by Erik Carter
She fans herself and looks out toward the horizon line. She thinks of stories she heard as a girl—widows staring at the sea, waiting in vain for lost men who would never return. It had been nearly three months since Kurt left her to find one of her family’s missing kettles. She’d begged him to stay. She’d pleaded with him, she hit him, she even cried. He wouldn’t be swayed. The damn stubborn fool.
But then he’d always been stubborn. He’d asked her out no less than four times before she would agree to a date with him. That’s not to say she wasn’t attracted to him. Quite the contrary. She first saw him when he moved from Mobile. There were always a lot of drifters like him showing up in town. But this one … this one was different. He hopped off a train car with three other drifters who’d been clinging to the side. It was bright and hot and thick that day, much like today, and the sun was hitting him hard. The first thing Rosie had noticed was that chest. Oh Lord, that chest. His shirt had been unbuttoned halfway down, and a thick sheet of muscle shined from beneath.
She’d been standing with a couple of her friends in the shade under the oak tree by the livery. The girls noticed him too. They were giggling like fledglings. It took a moment for Rosie to look up and see that he was staring right at her.
“Oh, Rosie!” Claire said. “He’s gonna drill a hole into you with those eyes.”
And he very well could have because there was fire in them. Rosie couldn’t understand it. Here was a guy who hadn’t been in Covington even a full minute yet, but he wouldn’t pull those penetrating eyes from her even to take in his new surroundings. Much later, he would tell her that there seemed to be nothing else in the world to distract him. He couldn’t have taken his eyes off her if he’d wanted to.
Those eyes, deep-set in his face behind a set of sharp cheekbones. A broad jaw and a thick chin sat below the sweeping curve of his mouth. He was covered in a couple days’ growth. She’d tried to imagine him clean-shaven, and she liked what she saw.
It wasn’t long before he first asked for her company and she first rejected him. He’d asked innocently enough, wanted to take her to dinner. It was a generous offer considering she knew he was making but a pittance from the Smith’s. They were friends of the Colyer’s, after all. But Rosie Clements was a lady through and through, and there was more than innocence to that offer. She just knew it. A man who looked that good was made for one thing, and it sure as hell wasn’t innocent.
But that stubbornness of his won her over soon enough. Kurt liked to say that he was “persistent,” but Rosie learned long ago that men don’t act persistently, they act stubbornly.
Whether you call it persistence or stubbornness it was only a matter of time before Rosie gave in to his charm. Kurt had a manner about him that could not be denied. It was always there, sort of floating around him like a mist or a glow. He was the type of man you wanted to hate because he got so much with an easy smile or a well placed word. But you couldn’t hate him because, well, he’d worked that magic on you too. Kurt hadn’t been in Covington for three months before he’d charmed every man, woman, and child … especially the women. He’d charmed everyone, that is, but Momma.
Momma hadn’t approved of him from the start, but then Momma doesn’t approve of anybody or anything. No way, no how. She had been a slave in the “time before,” as she called it, and this had naturally left her jaded, hard, suspicious. She’s as solid and substantial and plain as the plow Rosie uses in the garden. She has little time or interest in the youth outside her home, especially handsome sturdy types who think they can whisk her daughter way by flashing some teeth and calling her “ma’am.” Momma’s too cunning for that.
As she thinks about it now, Rosie’s hands tighten into fists. She ought to hate Momma. She ought to be furious at her. Had it not been for Momma’s stubbornness, Kurt would have never gone out looking for the kettle. None of this would have happened. But she can’t hate Momma. She doesn’t have that in her.
It’s been so long since he left. Eleven weeks. That’s over two and a half months without wages. He’ll have to find a new job when he gets back. Unless the Smith’s are really hurting, there is no way they’ll take him back. A solid future for him seems bleak. But he’s done all this for her. If he’d only waited, if he’d only listened before he left she would have told him. She would have told him that she didn’t care what Momma thought about him. She would marry him immediately. She didn’t want him to ask Momma for her blessing. But he hadn’t listened. And he’d left. The stubborn ass.
The last time she’d seen him was two weeks after he’d left. He came to the house a bundle of excitement. He’d followed the kettle’s trail to Arkansas, and from there he’d gotten a lead that it had been purchased by some rich fella out in Arizona. Once more she’d asked him to stay. Once more he’d been persistent.
And so Rosie sits every day like this on the porch and waits. When the chores are done, her brothers always go to town. She never does. Until Kurt gets back, she can’t be happy like that.
Rosie looks down at her hands, still in fists from her anger at Momma. Her fingertips squeeze hard against the calluses of her palms. She releases the tension and looks up to the horizon. It looks the same as it has every day. Long and straight and hot. Blue above, brown below. Her brothers would appear in an hour or so, little dots against the sky. Later, when the sun would begin to go down, Momma would drag herself into view, lumbering toward the house like a heavy, spiteful cloud.
Presently, a figure appears on the horizon. One of her brothers. A lot earlier than usual. Maybe they’d gotten themselves into some sort of trouble again. The idiots. The brother continues to walk toward the house. Neither of the other brothers have appeared over the horizon to join him. Maybe they’d gotten into some serious trouble. If only one of them is returning, what happened to the others?
Rosie gasps and stands up. She walks up to the railing of the porch and leans forward, squinting. She can’t make out who it is. He gets a little closer. From his height, she knows that it must be William.
“William! Hey! You all right?” she yells out.
The brother keeps on walking towards the house, doesn’t reply.
Rosie leans forward and squints again. It’s not William. It’s … it’s Kurt.
Rosie screams. “Thank the Lord!” she cries. Her vision blurs suddenly, and a thin layer of sweat breaks out across her forehead. She grabs the railing and gathers herself. She takes a deep breath and darts from the porch. In a flash she’s on the dirt road and sprinting with all she’s got toward Kurt. Dust flies from her footsteps, soiling her dress.
She sees that Kurt is carrying something. The kettle. The fool had actually managed to track it down. She also sees that he isn’t running; he’s still plodding toward the house at the same slow pace. Maybe he’s hurt. The thought slices through her like hardened steel.
She pushes harder. Her legs burn. Her breasts ache terribly as they swing.
As she draws nearer, she sees that Kurt isn’t smiling. He looks tired and worn. The poor soul. He must be on his last leg.
She wills herself harder, faster. She reminds herself of the troubles he must have faced in the last two and a half months. She tells herself to run hard for him.
Finally, at long last, she makes her way to him and leaps upon him. She squeals with delight and squeezes him as hard as she can. Her force almost knocks him over. She’s forgotten how tired he must be. How foolish of her. Kurt puts one tired arm around her back and squeezes lightly. The other holds the kettle.
Rosie kisses his cheek and pulls away to look at him. She gasps but quickly tries to hide it by covering her mouth. Kurt looks more than tired. He looks different. There are big bags under his eyes, which look dark and deep. His cheeks are sunken in, as though someone spooned them from his face. His mouth is open slightly. He’s gaunt.
Rosie smiles at him though. She touches his cheek. Kurt doesn’t smile back, doesn’t touch her.
“Kurt, honey, what’s wrong?”
Kurt continues to stare through her, his focus wide, as though her head is opaque and he’s gazing through it to the end of the road.
“Kurt?”
Kurt holds up the kettle. She takes it from him. Kurt’s arm slowly returns to his side.
Rosie looks at the handle of the kettle. Stamped into it are the words Clements Plantation.
She looks up at him. He has taken a step away from her. She is puzzled by this, but says, “Thank you so much, sweetheart. I just know Momma is going to—”
Kurt turns around and starts walking away from her down the dirt road.
“Honey,” Rosie calls after him. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t reply. He continues walking away.
“Kurt!” she yells and runs to catch up with him. She walks beside him. He faces forward, doesn’t turn to look at her. “Where are you going?”
No reply.
She has to walk quickly to match pace with him. She grabs his shoulder and shakes him.
“Hey!”
He doesn’t respond.
“Hey!” she pleads and smacks his arm. “Don’t listen to those stories! There ain’t nothing to this kettle.”
Kurt keeps walking.
“Kurt, baby, please,” she screams and begins to cry. “Wait!”
She grabs his arm and shakes it. He keeps walking. Rosie drops the kettle to the ground.
“Wait! “ she cries and jumps on his back. “I love you!”
Again Kurt almost teeters over. He stops walking finally. He reaches and grabs Rosie. He pushes her away.
“What are you doing?” Rosie moans.
They struggle violently. Rosie digs her fingernails into his body. She’s never clung to anything so tightly in her life. God Himself couldn’t pry her from this man.
Kurt sticks his hands under her armpits and pulls out.
“No!” Rosie screams. “No!”
Kurt puts a hand to her face and another on the back of her head. He yanks her hair swiftly, and Rosie feels her head snap back. She falls from his back and lands in the dirt road with a thud. Her cheek hits a rock. She breathes in dust and coughs.
She gets on her hands and knees. Kurt is already several feet away from her moving at a steady pace.
She stands up and begins to run after him.
“Wait!”
She stumbles and collapses again. She hadn’t noticed that she twisted her ankle when she fell. She tries again and makes a couple feeble steps before she tumbles back to the ground.
Kurt is getting farther and farther away.
She gets on her knees. “Kurt Leonard, you come back here. Wait!”
Kurt is to the top of the hill.
“I love you!”
Kurt disappears over the crest of the hill.
Rosie collapses and sobs. She remains there for two hours until her brothers find her.
Kurt stands in the middle of a swamp. He’d been doing so much walking the last few days that his feet were rubbed raw in spots. Those last few miles from the Clements home had really pushed them over the edge. But no matter. Now they’re as cool as cool can be. The thick green swamp water is a magical elixir to all his blisters and calluses.
He is submerged in it, above his knees. Before him the swamp stretches out endlessly. Ghastly cypress trunks and knees stretch out to infinity and close in about him. The long grooves in the trunks reach down into the water like skeletal fingers.
The sound is thick and stifling. It presses against his face. The wheezing noises of his own breaths go but a few inches before they’re rebounded back to him. The occasional call of a bird bounces among the tree trunks.
Presently there are other sounds, distant and muffled, rattling around in the back of his skull. A bang followed by a short muffled burst of air. A brief pause and he hears them again, louder this time—the bang of a gun, and a gasp. Kurt puts his hands to his head. No, no, no, no, no! Bang, gasp. He sees it all again, back in the mansion in Arizona.
He lurks out of the hallway. He sees Macintosh behind the desk, the kettle in a small hidden room beyond. Kurt’s so close now, so very close. The fat man is his only obstacle. He needs but to strike him down and grab the kettle. He’s already feeling its curse just from the mere sight of it. He’d been warned. Many people had warned him.
He sees the man stroking the kettle and is filled with a confusing jealousy. A rage. Kill the man. Claim what is yours. And he does. He fires, and in the fraction of a moment before he darts toward the kettle he feels an ever so slight grin come to his mouth.
Kurt squeezes his hands over his head. No! No! He couldn’t have done it.
But he had.
New sounds strike him, flow in from the cypress pillars and soak into his brain. A cacophony of clatter. Against a reverberant bed of hollow silence and dripping water there is chaos. One man yells. Another man moans, weeps. Kurt hears himself yelling at the both of them. They have to shut up. He can’t think. He looks down at the kettle. He’s holding it in his left hand, and he has his revolver in his right. He likes the look of the kettle. Dark, even against his dark skin. Jet black. A rough, mottled texture that feels real. The weight of the thing, too, makes it feel real, substantial. Heavy, very heavy for something so small. He runs his thumb along the handle and smiles.
Something breaks him from his trance. Movement. He’s shaking. Jake is shaking his arm. Kurt pushes him away. Cosgrove continues to cry and beg Kurt for mercy. The old man wriggles about violently trying to shake himself free from the ropes that tie him to the chair. Jakes pleads with Kurt to reconsider. The tightness of the cave amplifies the racket, making it almost unbearable to Kurt.
Then Kurt looks down at the kettle, and it all feels better again. Jake had said he was delusional when he told him the kettle had gotten a hold of him. But Kurt hadn’t cared what a damn banker thought.
Kurt looks at his the watch in his hand again. It’s eleven fifty-nine. One more minute. That’s all the Cosgrove girl was going to get.
Jake grabs him again. This time Kurt pushes him away, hard. Jake falls to the ground, taking out one of the lanterns in the process. There’s only one lantern left lighting the cave. The light flickers. Kurt looks at his watch.
The minute hand falls on midnight.
Kurt smiles and aims the gun at Cosgrove’s forehead. Jake and Cosgrove both scream out. Kurt fires. There is a bright flash of light and an absolute explosion of sound deafens him.
Kurt screams out and digs his fingers into his head, harder, harder. His fingernails sink into the skin. He feels blood. He pulls his hands in front of him. There is indeed blood, a little on each of his fingers. A drop of it falls into the swamp. A spot of bright red seeps into the lime-colored film on top of the water.
He sees the gun stuck in the waist of his pants. He pulls it out. This is it. This is the weapon he’d used. His old gun. His father had given it to him when he was twelve—his father, who was so unlike him. Not a charmer. Not a smiler. His father would have wanted him to shoot with it, to use it. Maybe shoot some quail with it. As it ends up, Kurt had only killed two things with it.
He hears their screams again. The short muffled exhalation of Macintosh. The squeal of Cosgrove. Both sounds roll about his head, tear his skull to shreds.
Kurt lets out a scream of his own and grabs the revolver from his pants. He puts the barrel into his mouth. The metal tastes peculiar. Oily and warmer than he had expected. One more death. One more to set things right.
He squeezes the trigger, and in the moment before all goes black, as he sees the bright green murk rush up to meet his vision, he remembers, as though returning from some terrible bout of amnesia, the girl he had loved. Rosie. Rosie in the sun on a hot summer day. She wears a dress. Her smooth skin is warm.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It turned out to be a bright, beautiful day. The sky was a brilliant blue and full of large white clouds that were keeping the always-bothersome Arizona sun in check. It was approaching dinne
rtime.
I had the great fortune of spending this delightful day with the beautiful Miss Lilly Cosgrove. We casually strolled the streets together. Lilly had cleaned herself up from all our adventures. She looked decidedly different than the beaten, dirty scrap of a gal I’d left a couple hours ago. She was wearing a blue dress with white lace around the edges. It pulled in tight around her waist and expanded behind her in a perfectly wonderful accentuation of her rear side. She shielded herself from the sun with a matching delicate umbrella. She smelled of flowers and powder and quiet little things. It was a scent that filled a man’s lungs. I caught a taste of it every once and again as we walked. Fantastic.
Myself? I’d washed my face in a trough and, for good measure, swapped out those cursed socks.
Lilly twirled her umbrella playfully. There was no doubt that old man Cosgrove had willed her an unbelievable fortune. More than anyone I knew, Lilly was now poised to forge any destiny she wished.
“What will you do from here, angel?” I said.
“I’m thinking about starting my own business,” she said. “In clothing, maybe. Could you see me designing clothes, going to Paris?”
“I sure could.”
Yes, I really, truly could.
“Pattison doesn’t think I’m mature enough.”
“Pattison kisses peoples’ asses for a living. You’re plenty mature,” I said. “After all you’ve been through the last few days, I wouldn’t put anything past you.”
“Thanks, Barney!” she said and kissed me on the cheek.
Barney? Had she just called me Barney?
“You know, I could use a business partner,” she said and smiled.
“I haven’t changed underwear in nine days. I don’t think I’m the kind of guy you want designing petticoats.”
She whipped around and put a hand out to halt me. She narrowed her eyes and wore a coy smile.
We just so happened to have stopped on the other side of the road from Madame Fannie’s Funhouse. I glanced over and saw Fannie exit the Funhouse. She crossed her arms and watched us from the steps of the building.