as if ashes was falling from the sun. In the hot breze the spiky palmetos stick up like black knifes and the fire in the east sharpens there edges. With the sun up the wind dies and the redbirds and mockers fall still and a parched heat settles in for the long day. Dry dry dry dry!
Well here we are at the end of the line in sunny southern Florida! said Mama as if all this hot sand and thorn and silence was what we had pined for all of our hole lives. She did her best to cheare us up but her smile is sad.
And still no sign of Mister Watson and no word.
I call him Mister Watson just like Mama who is strict about our maners. (Good maners is about all we have left she says when she is blue.) But in my heart I think of him as Papa because thats what we called him when we were small. Oh I remember him I do! Mostly he was so much fun that he even cheared up our dear Mama. Once he brought toy soljers from Fort Smith and sat right down on our dirt floor to play with us. I gave Eddie the dam Yankee bluecotes, him being too young to know the difrince. Lucius was only a baby then he cant remember Papa hardly just pretends. Rob was too old to play of corse he was out slopping the hogs. But Eddie and me have never forgot our dear dear Papa and shurely Rob being almost grown has never forgot him either.
Plenty of time for you today Dear Diary because poor Mama is nodding off Rob is serly and I am dog tired of trying to soshalize with little brothers. Papa gave me this fine idea of my Dear Diary long ago when I was little. He was riting in his lether book under the trees. It had Footnotes to my Life berned into the cowhide cover and a little lock. I asked him what his book was about and he took me in his lap and smiled and said Well honey its a daily jernal. He wouldnt never show it to a sole he said. I powted and intreated. Never? Perhaps one day Papa said. He warned that any diary that was not completely privet is no longer a diary because it is no longer honest and cannot be a trusted frend. Anyway he wouldnt show it on acount his riting and speling were no good because as a boy in Carolina he had to take care of his mother and sister with his father gone off to war and he hardly had no chance to go to school. Taught himself to read and rite and kept up his jernal from his youth. Mama said she was plain terified to touch Papas jernal let alone read it.
Rob was near twelve when Papa went away. That was back in the Indian Nations when Lucius was a baby. Rob stood up to those rough men that came galoping in. He told em they better look out cause they was trespissing on Papas propity and might get shot between the eyes. And one man said In the back more likely like Belle Starr. Rob went after him and it was terifying that big scared horse and that pale thin boy socking so fureous at that mans boot. Got his hand cut bad by spurs and got knocked sprawling.
Mama said Papa had bizness in Oregon and might be gone awhile. Oh we were so cold and hungry in those years. But finely our cousins sent some money for our rail tickets back to Fort White Florida. We stayed almost a year with Granny Ellen Watson and Aunt Minnie Collins.
That darn old Rob has acted mean about coming to see Papa. He made Mama admit she wrote to Papa and that Papa never sent for us until she did that. Probably has another woman now is what Rob told her. Its bad enough Rob is rude about our Papa but hes also rude to Mama reminding her every two minnits that shes not his real mother so he doesnt have to mind her less he feels like it. And Mama says clamly I may not be your mother Rob but Im the best youve got. Just goes on about her busyness leaving Rob looking kind of twisted up and funny. One time Rob caught me looking at his tears and raised his fist to me. Scowled something terrible but never said one word.
Rob passes for hansom with his black hair and black brows and fair white skin with round red blushes on his cheekbone that jump out on his skin like dots of blood when hes upset. From Papa he got those blue blue eyes like the highest heaven where blue comes from. Blue eyes with black hair are not comon Mama says. Papa is so weather browned and ruddy that his blush dont hardly show. His blushes arent so comon either Mama says.
Lucius has Papas blue eyes too—what Granny Ellen in Fort White called crazy Watson eyes. He will be the tall one. Eddie takes after Papa more same dark redish chesnut hair that turns gold brown in summer, but his hole demeener Mama says is very diferent. He has Papas fire color she says but his flame needs a good stoking.
I was first to see the sail white as a wing way down toward the mouth of the Peace River. We had never seen a sail before! I wanted to run right over to the landing but Mama said Wait till we know for sure its Mister Watson.
Soon the sail was so near that when the boat turned toward us we heard the canvas rumpus in the breeze. Mama said Just in case thats Mister Watson wed best stand up sos he can see us and not make him go over there to that hotel for nothing. So we stood up in a line outside the deepo all but Rob who was slowched off to one side. Rob wanted to make it plain as plain that he had no part in this hole dumb plan of accepting Papas charity down in south Florida.
It was pretty close to noon there was no shade and we stood in the hot wind watching as two figures walked toward us. In the glare they looked like two black insects a thick one and a thin one kind of shimering on the white sand flat. When I reconized Papa I cried out because I wanted to run to meet him but Mama only shook her head. We just stood there stiff as sticks. Here come our long lost Papa and nobody calling and nobody smiling! I started to cry.
Mister Watson was dressed in a linen suit string tie and black boots glissening and big mustash and sideburns. Stopped a few yards away took off his black Western hat and made a little bow. Nobody made a move nor spoke a word. Im sorry we are late he said after a look at a gold watch on a chain. Rough wether on the gulff. His voice was deep and pleasant kind of gruff but he looked real glad to see this gloomy bunch saying My O My with a big smile for us four frights in our stupid line that dared to call ourselves his family. He kept his hat off but he came no closer so as not to scare us.
I could see Mama yerning to smile back. The new rose bonnet she had scrimped for saying over and over how buying it was a disgraseful waste cause who knows she might never wear it again—that pesky hat had tilted and gone lopsided like it was melting. Poor Mama never even noticed thats how wore out the poor thing was from no sleep and bad nerves. Her red hands she was so ashamed of were clenched white at her waist and her elegant face so pale and peaked broke my heart.
Papa said Well Mrs. Watson thats a fine looking family you have there!
Mama nodded being too upset to speak. The best she could do was give a smile to the strange boy who came with Papa and looked just as shy and scarred as all the rest of us. He was skinny and brown hair near white from the hot sun and very long legs in outgrown pants which came to a stop high above his long bare feet. Probably no underware which I admit is none of my fool bizniss.
I gave this boy a suden smile that scarred the daylites out of him. Went tomato red frowned something terible looked up at the sky serching for birds then faced away from us trying to whissle.
Finely Papa stepped across the space holding both hands out to Mama.
I saw her hands how the poor fingers started up then quit and clutched each other and how Papas hands were closing. All four hands were quitting. Someone had to do something. I let out a yip and darted forward threw my arms around our Papa and hung on for dear life. He was hard
as any tree. I felt him gazing at Mama over the top of my red ribbon bow. Then he let out a breath and put his arms around me but was too shy to hug his very own daughter.
When I turned around Mama was smiling a beautiful smile kind of crooked but full of hope. I never saw such a deer expresion on that lonesome face. Her smile was a signal to the boys to run and jump on Papa the way fool boys do for the pure heck of it. Mama was covering up her tears by scolding them for rinkling his linen suit but he was happy Papa Bear woofing and rolling around just like he used to. Thretened to run off into the woods with a hole armlode of kids that he wood eat up later in his cave. Eddie was screching due to nervous fright but little Lucius only six was quiet. He let himself be bounced and tossed turning his head sos to watch Mama over his Daddys shoulder and make sure she didnt run away and leve him.
That darn Rob never budged one inch from where he was. Kept his hands in his hip pockets giving Papa his worst serly stare and making the hole family look at his bad maners and his old curled lip. But Rob could not meet Papas eye so he jerked his chin at the strange boy as if to say You better keep your durn eyes to yourself or Ill punch your nose off.
Mama warned him. Just a murmur. Rob?
Papa put the small ones down then stratened his coat up kind of slow. Well son he said and stepped forward to shake hands. Oh how that scared us knowing Rob was going to refuse! But Papa had gessed what Rob would do and he was reddy. Kept his hand out there maybe half a minute till Rob terned red and that serly stare fell all apart and he shot a despert look over at Mama.
Then Rob came out with that braking voice he had since Arkansas where he first grew that pathetical mustash to go with all his hickeys. How come you run off? Never left word and never sent for us? Never would of neither if your wife hadn’t come crawling! But that durn fool stopped short rite there because Papas fist flew up and back cocked like a pistol hammer.
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