Black Water

by Bobby Norman

  “What’m I gonna wear when I get out?” She nodded to the dress-draped chair. “My clothes’s all wet.”

  “That’s awright,” he sloughed it off. “They’ll dry drekly ‘n you’cn stand by the fire ‘til they do.” He took the washrag and soap and started for her shoulders. “Here, I’ll hep ya.”

  “No!” she chirped, leanin’ away from him like he was the troll that lived under the bridge. Then, from the surprised look on his face, she wondered if maybe she’d jumped too quick. “Thank you, but I can do it.”

  He laughed nervously, rubbed the soap into the washrag, and asked, “How ya gonna wash yer back, silly? Monkey’s is th’only things can wash their own back. You ain’t a monkey, are ya?” He pulled a chair beside the tub, pushed the blanket to the floor, hiked up his pants legs and set down. “Come on now, stand up.”

  She just looked at him, scrunch-eyed. He couldn’t be serious.

  But he was.

  Very.

  Like a boil fest’rin’ to a head, he’d invested a lot o’ time and energy fantasizing about those little nubs, so tight they could barely jiggle, and he’d never been more serious about anything in his life.

  “Lootie? Git up. Now. I ain’t foolin’ ‘round n’more. Yer Mama give ya a bath ‘n it ain’t no differnt with me. I went t’th’trouble o’ fixin th’water ‘n you ain’t got a dang thing I wanna see,” while the sight of her puffy little breasts, smooshed up against her thigh was drivin’ him crazy.

  There are few times in one’s life where they can honestly say they’d come to a crossroads. For Roach and Lootie, this was one of ’em. Roach’d drawn a line in the sand, and he was waitin’ to see what she was gonna do. With the help of the bottle, he’d already crossed the fine line between reality and fantasy. Lootie had no idea how close she was to losin’ not only her virginity, but quite possibly…her life. She could be raped, strangled, and buried in a mulchy hole fifty yards from the house before the sun came up and no one would ever know. It was damn sure no one would care.

  She’d never stood up to an adult before and she wouldn’t start with her father tonight. Pearl had told her many times, “He’s lazy ‘n he ain’t very smart, but he’s still yer Papa, ya do what he says ‘n don’t sass ‘im no more’n ya would me.” Lootie’d taken her lessons to heart.

  It saved her life.

  Givin’ in to his demand, she pushed herself up with her right arm clamped across her chest and her left hand cupped ‘twixt her legs. She only had two hands and bein’ that they’s occupied, that left her well-rounded, blood-boilin’ rear end exposed.

  Seein’ her compliance, he softened his tone. “At’s better,” he said, swishin’ the washrag in the warm, soapy water. He brought it up to the back of her neck and wrung it out over her shoulders. He watched the warm sudsy water run down the curve of her back. “Now, don’t that feel good?” Soapy bubbles slitherin’ between her tightly squeezed butt cheeks made his pecker moan. It was either look away or fill his pants.

  “Ya know, I been athinkin’…when spring comes back around, we’ll hafta plant us some veg’tables like you ‘n Pearl used t’do. Jes you ‘n me? Wouldn’ ’at be fun? Whadaya think’d be good? Maybe some t’matas,” he continued, trying to get her mind off what he was doin’ and slyly movin’ the washrag down her back. “Okra…”—along the outside of her legs—“…a few o’ them sweet yella onions. You like them don’tcha? Maybe some sweetaters.” Then his soapy hand slid between her thighs well above her knees. “A little bit o’….”

  She abruptly squeezed her legs together and looked over her shoulder. “Thank you. I can do th’rest.” She slunk back into the water, rewrapped her arms around her knees and turtled up.

  She hadn’t moved fast enough, though, and he’d caught a glimpse of her little clam and the fuzz, far too little yet to cover it. The fuse was lit, and it was a short one. He pictured draggin’ her out o’ the water, throwin’ her on the bed, spreadin’ her legs, and fuckin’ her. Hard.

  “Papa?”

  Papa was lookin’ at the cleavage between her legs that was already seared into his brain.

  “Papa? Look at me. Please.”

  He did, and for whatever reason, caught as surely as a fly in a spider web, he couldn’t look away. The black eye had him nailed.

  “Thank you. Now, go outside ‘n let me finish.”

  He blinked, fighting to do as she asked.

  “And stay out there this time. Please.”

  She’d asked so sweetly, it affected him. Maybe he’d pushed it enough for the first time. He’d had his hands on her. Given her a little taste of what could be. In the next couple o’ days she’d be thinkin’ about it and wonder what it woulda been like if she had only let him go a little futher. He knew her reluctance was just ignorance. She was still pretty young. There’d be many, many more opportunities like this’n, and she’d eventually warm up to it.

  “Awright,” he said, with one last, longing peek, and dropped the washrag into the water. He pushed hisself up off the edge o’ the tub and turned quickly so she wouldn’t notice the throbbing protrusion in his britches. “Holler when yer done.”

  She watched him leave and close the door. Then she looked to the window alongside and saw the poor excuse for a curtain was closed. She heard his voice, muffled through the door.

  “You hurry up, now. It’s cold out hyere.”

  “Thank you, I will,” she said, but kept her eye on the door for a few seconds just in case he decided to jump back in again. The water was startin’ to get cold so she got up and quickly finished scrubbin’, unaware that Roach was outside in the dark, peekin’ in the tiny crack between the curtains, while his hand slid over his pecker like there wasn’t no tomorrow. She drug the washrag between the lips on the near-hairless little slit and his cucumber exploded, spittin’ goo on his shoe.

  Pearl was in the cold, hard ground six years, two months, one week and two days the first time Roach and Lootie shared a bed. All Lootie’d ever slept on was a cot, the kind army soldiers or prospectors used in tents. The only thing beneath her was the rough, canvas, sling-like bottom, and with winter comin’ on, it got miserable cold at night. He explained that the reason for havin’ to sleep in the same bed, together, was to save on firewood and keep each other from freezin’ to death.

  Sharing a bed come to a head not long after it started. Lootie’d seen enough of her little animal friends rasslin’ and ridin’ piggy-back to know that the growth between Roach’s legs wasn’t caused by roomatiz like he claimed. As time went on, he got bolder and bolder, until one night in mid-February, with his brain anesthetized from a snoot full of whiskey, he started runnin’ his hands clumsily over her legs. He’d touched her before, but always made like it was a slip o’ the hand when he turned over. He turned over a lot. That night, it wasn’t a slip; one hand boldly moved to her crotch while the other stroked his legless Cyclops.

  She grabbed his hand before it reached its destination, threw his arm back, yanked the thin covers off, and jumped out o’ bed.

  “STOP IT! You ain’t doin’ that no more! I know whatchu want ‘n it ain’t gonna happen! You ain’t givin’ me no more baths…,” she spat, her little fists clenched, “’n you ‘n’ me ain’t sleepin’ in th’same bed no more, either. I’ll sleep on th’cot ‘r th’floor ‘r standin’ up like a horse if I have to. Yer my Papa, ‘n it ain’t right!”

  It’d happened so fast, the booze took aholt of Roach’s mouth way ahead of his soggy brain, and it was his turn to jump up. “Well, I’ll tell you somethin’, you think yer s’dadgum smart. NO! I ain’tchur papa. ‘N Pearl? She weren’tchur mama! Yer real mama was a dadgum albino witch, bitch, whore everbody called Smoke ‘n she was bad fucked b’th’Devil hisself ‘n that’s th’festered pecker ‘n th’stinkin Hell hole you come from!” He clapped his arms over his chest and jutted out his jaw. “So, whadaya think o’ that?”

  “You’re a liar!” she barked.

  “Bullshit I am!” he boasted. “Pearl
‘n me come on yer mama…fried as a fish in a skillet ‘n jest’s dead, but Pearl wouldn’t leave it alone. Noooo, no, God jabbed a stick o’ lightnin’ up Smoke’s witchy, snow-white ass, but Pearl knowed more’n dadgum God. She sliced up yer mama,” he pointed to his crotch, “from here…”—and drug his thumb up to his breastbone— “…t’here ‘n fished you out.”

  Then he thought of something and pointed his finger at her. “You know what?” He stepped off the bed and stalked carefully in the dark to the table, snatched up the knife with the leather-wrapped handle, and brought it back to her.

  “That’s th’very dang knife Pearl gutted ‘er with. I pried it out o’ th’dead fingers o’ th’dead hand on th’dead arm that’d got blowed clean off ‘n laid in th’muddy road.” He waggled it in front of her face, then tossed it back to the tabletop. “Your real mama had six fingers on her dadgum hands.” He shivered at the memory.

  Lootie looked at it, imagining. “My mother?”

  “Yep!” he said, smartassey. Then he chinned to her face. “How’dju git them scars? What was it blinded yer eye?”

  She didn’t understand why he was asking. He knew what it was.

  “Come on…tell me…,” he pushed. “What was it?”

  “I’s lightnin’ struck.”

  “When?” he demanded, thrusting his chin out.

  “I don’t understand why yer sayin’ these things ‘r why yer askin’ me this. You know when.”

  “Yeah,” he said, smartalecky, “I do, but I don’t think you do. When was it?”

  “I don’t know zackly how old I was. I’s a baby.”

  “Ha!” he chirped. “No, you wasn’t! You wasn’t no old! When Pearl cutchur mama’s belly open, you come out lookin’,,” he jabbed a finger at her face with every word, “…jes…like…’at! Th’lightnin’ ‘at gotchur mama ‘n blew ‘er arm off in t’th’road’s th’same one fried yer face.” He put his hands on his hips. “So…therrrre ya go…noooow ya know. You ‘n me ain’t no blood kin a’tall! But, ’spite all th’trouble you been, I been takin’ care o’ ya all these years ‘n Good God Dangit, I oughta get somethin’ for it! I’m a man ‘n I got a man’s needs tooken care of, ‘n YOU ain’t gonna get nobody else.”

  Lootie was struck dumb, both at what he’d said and the venom in the telling. How could he talk to her like that, knowin’ he was in the wrong? He was wrong! He was storyin’ ‘bout another woman. Another mother. He was lyin’! He had to be.

  Didn’t he?

  Then she remembered. Of course he was lyin’! He’d slipped up! Pearl herself said she was the first to hold her. She’d talked about how hard the birthin’d been, but Lootie’d been worth ever painful second of it. She wanted to scream back at him and tell him he was a big ol’ liar again…

  …but was he?

  Nothin’ Roach said went against what Pearl’d told her. She had been the first to hold her. She had suffered through the painful birth, had been a part of it. Pearl hadn’t lied to her, she just hadn’t told her the truth.

  Pearl wasn’t her mama.

  Roach calmed down some and tried another approach. “I know yer actin’ this away ‘cause yer changin’, turnin’ to a woman. Y’all go a little nutty when it happens. It’s natural. I can see it.” He sniffed animatedly and nodded to her crotch. “I can smell it. Yer sproutin’ titties ‘n I know ya’started th’bleedin ‘n with th’bleedin’ comes th’needin’, butcha see, that ain’t nothin’ you oughta feel bad ‘bout ‘cause it’s natural, and ya oughta know that I wantchu ever bit as bad as you want me.”

  Her eyes goggled in astonishment. “Are you crazy? You can’t really believe that. Wantchu? Me? Lord, no, I don’t wantchu. Why would I? You’re old ‘n I ain’t, ‘n you been my papa all my life, ‘n even now, learnin y’ain’t, it don’t make no dif’ernce.”

  Not one to cut a good argument short, Roach jumped back in. “I told you y’ain’t gonna get n’body else. Yer ugly, face full o’ scars, you only got th’one good eye ‘n it’s black! Everbody knows ya come out of a witch.”

  Lootie was shaking in rage and confusion but she couldn’t deny the accusations.

  Roach helt out his hands. “Listen, there ain’t nothin’ left t’argee ‘bout. You think on this. I can’t stand it no more, I’m up agin th’wall! Startin’ t’night…’n I mean you spreadin’ yer legs ‘n satisfyin’ my needs t’night, or t’morrow, when th’sun comes up, you get out. You pack yer clothes ‘n get out ‘n find somers else t’live. Drive somebody else crazy. I’ll tell ya th’truth…if ya do, I’ll pine for ya no end, but I can’t go on this away.

  “I don’t like sayin’ it, but matin’ with you’s all I think about. Don’t let on like you don’t know whatchur doin’ either. Prancin’ ‘round, bendin’ over in ‘at little dress, drawin’ yer shoulders back, stretchin’, pushin outchur titties. I can’t git nothin’ done fr’thinkin’ about it. Now, I ain’t lied ‘bout where ya come from ‘n I humbled m’self barin’ m’soul ‘bout how I feel for ya. I’m sorry ‘bout some o’ th’things I said here, m’back was up, but if ya stay with me, I’ll love ya ever bit like I done Pearl ‘n I’ll take care o’ ya just’s good, but we ain’t goin’ on th’way it’s been no more.” He took a step back, folded his arms on his chest, and toed another line in the sand. “So…what’s it gonna be?”

  Lootie thought about all the concern, love, devotion, and caring he’d given Pearl, and it made her as mad as a scalded cat. But before she could slap him silly or scratch his eyes out, she jerked the one and only blanket they had off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and without givin’ him another look, stomped to the door, yanked it open, stepped outside, and slammed it shut.

  The cold was almost physical. She gripped the edges of the blanket and pulled ’em around her, tight, her head turtled down into her hunched-up shoulders. Her fisted hands wrapped in the blanket were bunched under eyes that darted here and there, lookin’ for an answer. There wasn’t one, and nowhere she could go beyond the porch to find one.

  The woman she’d believed all her life to be her mother, wasn’t. The rut-ravaged weasel she’d believed to be her father, wasn’t. All she was to him was a thing. A thing to do with as he pleased. She was no more than a dog he could kick out anytime he wanted. She was property. If she wanted to stay, she had to agree that he owned her. A slave he could have his way with anytime he wanted. Fork it over, or when the sun come up, pack up and get out. But, pack up what? She had nothin’ to pack up. She didn’t even have her own name.

  Then a moment of clarity washed over her and she asked herself what would be th’diff’rence between t’morrow mornin ‘n right now? Hours? That’s all. Nothin’ more. Almost like it was a sign, her body stopped shakin’. She took three steps and clenched her toes over the edge o’ the cold, rough-hewn porch planks. She looked into the cold night and wondered: How long would it take t’freeze t’death?

  Tears she didn’t know were coming ran down her face. They felt hot against her freezin’ cheeks. She didn’t know exactly why she was cryin’. Fear? Humiliation? A life unfulfilled? She hadn’t felt this low, this lost, this helpless, since Pearl’s death. Then she thought of somethin’ Pearl’d told her, and her pulse quickened. It was a last resort. She looked up into the sky and said, “Dear God…”

  ...and then she stopped.

  “Dear God...”

  ...she tried again, but she didn’t know what to ask. Maybe make Roach not wanna...but a memory, a picture come to mind. Pearl’s tortured face and lip-curlin’ stench of rot and decay. A lot o’ good beggin’ to God’d done Pearl. The hopeful spark in Lootie’s eye shut down and her jaw tightened. She looked up, once again, into the star-flecked sky.

  “Dear God…”

  …and this time, she had no trouble findin’ the words.

  “…go t’Hell.”

  Lookin’ into the cold dark woods, she took a deep, steadying breath and dropped her arms to her side. That allowed the blanket to slide off her shoulders and fall to
the porch in a crumpled pile at her heels. She waited a couple more seconds, and when lightnin’ didn’t strike her dead like Roach said it had her mother, wearin’ only her thin nightshirt, she stepped off the porch, and melted into the cold, dark night.

  Roach’d expected her to come right back in. When she didn’t, he blinked a couple o’ times, got back in bed, pulled up what scant covers that were left and laced his fingers in back of his head.

  A quarter hour later, and thoroughly ashamed of herself, having discovered that she was a pitiable coward, Lootie slipped back in the shack and threw the blanket at Roach. She pulled the bottom of her nightshirt up to her waist and got in bed. Her teeth were chattering and her body quivering. She clenched her arms tightly to her side and spread her legs without sayin’ a word. With no pretense of love-making, Roach hiked up her legs, her heels to her butt, got on his knees between ’em, and wrapped his hands around her cold knees. The skin on his pecker was as tight as a drum, ready to romp, but before he could take it any futher, she put her hands on his.

  “I ain’t givin’ you nothin’,” she hissed, her lips drawn back. “Yer takin’ it. ‘N I’m allowin’ it only ‘cause I got nowhere else t’go ‘n not ‘cause I owe you anything. As long’s I’m here, you can take it. I’m agreein’ t’all that. But…you stick it in me now, yer agreein’ t’what I say, too.”

  He’d never seen this Lootie before and he was some spooked. She was a witch, after all. “T’what?” he asked, lookin’ in that depthless black eye.

  Calmly, and without any doubt she meant it, she told him, “You ever say anything nasty ‘bout Pearl again,” she nodded in the direction o’ the table, “that knife over there? I’ll stick it in yer heart…’n I’ll kill you over ‘n over ‘n over.”

  “You’d kill yer own papa?”

  “You ain’t my papa. Yer old, yer stupid, ya stink, ‘n I’d stick you faster ‘n quicker’n you’cd blink. Even if you was my papa. I got nothin’ t’lose. You awready give ‘way my soul.”