Precious Bones
Page 4
“I don’t see why not, just be careful and be home by noon dinnertime.”
“We will, Mama, and with some fresh fish to fry.”
Nolay had helped me make my fish gig, and I was mighty proud of it. The four-foot wooden shaft was made out of a straight cypress branch. Together we had scraped and polished it to a smooth finish. At the end Nolay had attached a four-pronged metal spear. It was in perfect balance for spearing fish, crabs, and frogs. I grabbed my gig and we headed down our driveway for the two-mile hike to the Indian River.
As we walked barefoot along the sandy road, I told Little Man the news. “Did you hear about that Yankee man that’s gone missing?”
“I ain’t heard about that. What happened?”
“Just this morning Ironhead told me and Nolay that the sheriff stopped by the Fish House and told them that a Yankee man had gone missing yesterday.”
Little Man shook his head. “That don’t make sense. How does someone go missin’?”
“I don’t know. But Ironhead said that two of them were out on the Reemses’ land, close by our swamp, and they got separated. And you know what else? I think that Yankee man came out to our house just last week.”
“You sure?”
“Course I’m sure. It was a couple of days after that big storm blew in. There was two of ’em. But Nolay got a gun and chased ’em off our land.”
“Mr. Nolay chased some Yankees off his land with a gun?”
“Yep. He didn’t shoot directly at ’em or anything. But he sure scared ’em good.”
Little Man shook his head again. “Mr. Nolay sure is something. But it just don’t make sense why Yankees that don’t know nothin’ about the swamps would be out there.”
I nodded in agreement. “You’re right about that, it don’t make sense. And you want to know something else? We saw those same two Yankees out on our property with the Reems brothers the very next day.”
“What were they doin’ out there with the Reemses?”
“I don’t know. But Nolay sure did get upset with them. And he chased them off again, only this time he didn’t shoot at them. And you want to know something else? I think I ran into Soap Sally out there.”
“Soap Sally? Bones, you know there ain’t no such thing. That’s just an old swamp legend.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. I mean, if legends ain’t real, how do they get started in the first place?”
“I ain’t sure about that. I’ve heard stories about Sally all my life, but I ain’t never seen her.”
“Have you ever smelled her?” I asked. “Because I think I have. A couple of times out by the swamp’s edge I’ve smelled something musky like old dried-out lye soap or wet rags.”
“Come to think of it, I have smelled something like that. But that could just about be anything in the swamps. There’s always something dying or decaying out there.”
We strolled over the railroad tracks, passed by the Last Chance General Store, and came to the two-lane paved highway, U.S. 1. I looked back at the Last Chance storefront and saw Mr. Speed sitting on his bench. I waved, and he slowly raised his hand in return.
We crossed over the highway and found our usual path down the bank of the Indian River. As we walked along the shoreline, swarms of fiddler crabs scuttled sideways across the sand, looking for a hole to duck into. They brandished their one large claw high in the air like a small sword. Hermit crabs dressed in every imaginable manner of shell marched together as one colony toward the water’s edge.
The riverbank was pocked with large holes where land crabs lived. Several of them sat defiantly at the front of their holes. Perched on long spindly legs, they pointed their purple and orange claws in the air and clapped them together in a threatening gesture. That fearsome display was just show. If you touched one with a stick, it would fall apart.
As Little Man and I walked along the riverbank, I thought of the day about a year ago when I found a croker sack washed up on the sand. Inside a burlap bag, bunched together like soggy black socks, were the bodies of five tiny puppies. They were so young, their eyes were still sealed shut. Four were dead, but one wiggled with signs of life. I took him home, and me and Mama nursed him with a baby bottle. We named him Mr. Jones and watched as that soggy little sock grew a magnificent glossy black coat. His pensive eyes sat in his head like two golden coins. Mr. Jones was a mixture of so many things we couldn’t tell for certain what he was. One thing for sure, he was a true and loyal friend.
We silently waded into the brackish water, soft, warm sand squishing up between our toes. Beds of turtle grass moved gently in the current, revealing small fish, river shrimp, and snails.
Little Man looked in my direction and said, “Bones, you look out for stingrays. Watch for two bumps in the sand. That’ll be their eyes. We don’t need no accidents happening.”
“You tell me that every time.”
“Well, sometimes I just got to repeat myself, that’s all.”
It was low tide, and the sharp edges of huge beds of oysters, sleeping through the summer months, peeked out above the water’s surface. A couple of glossy ibis waded in the shallows, their strong curved beaks shoveling through the mud in search of worms and bugs.
Further out, a blue heron stood like a statue on one leg, its long neck arched and ready to strike at passing fish. A small family of grebes floated out in deeper water, a couple of babies catching a ride on their mama’s back.
Little Man pointed to a spot that rippled on top of the water’s flat surface. “There’s a big school of mullet feedin’. You go around that side, and I’ll take this side.” We silently waded out to the school. We raised our gigs like Indian spears and plunged them into the water. We were each rewarded with a fat mullet wiggling at the end of the sharp prongs.
After a couple of hours Little Man held up our croker sack and said, “This here is enough mullet for the day, plus we got a couple of blue crabs. Best we be heading back.”
We climbed back up the riverbank, crossed over U.S. 1, and headed for the Last Chance General Store. As we got nearer, sure enough, Mr. Speed was still sitting out there. He wore a clean pair of blue overalls and, perched sideways on his head, the green baseball cap that me and Little Man gave him last Christmas.
He was the only child of Mr. Ball and Miss Evelyn, who owned and operated the Last Chance. The pride and joy of his mama and daddy, when World War II broke out in 1942, he did his patriotic duty and enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday.
Shipped overseas to a place whose name no one could pronounce, he returned home two years later with half his head a shiny mass of scars and half his mind filled with fascinating information. Every morning one of his parents made sure he was comfortable on his bench, where he spent the day seeing things that no one else could and sharing his wealth of information with all who would listen.
Being that I was only three years old when Mr. Speed joined the army, I don’t remember knowing him before that. But I will never forget the first time I met him. I was five years old and had gone to the Last Chance with Mama. When we walked around to the front entrance of the store I stopped dead in my tracks upon seeing a strange man with scars covering half his bald head sitting on the front bench. Mama reached over and took hold of my hand. She leaned down and quietly said, “Bones, there’s nothing to be afraid of, he’s a very nice man. He just met with a bad accident. Let’s go over and say good morning to Mr. Speed. I’ll introduce you to him.”
I figured as long as Mama had ahold of my hand and she wasn’t scared, it would be all right. We walked up to the bench, and Mr. Speed slowly turned his head in our direction. Mama said, “Good morning, Mr. Speed, I’m glad to see you back home. You remember my husband, Nolay? I want to introduce you to our daughter, Bones.”
Mr. Speed looked directly at me. His eyes were brown speckled with gold. It was like looking into two glasses of cool sweet tea. A thin, lopsided smile spread halfway across his face. He said, “Bones. Good name. Bones.”
Mama looked at me and said, “Bones, if you want, you can sit out here and visit with Mr. Speed while I go get a few things inside.”
Sounded like a good idea to me, because I sure was curious to get to know this new neighbor. I walked over and climbed up on the bench beside Mr. Speed. We didn’t say to much to each other that first day, we just sat and enjoyed each other’s company. From that day on he was one of my best friends.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Speed,” Little Man and I said in unison.
“We been down to the river,” Little Man continued. “You want me to bring you an RC Cola?” Mr. Speed bobbed his head in affirmation as he continued to stare out into nothing.
Inside, with the soft light of the store, I recognized the silhouette of Mr. Ball behind the counter. He was a small, bald-headed man who resembled a turtle and moved at about the same pace, but he was kindhearted and never turned a customer away. Nearly everyone in the community had a running tab at the store. Being that the Last Chance had the only telephone within a ten-mile radius, Mr. Ball was known to take messages from friends and family and pass them on.
I caught a glimpse of Mr. Speed’s mama, Miss Evelyn, sitting at her desk in a small room at the back of the store.
Little Man laid the croker sack on the worn wooden countertop, reached inside, and pulled out one of the blue crabs. “Howdy, Mr. Ball. You think we could trade this here for two RC Colas and a moon pie?”
“I think that would be a fair enough trade.” Mr. Ball picked up a corner of the croker sack, peeked inside, and said, “Looks like y’all had a pretty good catch today.”
“And Mr. Speed would like an RC, too. I can take it out to him,” I added.
Outside, I handed one cola to Mr. Speed, and me and Little Man sat down on the front steps, next to the bench. We watched as cars glided by in both directions on U.S. 1. Being it was the only highway stretching from Jacksonville to Miami, just about every car coming or going had to pass by the Last Chance.
After an acceptable time of silence, Mr. Speed said, “Done counted ’leven Yankee cars passed by from this mornin’. Four New York, three Michigan, three New Jersey, and one Co-net-ti-cut, yes, sir, one Co-net-ti-cut.” Sometimes Mr. Speed’s memory got stuck together like the pages of an old wet book.
Little Man took a gulp of his RC. “You don’t say, Mr. Speed. That’s a tolerable lot of Yankees. Wonder where they’re headed.”
“Down Palm Beach, down Palm Beach, where all them coconut palms washed up on shore. People sure do love to see them palms, twenty thousand of ’em washed up and planted their selves right on the beach, yes, sir, twenty thousand of ’em.”
“Twenty thousand,” I said. “How did twenty thousand coconuts get washed up on the beach?”
“Shipwreck. About seventy-five years ago a ship wrecked in a storm and spilt all them coconuts on the beach. Some planted their selves and some was planted by people living there. Then they named it Palm Beach, yes, sir, Palm Beach.”
Little Man shook his head. “Well now, that sure does make sense, don’t it, Bones?”
“It sure does, and it’s an interesting story, too.” I took a sip of my icy-cold RC. It slid down my parched throat like liquid joy. “Mr. Speed, you should have seen the river today, it was just plumb full of schools of mullet, the busiest I’ve seen it in a while. Nearly every time we threw our gig in a school, it came out with a fat mullet on it.”
Mr. Speed continued to bob his head and stare out into his private world. Then he replied, “Florida has seven hundred different kinds of fish, some so big they could swaller up a car and some so itty-bitty you can hold ’em on the tip of your finger, yes, sir, so itty-bitty you can hold ’em on the tip of your finger.”
“Lordy, Mr. Speed, why, I reckon it would take about a lifetime to meet up with all of them,” I said.
The three of us sat for a few minutes sipping our colas, me and Little Man nibbling our moon pies. Then I asked, “Mr. Speed, you know anything about birds? There were all kinds of birds hunting on the river today.”
He wagged his head up and down. “Got four hundred different kinds of birds, four hundred that live here, the rest of ’em just come down to visit. Some of ’em are right peculiar, like that big ol’ pink flamingo. He don’t start out pink, he just gets that way from being out in the sun. They don’t roam around much, stay pretty much down in the South, down in the South.”
“Come to think of it,” I replied, “I never seen one of those birds in the river or the swamps, only pictures of ’em. Little Man, you ever seen a live flamingo?”
“Nope, can’t say as I ever have seen one. We’ll have to take a ride down Miami-way someday and see ’em. I hear there are flocks of ’em down there.” Little Man stood up and let out a loud burp. “ ’Scuse me. Bones, it’s gettin’ late. We better be headin’ back home if we’re gonna make it before noon dinnertime.”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” I said. Little Man returned the three bottles to Mr. Ball. I gathered up our gigs and croker sack.
I turned and said, “It sure was nice talking with you, Mr. Speed. I enjoyed hearing about the birds and the fish and the coconuts, too. I’ll be seeing you again real soon.”
He bobbed his lopsided head and said, “Real soon, y’all come back real soon.”
On the walk back home I said to Little Man, “I sure do enjoy talking with Mr. Speed. He pretty near knows something about everything. Where do you think he gets all that information?”
Little Man walked in silence for a while and then replied, “I reckon it comes from a place where you and me can’t go, or a place we wouldn’t really want to go. It’s a place where just him and God sits together and talks with each other.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. I do believe that Mr. Speed knows God as a personal friend; he’s that kind of a person.”
As we approached my house I turned and said, “Little Man, if you got time tomorrow, why don’t you and me go out and see if we can find that missing Yankee man.”
“Why would we want to do that? That’s the sheriff’s job.”
“Well, you never know, he could be out there lost and scared and hungry. I could bring along the dogs to help us hunt.”
“I got some mornin’ chores to do, but I could come over later. If we’re goin’ out in the swamps, I’ll be bringin’ my gun and you should bring yours, too.”
“Okay, I’ll let Mama know, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sure enough, there was something waiting out in the swamps, but it wasn’t lost and it wasn’t scared.
Pale sunlight had just begun to tap against my bedroom window when I was awakened by a warm nuzzling in my ear. I reached up to find the furry body of Nippy Raccoon resting on my shoulder. As I stroked her soft fur, her little humanlike hands began to knead my neck as she purred contentedly like a cat.
Nippy had been given to me by Little Man’s daddy, Mr. Cotton. He found her along the highway next to her dead mother’s body. She had the short, stubby tail of a female, not the long, elegant ones the males lost their lives for. Nippy was a born thief; anytime something bright and shiny went missing, it could usually be found tucked under her blanket in her small sleeping box in my room. But if you looked into her little bandit face, she stole your heart away.
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, picked up Nippy, and headed into the kitchen. Mama was sitting at the table with her usual morning cup of coffee, reading a Saturday Evening Post, but Nolay was nowhere to be seen. Mama looked up and said, “Bones, there’s grits and scrambled eggs on the stove. Your daddy already ate and went out on some business. Just help yourself.”
Nolay was mostly a commercial net fisherman. Him and Ironhead owned a boat together and kept it up at the Grant Fish House. But on occasion he went off on “business trips.” I wasn’t clear on what all he did on those
trips. All I knew for sure was my daddy had a lot in common with a raccoon. He was intelligent, inquisitive, and mischievous. To hear him tell it, he never stole a thing in his life, but he sure borrowed a lot. Nolay often told me, “Bones, some people just got more stuff than they know what to do with. That just ain’t right. Stuff shouldn’t sit around idle.”
After I got my breakfast, I sat down and said, “Mama, later on today me and Little Man are going out to the swamp for a while.”
Mama put her magazine down and looked at me. “Why are you going out there?”
“Just to have a look around. You know how beautiful it is in the summer with all the birds and babies and stuff. And we just might find that lost Yankee man. He might be out there scared and hungry.”
“What Yankee man are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember the story from last night? The one Ironhead told to me and Nolay about a Yankee man being reported missing to the sheriff? He was last seen out by our swamp.”
Mama shook her head. “Yes, I remember that. But my goodness, Bones. Well, I guess it’s all right. Just be careful and make sure you stay close to Little Man.” Mama closed her magazine and stood up. “After breakfast I need you to help me with some chores in the garden.”
Me and Mama were just about finished weeding when we saw Little Man strolling up our road. Mama said, “I’ll finish up, Bones, you can go now.”
“Thanks, Mama, we’ll be home before dark.”
I ran in the house and grabbed the single-shot .22 rifle Nolay gave me when I turned six years old. He said I could have an automatic when I turned ten, but I was still waiting on that one.
I ran out in the yard and whistled for the dogs. The three of them came bounding from all directions and surrounded me and Little Man.
Little Man had his .22 automatic rifle in his hand and a croker sack stuck in his belt. Pointing to the sack he said, “Just in case we run across something for dinner.”
With the three dogs leading the way, we headed through the scrubland and toward the swamp. Silver stayed in front and zigzagged her way through the brush.