Seventh Sense

by Robert A. Brown

  I’m still trying to get the accents right, so you’ll see that I’m recreating what I heard phonetically. It may be kind of hard to read. I took it all down in that part-shorthand method we devised when we were kids and wanted to write stuff down that only we understood. That seems to work. Helps that these people talk pretty slowly.

  One more thing. Mrs. Seamore, who’s from back east and only came here with her husband about 25 years ago – they wanted to go west and got this far before they ran out of geetus and he went to work at the packing plant – seemed really keen on the subject of witches. She said they see everything clearer than we do but pea gravel messes ‘em up. They stand and look at it so long that they finally give up and leave. So if whomever I heard or thought I heard following me on horseback up there in the mountains this morning was a witch, I guess that pea gravel I drove across stopped whatever it was dead in its tracks.

  You might want to file that away. Never know when a witch might be following you, and not the kind you’ve gone on dates with.

  I’m only half-kidding. Maybe not even half. It could be that the story from Junie Seamore that you’re about to read got to me more than I want to let on, but I’ve been thinking a lot about witches and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if this town’s got a few. Like I told you at the beginning of this letter, I get an overwhelming feeling that there’s something dark and strange in this place. Something big. I think it’s the seventh sense sure enough, even though what it’s telling me is still pretty vague. Witches and cats have something to do with it, but past that connection everything gets all blurry. I’ll dope it out, though. I know I will.

  Meanwhile, here goes another six sense – I mean cents. You don’t have to airmail me, but be sure and write and tell me what you think about the enclosed account from Mrs. Seamore. It’s a hair-raiser.

  Your procurer of tall tales,

  Robert

  WORKS PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION

  FEDERAL WRITERS’ PROJECT

  Official Form

  DATE: 12 May 1939

  INTERVIEWER: R.A. Brown

  STORY TOLD BY: Izzy (Junie S.) Seamore AGE: 74

  ADDRESS: Star Route 3, Mackaville, Arkansas

  When my Gran’mammy Zula wuz jest a little un, ‘bout waist high, she usta go en stay with her Gran’mammy Rachel for a spell to kinda hep thet ole woman and to larn from her. Wunst when she done that they had a spot o’ witch trouble. It was lak this...

  Li’l Zula wus a’churnin’ the cream ‘n’ she an’ her Granny was jest havin’ a fine time, a- jawin’ and a-laughin’. After while her Gran’mammy says, “Chile! Ain’t thet butter a-comin’ yet? Let me see thet.” She tooken the churn from Zula, lifted th’ top off, and shore nuff it weren’t nuffin’ but cream.

  “Now thet just ain’t right!” she said. “It ain’t right! Chile, I ‘spects we’s bein’ witched!”

  Zula was too young to know eny better ‘n’ she claps her hands and says, “Granny, will we see the witch? Kin she fly and ebber thing?”

  Well, her Gran’mammy grabs her by th’ shoulders ‘n’ slaps her jaws right smart. “Don’t you NEBBER speak of a witch lak they was anything ‘ceptin’ death and sorrow.”

  Zula was plum skert by how mean her Gran’mammy was actin’. But her Gran’mammy loved thet chile too much to stay angry wiff her. “Less jus’ see if’n’ we cain’t stop thet ole witch’s devilment,” Gran’mammy Rachel says.

  She had Zula take her li’l hands ‘n’ scoop up some of the cream in the churn. Then they went over to th’ fire.

  “Here, witch!” sez Gran’mammy Rachel. “Git burnt for yer troubles!” Then she throwed that cream on th’ fire.

  “NOW we’ll get butter, chile,” she says. “Jest see if’n we don’t.” But no matter how hard they churn, they couldn’t get no butter.

  Zula’s gran’mammy then tole her, “Zula, baby, you go out and empty thet lil trough, dump it out.” Zula run and did as she’uz tolt. Her gran’mammy come out a’luggin’ thet churn and poured thet cream into thet trough. Zula’s eyes got ez big ez dollars et thet. Her gran’mammy seen her a’starin’ an’ tells her, “Chile, we got more cream but thet ole cream coulda kilt us!” Then she pinted down th’ valley an’ acrost to where they wuz annuder cabin.

  “Thet slattern witch Jury Maggan thinks she’s smart, but I got this!” She holded up a bit a’ rag cloth. Zula wondered at thet cloth en her gran’mammy sez, “I seen her git it teared off’n her dress on them bramble breshes yonder.” She pinted to a thorn hedge by th’ road. “Now I’m a’gonna give it back to her!”

  Gran’mammy Rachel dropped thet rag into thet cream. Then she wen’ over to her prize rosebushes that no one wuz allowed to tetch and cut seven long switches, ‘bout big round ez your lil finger en ‘bout two foot long. She took thet bundle uh switches and come back to thet trough o’cream and bugn to slash and whop thet cream. She busted thet cream with ebber bit o’ her stren’th en cream flew eberr where.

  Zula watched thet ole woman, face red ez fury, jest slashin’ an’ wackin’ thet trough – and then she heered it. That li’l chile spun ‘round en looked down th’ road, ‘crost to Jury Maggan’s cabin, and heered horr’ble scream after horr’ble scream echoin’ down th’ valley.

  Behind her, her gran’mammy sez, “Zula, baby, less go churn us some butter now.”

  May 20, 1939

  Saturday evening

  Dear John,

  I am going out of town to the movies in a little bit with Pete from the Skelly station and his friend, Diffie, the guy who ran things for him after he cracked up on the Indian motor bike I’m now driving, so I may have to finish this tomorrow. But I wanted to tell you I got your letter and thanks for the words about the Seamore story I sent you. Like you said, it’s a chiller for sure.

  I would have gotten back to you sooner but have had my hands full. Hmmm, maybe I should reword that. Truth is I have been a little lazy and it’s taken most of my energy to keep the interviews typed and in the mail. I’m learning so much on this job. Sometimes I feel like I’m learning a little too much. I can’t shake the feeling that this town has some kind of secret, and it has to do with that cat in my room, and it has to do with the witch story I got from Mrs. Seamore, and it has to do with just the way the people look – as crazy as that sounds. I can’t dope it all out yet, but it’s there, and you, better than anyone on God’s green earth, know how I know.

  Speaking about how people look, I got a letter from some damn registrar or comptroller or something at the Arkansas state capitol. This is a WPA project I’m on, and the state governments really don’t have anything much to do with it, but somehow this old boy got word about what I was doing and sent me a big official letter telling me he would “appreciate” me sending him the names of anyone I interview that I thought might be, get this, “passing as white.” Yeah. “Passing as white.” There’s a guy in solid with Uncle Adolf. Of course I don’t intend to tell him shit, but if I told him what I thought about the background of this town’s population, I figure he’d be hightailing it up from Little Rock to see for himself. That creamed-coffee color so many of them have – even Patricia – indicates to me that there’s a pretty good amount of Negro blood coursing through the veins of most of the citizens in this town. Why? Hell, it’s just another one of the mysteries around here that I wake up thinking about.

  After I’d sent off the first few reports, I decided I’d better let the postmaster, a severe- looking guy by the name of Gibson, know why I was mailing so much stuff on a regular basis to Washington. Even though he’s middle-aged, he’s kind of prune-faced, like a guy a lot older would be. He’s got real pale blue eyes, although he’s as dark as the others I just mentioned.

  Anyway, I saw him behind the window yesterday and told him my name and what I was doing.

  He looked at me sort of hostile-like and said, “Yeah, I figured you for a gov’ment case.” Case, he said. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

  Then he said
, “You’re writin’ about our people?”

  “That’s right. Getting their stories down for posterity.”

  He looked at me a long time. Then he said, “Better be careful,” and before I could ask him what he meant by that, he turned away from the window and disappeared. I got the distinct impression he didn’t approve of my assignment. If I wanted to get melodramatic about it, I could even say I got a little glimmering of the seventh sense.

  So that’s my life in Mackaville, Arkansas. I think I’ve hit most of the low spots, and I’ve sure given you plenty about the weird feeling that always seems to be hanging around me. My fellow federal employee the postmaster aside, I guess I’m doing ok as a cog in the government’s efforts to spread money around. I think I told you that Ma Stean’s boarding house gets a U.S. treasury check for my room and board. Even though it can’t be much, maybe it gives me some prestige with her, because in addition to the morning and evening meals I can always get some kind of snack, a jelly sandwich or cookies, whenever I want it. Or maybe she’s just naturally a nice person who looks out for others. I think I’d rather believe that.

  Physically, I’m comfortable enough. The summer heat is starting up, but because of the big window, my room stays reasonably cool. And Ma and the boarders know I’m a “writer” for the federal government and they think that’s noteworthy, so they don’t kick when I sit up and type late into the night.

  Pete finally fixed the headlight on the Indian, so now I can maneuver that big bike around after dark. But I don’t do that much yet, and when I do, well, I always feel like someone’s following me. I wrote you about that in the last letter, remember? I don’t think I told you that every time I look back through the darkness, I swear I can see something or someone behind me, just far enough back that I can’t make out what it is. Sometimes I think I hear horse’s hooves. I know it’s most likely not true. But if it’s not, why do I feel it?

  I never slow down or anything to make sure it’s just a phantom. I don’t know what I’d do if it caught up to me anyway. So I just hunch over the handlebars and crack that old Indian open another notch. Those hill people must wonder who it is roaring through their countryside, but if you were on that empty road with me, moonlight spearing down through the trees, some real or imaginary apparition on your heels, you’d be kicking me to go faster.

  We’re driving to a bigger town tonight to take in Adventures of Robin Hood, which I know has already played in St. Paul. I’ll bet you’ve seen it, too. But I haven’t yet and I’ll be glad to, although I wish I were going with Patricia instead of two guys. My own fault. When it comes to romance, I’m just as much of a slow worker in Arkansas as I was back home.

  When I do take her out, I’ll probably ask her to the nicer of the two theaters in town, which is called the Palace. (The other, the Maribel, shows B-picture double features.) I imagine Robin Hood will eventually get to the Palace as it works its way from the big cities to the little-town picture shows. Maybe by the time it makes it to Mackaville I will have gotten up the nerve to ask Patricia for a date.

  Pete already knows I’ve got a case on her. The other day, while I was helping him at the station, Patricia drove up in this 20-year-old Chevy four-passenger roadster with an old lady sitting up straight as a ramrod in the back. Hot as it was, she was all dressed in black, trimmed with lace that looked like it would crumble if you touched it, and was she some kind of UGLY. I mean she was witch ugly. Of course, if there’d been ten witches in the back seat, I still would’ve gone over there and waited on Patricia.

  It was during the late-afternoon rush, so I didn’t get to talk to Patricia much, and I’ve got to admit that when I was chatting her up I kept sneaking glimpses at that flesh-and-blood phantasm behind her, who stared back at me through half-closed eyes, like a big black lizard. Although I couldn’t see them clearly, her pupils seemed to be real light-colored, almost translucent, which just added to her overall look.

  After they’d left, I started working on the next car in line. It wasn’t until almost closing time that things settled down, and Pete and I stood together at the pumps, looking out at the street.

  “That Patricia Davis is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he said. Taken by surprise, I whirled around to find him grinning at me.

  “You bet,” was all I could think of to say.

  “She’s smart, too. Just graduated high school, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she went off to college.”

  “She’s graduated?” That surprised me. No one around the boarding house had made a big deal about her graduation. But then I thought, Well, what’s the difference? I haven’t even asked her out yet. It wouldn’t have seemed proper for me to get her a graduation gift.

  “Yeah. Night before last. Top of her class.”

  “She is that,” I said softly. Then, “Who was that old harridan with her?”

  Pete chuckled. “Why, that’s her grandma, Miz Davis,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That’s right.”

  I shook my head. “How can a battle-ax like that have such a beautiful granddaughter?”

  “Well, now, you don’t know what she looked like when she was a young lady,” he said, still smiling. “She might’ve been every bit as pretty as Patricia.”

  With that, he strode into the station to start shutting down, leaving me to think about what he’d said. And I have to admit that I did think about it.

  Well, I just heard a horn honk outside and looked down from my window to see Pete in his green ‘36 Hudson. Guess the guy sitting next to him is Diffie.

  Write when you can. It’s lonesome here in a way.

  Robert

  May 21, 1939

  Sunday afternoon

  Dear John,

  It’s four o’clock p.m. and I’ve just now started feeling good enough to write you. As a guy who doesn’t drink all that much – and the way I feel now, I’m never drinking again – I’m not used to big-time hangovers. I don’t see how guys like Steinbeck and Hammett and even Errol Flynn handle the amount of sauce they’re supposed to toss down their gullets on a regular basis.

  Flynn, by the way, did a hell of a job in Robin Hood, something I’m sure you know already. I didn’t find it out for myself until last night, after well over an hour’s drive to a place called Harrison, which they tell me is the biggest town around. It was big enough to have an MGM house called the Gem Theatre. (I’m sure that both the picture shows in Mackaville are independents. Today, the Palace is running a Charles Laughton movie called The Beachcomber, while the Maribel has Karloff in one of his Mr. Wongs from Monogram, with a second feature so old it’s sprouted chin whiskers.)

  I have to tell you about this Gem Theatre. It was a play house to begin with and it had these little boxes or balconies down the side, reached by narrow stairs. We thought about sitting in one of them, but we agreed that we wanted to be closer to all the Technicolor action, so we found a spot about two-thirds down.

  The Palace has a giant screen and, man, it was a great movie. I thought Diffie, who’s kind of simple, was going to get us kicked out. He’d get excited and start yelling. In case you haven’t seen it, there’s a scene where someone sticks a spear through the back of Robin’s chair. Diffie yelled, “Gawd dayumn!” pretty loud and some lady went and told on us. The usher came down and chewed all three of us out, and we got Diffie calmed down so we wouldn’t get the bum’s rush.

  But it was great. Everything was so huge on that screen. Any time Pete wants to go, I’m in for gas money.

  On the way back, we stopped to eat a late dinner at a bar and grill called the Rooting Hen. Man, when I walked in that door and looked around, I thought I’d been set up and I’d never get out. It was an old Negro dive, and “dive” fits. Turns out it was a place built by gangsters back during the dry years, complete with secret panels, trap doors, tunnels, and steel boiler plate in the walls. I know this because they showed me everything.

  But like I said, at first I figured I was done fo
r. When I pushed open the door and walked in, ahead of Diffie and Pete, the place went from a loud roar to nothing but the juke box playing. You talk about hostile – until they saw Pete. Then everything was ok and they – “they” being about 100 colored people – all came by to talk to him. He kept saying how I was a famous author and was on their side and was going to write some good things about them.

  John, it went from razors to being their bosom pal. I don’t know exactly why. Like I’ve told you, I suspect there’s a lot of Negro blood in Mackaville’s residents, and maybe the owner is some distant relative of Pete’s. For whatever reason, the guy welcomed me and took me through the whole history of the bar. After going with him down through some dripping tunnels that were dark as the pits of hell, we ordered up food and ate. Oh my gosh, ate is a feeble word for what we did. We had fried chicken and bar-b-q ribs and it was the best of either I have ever eaten. We also had greens and sweet potatoes and fried corn dodgers. Plus beer. A lot of beer. I thought I was full two or three times before we got out of there.

  While we were eating and drinking and listening to that kind of bawdy race music on the juke, some of the Negroes got to telling me stories, throwing in a lot of colored slang. I knew a few terms already from the camps. You remember before director Fechner separated whites and coloreds into different groups, about four years ago I guess, several CCC camps had guys from both races mingled together. A few of the fellows I served with had been in those camps and picked up the Negro patois. So I knew they called us “ofays” and what dirty terms like “jellyroll” meant. These boys taught me some new ones, though.