Slow Funeral

by Rebecca Ore

  Doug said, as if he didn’t hear all she was saying, “Yes, in Bracken, even the victims, like Jake, are interesting.”

  “You want other people’s lives to be aesthetic objects? I remember reading a Japanese poet’s account of seeing an abandoned child. He felt intense pity for the boy, who was about a year old and fated to die of neglect. The poet also found his pity aesthetically pleasurable. Rescuing the boy would have been messy and unaesthetic. I thought when I read the poet’s account that nowadays we mostly only do that with characters in books. But there’s the cockfight culture. Men admire and love the birds they send to their deaths. Follette told us the entities and witches see normal mortals the way cockfight enthusiasts see fighting cocks. You don’t understand that Luke could be perfectly friendly with you and still hand your soul over to a demon, eat it, feed it to John, whatever. Luke’s lived too long to take short lives seriously.”

  “I want that, too,” Doug said. “To live on.”

  “Better look to Jesus,” Maude said. “Or science. Look what’s happening to Follette—warlock’s don’t live forever.”

  “Follette lost his nerve. Luke says he can teach me magic. You don’t understand man’s magic, he says.”

  “So Luke says.” Maude couldn’t say more. She took his hand in hers and decided to help whatever dying ones she could. Get the black child’s soul back. Find out, if she could, why Follette’s entities threw him to the Cancer Crab.

  Doug said, “I’ve seen that life’s more than DNA complicating itself to propagate itself to complicate itself.”

  “There are better religions.”

  “This one works.”

  13

  * * *

  LIES AND GUNS

  Maude wrangled an invitation to visit John and Terry by asking about Belle the hawk.

  “She’s flying well,” Terry said.

  “I’d like to see her.”

  “Perhaps you could come over Thursday afternoon and stay for dinnner.”

  “Is it hunting season?”

  “Bring Doug, too. John needs to talk computers. He’s designing a job monitoring system for a local company.”

  “Okay. Doug’s been talking to the people at Follette’s research institute.”

  “The funding will disappear when Follette dies.” Maude didn’t feel the institute really mattered anyway. She said, “I’ll see you Thursday, then.”

  “We can kill anything we want on our own property,” Terry said, finally answering Maude’s question. “Out of season, we claim the deer were damaging crops.”

  “I’ll have to see if Esther can stay late. Otherwise, can we make it lunch?”

  “Bring Partridge.”

  “She’s not feeling up to traveling,” Maude said. Partridge and Esther played Two-Handed Rook as Maude spoke.

  “She’ll be fine for a few hours by herself, I’m sure. Or Betty could visit for a while.”

  Maude didn’t want Betty around. “Maybe we’d better make it lunch.”

  “You worry too much,” Terry said.

  Partridge and Esther seemed to accommodate each other well, Esther cooking the old food—cornbread, beans with fatback, greens with vinegar—and listening attentively without taking Partridge’s growing testiness seriously.

  “Why shouldn’t I listen?” Esther said when Maude drove her home. “She’s the one who’s dying.”

  Maude wouldn’t want to be bullied by that premise. Young people died, too. The old just knew to expect it. Maude wondered if Follette in his dying was occasionally as spiteful as Partridge could be to Esther. She asked Esther, “Could you stay on later Thursday night?”

  Esther said, “If you could get me to pick up my car on Friday.”

  Maude wondered if she’d survive trying to steal the black boy’s soul back from John and his guns. “Sure.” Esther directed her to a dirt road. A red and chrome trailer sat on cement blocks beside a half frost-killed garden. Only the turnip greens and collards still showed life. “Nice patch of greens you’ve got there.”

  “I can bring some for your grannie.”

  Maude didn’t know whether she was supposed to say, that’s all right, we can get them from our kin, or I’m sure she’d appreciate them.

  Esther said, “Might as well take some. They’ll be all died out by Christmas.”

  Maude halfway thought Esther was also talking about people. “Let me get them, then. You’ve been busy all day.”

  “I’ll bring you a knife and a sack.” Esther went into the trailer and brought out a paring knife and a brown paper grocery bag. She said, “If you just cut the outer leaves, the plants will continue to make.”

  Maude took the knife and cut greens for about fifteen minutes, enough to fill the sack completely full. She went to the trailer door and said, “Do you want me to cut some for you?”

  “No, you need to be getting back to your grannie.” Esther took back the knife. “I’ll be bringing more from time to time. I love feeding people.”

  Maude asked, “What does it mean that a black woman would want me to look for a lost soul?”

  “Sometimes, the soul is stole to work for a man. Christians don’t believe this.”

  “Who would believe this?”

  “Voodoo people.”

  “What would I look for if I had to look for a lost soul?”

  “Maybe a little pot, a gourd. I’m sure sorry if someone believed a soul into such a trap.”

  Maude halfway wanted to kneel and ask Esther’s blessing. She said, “We really appreciate the work you’re doing with Partridge.”

  Esther didn’t say anything, but nodded once and backed away from the trailer door. Maude took the bag of greens and went home.

  When Doug saw what Maude brought in, he said, “You could grow bok choy here. It’s a mustard, too. Esther wanted me to teach her how to cook Chinese.”

  The two of them washed the greens and cooked them. The whole bag boiled down to three small servings.

  Partridge tasted hers and said, “Esther does them with some fat meat.”

  Maude said, “I thought that was beans.”

  “Grease improves everything. Here, Doug, you finish ’um.”

  “I’ll see if you like them stir-fried next,” Doug said, taking the greens off Partridge’s plate.

  When Esther came Thursday morning, she said, “I can stay over if Maude can get me to my car tomorrow morning.” Doug nodded. Maude went shopping for the weekend’s supplies while Doug stayed home. She thought about stopping by the Reverend Springer’s to get more information, but felt herself watched. I can do this without attracting attention, she thought.

  Doug and Maude drove to her cousin’s after three. John answered the door wearing camouflage and a Chinese clone of the AK-47. He said, “Let’s go out target shooting.”

  “Where’s Terry?” Maude asked.

  “Out with the hawk and the dogs.”

  Doug said, “I’d like to see the hawk.”

  “It won’t cooperate with the dogs,” John said. He had an olive drab canvas bag hanging low on his hip. “Sure you don’t want to go shooting? The gun’s almost automatic.”

  “Maybe later,” Maude said. John walked them through the house to the back. Maude put out a tiny feeler, but it hit something solid. John looked back at her, grinning. Was he even human, Maude wondered. She asked, “Have you heard anymore about the shooting in Richmond?”

  “They dropped charges.”

  “But you took the boy shooting?” Maude said.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I heard from some people,” Maude said.

  “They know where I am, then?”

  “Who?” Doug said.

  “The family.”

  “Did you play at voodoo with the boy?” Maude asked. She felt like she was moving through cement.

  The hawk cried out in the backyard and the cement shattered. Terry, surrounded by the small liver-and-white hounds, came walking up to them with the hawk on her wrist. Th
e cement built up again in jagged blocks, then John walked away from them. “I’ll shoot by myself if I have to,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Why does he carry the gun so much?” Doug asked.

  “The dogs barked all last night,” Terry said.

  The hawk peered at the dogs as though she wanted someone to make them small enough to eat. Then she looked straight at Maude, a natural bird burdened by symbolism staring down a woman who’d lay more symbolism on her. The hawk cried again and the pressure against Maude dropped.

  Doug said, “Maude asked him if he played voodoo with the black boy he shot.”

  Terry said, “They were only playing.”

  Maude felt her body jangle as if she’d touched a 110-volt socket. “Playing with voodoo?”

  “It’s called voudoun,” Terry said. “Belle’s being uncooperative today.” She walked over to the bow perch and tied the hawk’s leash to it, then pressed the perch against the hawk’s breast. The hawk stumbled onto the perch and turned to glare at the dogs.

  “Maybe she’s just being a natural hawk,” Maude said. “She wasn’t bred for falconry the way game chickens are bred to fight.”

  Doug said, “I thought you and John didn’t believe in magic.”

  Maude wished he’d dropped it. Terry said, “John was just humoring the boy. We never thought he’d try to steal from us.”

  From the pasture above them, the Chinese gun rattled off a clip. None of the three spoke for a second, then Terry turned and walked toward the back door. Doug and Maude followed her.

  “He’s weird with that gun,” Maude said.

  “Sounds like he was firing on automatic.”

  “He’s on our property,” Terry said. “We can do anything we want on our property.”

  Maude wondered if Terry would tell her about a strange gourd or pot that John hadn’t had before he came back from Richmond that last time. Doug and Terry began talking about country life as they walked into the dining room. One wall was covered above the sideboard with glassed cabinets. Maude wanted to extend her senses and test each container for trapped souls, but she feared attracting attention to her powers. Entities crowded the house.

  Then Maude saw a dried gourd birdhouse, one shaped like a lopsided dumbbell, with green plastic clay blocking the entrance. A cord went around the neck between the large bottom section and the smaller upper swelling, tied once. I’ll just steal it, Maude decided, say I thought it was the boy vs. soul At least I can say I tried.

  All this seemed so stupid. Did she want to save the boy’s soul? She opened the cabinet and picked up the gourd. Was she wanting herself to save the boy’s soul or was an entity guiding her thoughts?

  John, smelling of gunpowder, reached around her and took the gourd. Maude asked, “Why is there clay stopping it up?”

  “It’s full of black powder,” John said. He tied the two free ends of the cord together and slung the gourd around his neck.

  Doug said, “Can I see it? I used to make black powder when I was a kid. We’d pour it across a road and set it on fire.”

  John said, “The black thief thought I was trapping his soul in here.” He smiled at Maude.

  “Did you?”

  “Petit bon ange,” Terry said. “If I remember my voudoun correctly. What you want working for you is le corps cadaver.”

  “Maude, why are you so curious?” John asked. “Here, open your hands.” He took the gourd off his neck and began to pull the clay out of the hole.

  Maude opened her hands. What John poured on them smelled of charcoal and sulfur. John put his lips to the gourd and sucked. “Maude,” he said, his lips rimmed with grey powder, “did you tell the niggers where I am?”

  “No.”

  “Then it was that crazy bitch Sue,” John said. “Maybe we can drive her to suicide.” He opened his mouth. Between his teeth, Maude saw a tiny black homunculus. “Petit bon ange,” John said. His tongue went thin and long and wrapped around the tiny figure. His lips closed.

  “What did you say?” Doug asked.

  John swallowed. “Sue told friends of hers in Richmond where I was,” John said. Maude realized only she could have seen the tiny figure in his mouth.

  “Maybe you ought to go somewhere else,” Doug said.

  “I can’t,” John said. He smiled. “I win here. Maude, tell the niggers I ate their baby.”

  Terry said, “Are you staying for dinner? John, you need to wash the lead off your hands.”

  John opened his mouth impossibly wide. Maude heard the black child calling for help. None of the others seemed to have noticed anything. Maude said, “And he should wash the powder off his face.”

  “What powder?” John said. The grey powder Maude saw earlier around his mouth had disappeared. She saw the gourd in his hand, the plastic still in the hole.

  “Can I see that?”

  “We found it in the attic,” Terry said, as though no one had spoken since John took it out of Maude’s hands.

  “it’s very fragile,” John said. “I put the clay in it to keep mice from eating it from the inside out.”

  “It looks like something you’d keep black powder in,” Maude said. Had she and John been talking earlier in a separate time? She tried to feel for time whirls, but her senses seemed smothered.

  “Black powder’s kept in horns,” John said.

  “We used to make black powder when I was a kid,” Doug said. Was he repeating himself, or was this the first time he spoke? Maude couldn’t tell.

  John smiled and put the gourd back in the cupboard. Maude decided to steal it.

  Terry said, “The stew should be done by now. I’ll put some cornbread in and we can eat in fifteen minutes.”

  Maude locked eyes with John, then looked away. Don’t look at the gourd again—no, it doesn’t matter, he knows you want to steal it John, or the entity animating John during the lost time, seemed to be mocking her. Maude thought she could match anyone who wasn’t consciously in touch with the entities, could probably match most witches if she allied with an entity. Hi, John’s entity, I can deal.

  John said, “I’ve got to clean my guns.” He slung the Chinese semiauto over his shoulder. The bayonet was mounted.

  After John had gone down to the basement, Doug asked, “Terry, doesn’t the gun stuff bother you?”

  “We have different attitudes about guns than Yankees do,” Terry said. Doug and Maude watched her mix the cornbread and put it in the oven, then they went out to watch the mountains.

  Wart Mountain trailed a cloud. Maude remembered going on top of a hill in San Francisco one foggy night and seeing stars through a void the hill and wind pushed through the clouds, a banner of clear air waving over and behind the hill. Now, she saw a cloud banner in clear sky.

  “It’s almost magical,” Terry said. Then she looked at her watch and added, “The cornbread’s done.”

  John came up from the basement smelling of guncleaning solvent and gun oil. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink while Terry took the cornbread out of the oven. Maude saw bowls, plates, and silverware already set out.

  “It’s venison stew,” Terry said. “John killed the deer. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Doug.”

  “No.”

  “So many Californians who move here are,” Terry said.

  John said, “We’re thinking about inviting this hippie couple over and serving them boar’s head or suckling pig.”

  Maude said, “What’s the point of gratuitously offending people?”

  Doug said, “I wouldn’t be offended.” The others didn’t respond to Maude at all. She felt shoved away from the others at the table, a welfare cheat who hadn’t done much with her life.

  John dried his hands and looked at Doug. “But my guns do offend you.”

  “Guns themselves don’t offend me.”

  Terry said, “Let’s talk about guns after dinner. John’s got a federal firearms dealer’s license and lots of catalogues.”

  Doug either flinched or shrugged, a
body movement too tight to be interpreted, and asked, “Do we serve ourselves?”

  “Yes, and you can pick out the meat if you don’t want it,” Terry said as though she didn’t really believe a Northern Californian would eat dead deer.

  Doug ladled himself a full bowl, trying not to avoid anything. Maude tried to eat only the vegetables, not wanting to eat illegal deer. Terry and John took the cornbread first, then served themselves the stew.

  The stew was excellent, venison in a wine sauce, stewed for almost a day to turn the cartilage to jelly. Muscle fibers detached from the meat lumps and wrapped themselves around the vegetables. Terry added the vegetables late enough in the cooking for them to hold their texture.

  Maude was impressed. The food relaxed her. “What can you hunt with a redtail hawk?” she asked Terry.

  “She’s figured out that we’ll feed her, so I’m having trouble getting her to fly at rabbits,” John said. “I’m thinking of sending her off downwind to prey at fortune, so to speak. Terry has hope for her.”

  “Shakespeare,” Doug said. “‘If I prove her haggard, though her jesses be my dear heart strings, I’d loose her down wind to prey at fortune.’ More or less.”

  Maude remembered Othello and felt criticized even though Doug would have been absurd to expect virgins at pick-up bars. She looked at him and said, “Othello thought he knew what Venetians were like. And he was dead wrong.”

  John said, “Blacks always can be fooled. Voudoun’s a prime example.”

  Maude remembered the gourd. She felt a slight jolt, as though a magic line tightened. Be invisible, she thought, remembering how her father’s people made themselves small.

  Terry said, “I married John because few computer programmers read literature. So, Doug, you’re also more than an engineer.”

  Doug nodded. Maude wondered if he would show enough interest in guns, however feigned and polite, to distract John while she went for the gourd.

  While the women loaded the dishwasher with the dirty dishes, John went back downstairs for his gun catalogues and books on Mausers and Brownings. He brought them up and spread them over the kitchen table, saying to Doug, “See, I could get you a used Colt automatic pistol for $250.”