“Then here.”
“Thank you!”
“It’s clean, you can just eat it plain. We clean the tomatoes in the evening, with cloths to make them shine.”
“It feels cold,” Lurhetta said, “like it’s been in a refrigerator.”
“Earth of the pits does that,” Mr. Killburn told her. “Keeps them fresh very long. Fresh and cold.”
Didn’t ask me if I wanted one. “I have to skin that rabbit,” M.C. said. He shifted his weight and wrung his hands. They felt clammy. “Lurhetta, you want to watch?”
“Oooh, no!” she said.
“Don’t you just hate the way rabbit looks when it lay all still and dead?” Ben spoke eagerly, sympathizing with her.
“You’re the one told me it was in the trap,” M.C. said. His voice quavered, as anger at Ben shook him.
“Well, just because it was trapped,” Ben said. “Things trapped get so wild.”
“You offered to skin it for me,” M.C. said.
“Don’t think I would have, though,” Ben said, not meeting M.C.’s eyes.
“None of my children ever kill an animal, let alone skin it,” Mr. Killburn said.
“You kill snakes,” M.C. said softly, unwilling to say too loudly that Killburn killed the same as he did.
“When necessary, but I don’t eat them,” Killburn said.
They all laughed at M.C. Again the grandmother cackled behind his back.
Witchy eyes, everywhere.
“I have to go.” But no one seemed to hear M.C. And he stood there, reluctant to stay and almost afraid to leave.
“How are you for snakes?” Mr. Killburn asked Lurhetta.
“Oh, I’m not too friendly with them,” she said.
Killburn laughed. “Well, here,” he said. He went over to a bushel basket, one that M.C. hadn’t noticed had a plank lid with a heavy stone on it. Killburn removed the stone and lid and reached into a mass of quivering shadows.
“Oh, no!” Lurhetta said.
“It’s just the green-grass,” Ben said.
“I had to punish them,” Mr. Killburn said. “But here, give a look-see.”
Carefully, he covered the basket again and came back over to them. He lifted his hand in a fist, from which a small, green head peeked.
Lurhetta stepped back.
“Don’t be afraid. He is harmless,” Killburn told her. “Look, see how graceful he is. Don’t be scared, look at him close.”
They all came close to see, even M.C. The snake was the palest green. Each tiny scale was pale and green, except for the scales around the snake’s mouth. They were red and caused the snake to look as though it had just feasted on something bloody.
“Now. Touch his head,” Killburn ordered. He was speaking softly and with good humor.
Cautiously, Lurhetta lifted a finger and gently petted the snake until its tongue darted out and she jerked her hand away.
“He won’t hurt,” Killburn said. “His tongue is a feeler, just like insects have feelers. That’s the way he finds out and tells me whether you are friend or foe.” Killburn laughed.
Lurhetta stared at him and gently touched the snake again. “Why do you punish them?” she asked.
“Oh, well. Now this one,” Killburn said, “I call him March Noon because that was the time I first caught him—he gave me several nightmares. You see, the green-grass is pure pleasure to people. Put him on your pillow when you’re feeling sick, and he will lick away the fever. He will bring you the prettiest dreams.”
“Really?” Lurhetta said, smiling.
“Oh, sure now,” Killburn said. “Be near your last breath and he will guard you. And Death come near, he will curl himself into a bracelet. For Death can’t stand a bracelet of green-grass around his neck.”
“I have to go,” M.C. said faintly.
“See you, M.C.,” Ben said, his witchy hand smoothing along the back of the snake Killburn now let slither up his arm.
“M.C., I’ll see you later,” Lurhetta said. Sucking at the tomato, she still touched the snake with the other hand.
“Come for supper. Meet my mother,” M.C. said.
“You going to eat that rabbit for supper?” Ben asked him. Something of their friendship of a few hours ago passed between them. Ben, innocent, and learning from M.C. But on the Mound, somehow that friendship was changing.
“Making a rabbit stew,” M.C. thought to say.
“I’ve never tasted rabbit, but I do like meat,” Lurhetta said.
“Well, we won’t hold it against you,” Mr. Killburn said. And then: “What part of the state you come from?” Soon they were deep in conversation again. Killburn returned the green-grass to his punishment and stood amiably, with his thumbs again hooked around the bib straps of his overalls.
“I come from Alliance,” she told him, “but I’ve been practically everywhere else. I love to travel.”
“See you later,” M.C. said. Shyly, he waved and momentarily caught Lurhetta’s attention. Absently, she nodded but went on talking.
M.C. skirted the pits and the old grandmother, not looking at her. But she reached out for him.
“Here!” she said, cackling. She pulled him around to face her and thrust a cabbage head hard in his belly. “Someone to talk to,” she said.
“I don’t want it.”
“Here!”
He took the cabbage and blundered on. Uncle Joe Killburn in the doorway fell back just enough to let him by.
“Luck with the cabbage head,” Uncle Joe said, his voice like a cat’s purr.
Witchy, kill you. Burn you at the stake.
Uncle Joe grinned. Gray eyes the color of a sparrow’s rain-soaked underbelly. “Now you put that in with the rabbit,” he said, “and when hit’s done, you throw away the rabbit and you got yourself something.”
M.C. walked away as fast as he could without appearing a coward.
He went through the pine trees off the Mound in a dead run, taking the steps of the rock path two, three at a time. He didn’t slow down until he reached the swinging bridge. There he glanced around to make certain no witchy was following him. With a powerful heave, he threw the head of cabbage far into the ravine.
M.C. was breathing hard, as if he had run farther than he actually had. Again he scanned the pines above him at the edge of the Mound, but there was no one.
Well, that’s that. Nobody with me, not even Ben.
He would have liked to stay awhile up there, where all seemed fresh with growing and sun.
Except for the witchies. Were they witchies?
What he had seen of them made him ponder a moment. Mrs. Killburn, just as nice. Even Mr. Killburn, not so bad if you didn’t look at his hands or watch his eyes as he handled the green-grass. What he had just seen and what he had known for so long about Killburns mixed in disorder in his mind. He sighed.
Well. Lurhetta probably stay there the rest of the day. But she’ll be over for supper. She said she would.
M.C. started across the swinging bridge. His rabbit lay there where he had left it. It looked different, somehow. He crept closer.
The rabbit had been turned clear the other way, with its head away from the Mound.
Who’s been fooling around?
The quiet seemed to close in. Branches of gnarled trees in the ravine dripped moisture and answered nothing.
Bending to pick up the animal, M.C. sprang back in mid-motion.
In death, the rabbit looked to be peacefully resting on its side, gazing down at the stream below. Except that each of its four feet had been sliced cleanly away. A rosy stain of blood covered each stump.
I killed it clean. Not like that.
He searched the Mound.
Dirty devils! What kind of power, if they need rabbit’s feet for luck? Be glad to get away from here.
He bent down again and tenderly cradled the rabbit. He carried it that way all the way home.
Make a stew out of you like she never tasted.
Slipping through trees on Sarah’s Hig
h, M.C. made no sound. No Ben to stalk him. Only a dead animal for company.
M.C., alone.
13
A TIME JUST before twilight. The ball of red sun balanced at the summit of Grey Mountain before beginning its slide down the westward face.
The dude was back. He had come the right way this time, through the gully and up the side of Sarah’s Mountain belonging to Jones.
“What do you think he wants now?” Jones said, absently scratching a mosquito bite on his arm. He and M.C. and the children sat on the porch steps waiting for evening.
James K. Lewis had arrived seconds before Banina Higgins came into view on the low hill across from Sarah’s. And emerging from the briers, Lewis was about to call a greeting to M.C. and Jones when Banina’s yodel split open the sky. He stood rooted to the spot, as though someone had struck him a blow between his shoulder blades. Surprise of recognition and then disappointment spread over his face.
“Hurry, get out your tape machine. It’s Mama coming home,” M.C. called to him.
The dude came slowly to the porch. Jones and the children were on their feet and looking off toward the sound of Banina’s voice.
“How-do, Mr. Jones . . . Higgins,” the dude said. “How-do, children.”
Macie Pearl gave him her sweet smile. Jones grunted and nodded in his direction. All of them, except for M.C., glided off the porch to the edge of Sarah’s.
“That’s her real voice you’re hearing,” M.C. said.
“You didn’t tell me she could yodel,” Lewis said.
“She can sing, can’t she? Ought to know she could yodel,” M.C. said.
He felt slightly irritated at the dude for no reason; and at the same time he felt fluttery and excited. Lurhetta Outlaw would be coming over to eat with them. The dude would probably tell them what he intended to do with Banina’s voice.
“It’s a low-down shame,” the dude was saying. I’m clean out of tapes.”
“Oh, no,” M.C. said.
Banina’s pure yodel broke off suddenly.
“Howdy-howdy, child!” her singing voice rang out.
“Howdy-howdy, ma’am!” the children called back, their voices young and tender on the air.
“A hang-down day, a long, long way—howdy howdy-howdy!” Banana’s voice echoed and re-echoed.
“Howdy howdy-howdy!” the children called. The howdys bounced like huge laughter around the hills.
It was a ring-song their mama was calling. M.C. knew it well.
Wouldn’t you know dude wouldn’t have not one single tape to catch it? M.C. thought.
He looked slyly at James Lewis. If the dude stayed long enough, he’d run right into Lurhetta Outlaw. He sure would be surprised to see how M.C. and her had become friends.
M.C. smiled. He’d get Banina to sing the ring-song all the way through. That should take at least an hour.
M.C. leaned back comfortably to wait. The dude stood there with the voices of the children and Banina’s surrounding him. He stared off toward her sound, looking sick to his soul as it escaped him. Finally he eased the tape machine off his shoulder. M.C. took it from him and placed it on the porch. Lewis fished around in his pockets. Dressed in the jacket and suede hat, he looked rumpled and tired. After a moment he found a tape cassette already labeled and used, which he stood holding absently in one hand.
Soon they could hear Banina toiling up the mountainside. Breathing hard through snatches of song, she laughed at herself. The laughter was relief to be home again, about to witness the respect they showed her by being there when she arrived.
The dude stood straighter as she came into the yard. He waved a cautious greeting, but she hadn’t seen him yet. M.C. got to his feet. He wasn’t on his pole, he realized at the last minute. He hadn’t been near the pole the whole afternoon. After coming home from Kill’s Mound, he’d taken care of the rabbit. But he thought little about that now.
Banina was dressed in blue this evening. She grabbed Lennie Pool and swung him once around in a circle.
Just this morning, M.C. thought. She and I, swimming. Seems like days ago.
“Mercy!” Banina said, putting Lennie down. “That took my last strength, I swear.” A frown, a tired despair passed over her face before it vanished.
Macie hopped and jumped until her mother caught her around the neck. Banina grabbed Harper and stood holding the two of them close. She stared at Jones.
Different from Killburns, M.C. thought. Closer somehow.
Jones wore a frayed but starched white shirt open at the throat, and pale blue trousers. He nodded at Banina, but did not smile.
Almost shy. Like it’s the first time he ever did see her.
M.C. thought again of Lurhetta Outlaw. Where is she, anyhow?
“We have the supper just about all ready,” Jones told Banina.
“Now that’s a homecoming,” Banina said.
“Good old rabbit stew,” Harper said.
“M.C., you caught a rabbit?” Banina called over to him.
“Caught him good. A big one,” M.C. said.
Jones said, “I put some potatoes left over from lunch in with him. And some carrot and onion and some jowl bacon. And then with a little molasses for some thickening. M.C. says that makes the best of gravy.”
“Sounds mighty good,” Banina said.
“And some lemonade,” Macie said. “Not no cider this day.”
“You’re not on your pole!” Banina called to M.C. in mock surprise, and spied the dude behind him. “Oh.” She pulled back, somewhat cautious.
“How-do, ma’am,” Lewis said. “Begging your pardon.”
Banina came to the porch with the children hovering close. Jones walked at her side. Far off, yodel cries could be heard. The sun was sinking, soon to bring twilight and other hill children to home. Banina took M.C. lightly by the hand a moment. The children watched wide-eyed, since M.C. had been touched by Mr. Killburn. But then they seemed to settle back, reckoning that Banina’s touch could dissolve the witchy one.
“I know it’s the suppertime,” the dude said. “I just come for a minute, to give you something. Here.”
He handed her the cassette in his hand. Banina released the children. She took the tape with a frown.
“It’s your voice,” Lewis explained. “I thought you might want to have it. I have others.”
Banina stared at the tape. There was something final about the way she smoothed her hand over it once and then palmed it at her side.
“Got a line on some singing people on across-river,” the dude said. “Ever hear of some Halleys over there?”
They shook their heads.
“Well, I’d better get on,” the dude said.
“Mighty thoughtful of you to come way back here and give me it,” Banina said.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything,” Lewis said. “I was getting to like that two-mile hike anyway.”
“You’re welcome to stay for supper,” Banina said.
What’s he doing? What’s going on? M.C. wondered.
“No, no thank you,” the dude was saying. “I’ll be on my way before it gets dark. M.C., I’ll be seeing you. Be seeing all of you the next time around.” He smiled at each one of them and then looked away. He was already traveling in his mind, as his eyes caught onto M.C.’s pole.
“Now that’s a beat-all pole!” he said, with huge sincerity. “Where in the world did you get it?” Before M.C. had time to answer, the dude went on talking: “I saw some like it, though, but way off in Florida.”
“I know, you told me,” M.C. said. “Mr. Lewis—”
“—Set bleacher seats up clear across the beach so folks could sit with their backs to the water,” the dude went on. “And way off down the beach was three men with poles just like yours. They were acrobats, though, the men on the poles were.” He chuckled. “They’d pretend to fall in death, only to be caught up at the last minute by the other fellow on another pole. The folks sitting would scream wild with fear, to see those fellows dare th
e devil. Well. Remind me to tell you all about it the next time I come.”
“Mr. Lewis,” M.C. began, “I’ll walk you down.”
Their eyes met. Just a fleeting look through which terrible doubt met a knowing sadness. The dude nodded.
“Well, then, I’ll get going,” he said, as he took up his tape machine from the porch. He would have formally shaken hands, but he seemed to realize that his coming and going made not the slightest difference to Banina and Jones. He hurried off across the yard with M.C. Twice he glanced back before he called, “So long, folks!”
And they called back, quietly, as he and M.C. went down the side of Sarah’s:
“Bye.”
They made their way slowly, side by side, down the path. M.C. waited anxiously for the dude to tell him something and soon Lewis began. His easy laughter was altogether pleasant as he squinted off at hills. “Son, you know, my father never told me this type of work could be such a long haul. No sir, he just told the pretty parts. Like, he’d say, after months of looking, he’d come upon some shack one time. Way back in the hills in a stand of dogwood or some kind, way beyond trains and bus lines—but he never did tell me about the hours of sudden rain and the sore feet.
“No roads,” the dude went on, “something like this area, he’d come upon a wood-offering with people in it. Hardly worth the rain dripping on the floorboards.”
“And it happens with you the same?” M.C. asked him.
“Yes,” the dude said. “Like, it’s evening time. Just before night. Folks are sitting and I’m still far off, but I can hear that first strum of a guitar. The first voice welcoming the night, just as wispy on the air as a firefly. Or it’s like a scent.” Lewis smiled. “A scent I have to follow because it’s got me like a mystery I have to solve. That voice makes a quiver down in my gut and I follow. And when I can hear it plain, I know it’s a find. And when I get there, that voice pulls me in to where these folks have dug a hold in the dirt of some hill.”
“That’s the way it was when you hear my mother the first time?”
“Even better,” Lewis said. “Your mother is about the best there is. What we like to call a natural.” He stopped on the path. He didn’t look at M.C., but down in front of him. “M.C., I can’t sell your mother’s voice. I never sell nothing much.”
M.C. Higgins, the Great Page 19