The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  All of the pictures were bleak, each one portraying a dry, alien terrain. Toward the back of the thin book there was an essay about Coach Bear Bryant, and his trip to Junction, Texas. When the team arrived there were 111 football players, ten days later only 35 remained, the rest had quit the team, sneaking away one by one.

  The field where they practiced football, in temperatures ranging over a hundred degrees, was near Jar’s house. He couldn’t imagine anyone playing football in this heat. Flipping through the book again he found a name that grabbed his attention. It was under an essay titled, After the War, as told by JP Anderson

  Lloyd Tanner came back from the war, like many small- town soldiers, with his eyes wide open.

  Jar skimmed the next paragraph stopping when his eyes hit the word gypsies.

  Had it not been for the arrival of the gypsies he may have been one of those men who slipped into the night and walked away from Junction, never to be heard from again. Junction was a small town filled with decent people. Like most small towns, Junction didn’t embrace strangers. These strangers were dark, mysterious and transient.

  The narrative switched into first person directly quoting JP.

  A 1931 Ford pick-up truck pulled into the filling station. Lordy, it was a sight. It was painted bright yellow and the back was filled with luggage and on top of all those bags were people. Well they pulled into the filling station and I was politely turning them away, when here come Lloyd Tanner crossing the street. As I recall, I told the old man driving, “No sir, we don’t serve gypsies, vagabonds or niggers.”

  Lloyd stepped up and said, “JP, just what do you think you’re doing?”

  A red color crept up my neck and my face was starting to turn. I whispered to Lloyd. “This is straight from Mr. Wells. I can’t go against what I’ve been told, I’ll lose my job.”

  Lloyd, he looked toward the station and he could see Herman Wells peering out the station window. And he said, “It seems to me Mr. Wells would want as much business as he can get.”

  I whispered again. “He says he doesn’t want to encourage the likes of them to hang around Junction.”

  The absurdity of that last statement caught Lloyd and sent him into a coughing spell. He said, “Well damn, son. How do you suppose they’ll get out of town if you won’t sell them some gasoline?”

  Realizing the dilemma, I backed away and said, “Let me go on and ask Mr. Wells.”

  Lloyd waved me on and said, “You go on, tell Herman, Lloyd Tanner said to stop being so uptight.”

  I wasn’t about to repeat those words. While I was inside, I could see Lloyd had taken to the gypsy girl sitting inside the cab. He was leaning in, talking to her real sweet like. I don’t know what they were saying but when I came back, Lloyd was talking about the war. I broke in on their conversation and said, “Mr. Wells said I can pump them a gallon. Just enough to get them on to the next town.”

  Lloyd cast an annoyed look toward the station. “Well damn, ain’t he a generous saint.”

  I wrung my hands in nervous agitation. The dark men and women were staring at me from the back of the truck. One of those women was carrying a tiny baby. The old man looked like he was ready to cast a curse. I pumped the gallon quickly, and topped it off a little. Then real quick wiped the front window and the headlights with a cloth. I said, “No offense, it’s not me, I’d sell you the gas if it were my station, I’m just doing my job.”

  The old man got back in the truck and cast the girl a dark glare for flirting with Lloyd. The engine sputtered back to life and as they started away. Lloyd ran along side and yelled, “What’s your name?”

  The girl flipped her dark hair and called back. “Anselina.”

  The old man reached over and pinched her leg as they pulled away.

  Impatient to find out what would happen next he flipped forward to see where it was going. Skimming, he missed how Lloyd Tanner met up with the gypsies again. He picked up the narrative on page 73.

  Word got around the gypsies was staying on Tanner’s land. The townsfolk didn’t like it and pretty soon Lloyd and his new friends had to go clear over to Friedburg to get provisions. Over time, things might have died down had it not been for the heat that coincided with their arrival.

  Jar’s heart started to jackhammer in his chest as he continued to read.

  At first it was a typical heat wave. The ranchers were a tough lot and they waited with patience for rain. But the months rolled on and the rain didn’t come. It didn’t take long for a few townsfolk to start mumbling about gypsies and curses. But it was just mumbling. Lloyd Tanner and the gypsies kept to themselves and avoided the town.

  Lloyd had gone ahead and married his gypsy girl and had given a parcel of his land to Anselina’s father as a bride price. Anselina was already with child. O’course as I recollect they lost that first baby must a been about 1949. The gypsies though had ties to the land and to the area by virtue of their own blood. They weren’t going anywhere.

  He turned the page. The rustle of pages in the quite room earned him a pinched look from Ms. Edwards. Ignoring her, he settled deeper into his seat.

  The first real threats came in 1950. Anselina was a proud woman and it bothered her they had to avoid the town. She had herself a respectable man, she was a married woman and she wanted to stroll through the town common like all the other townspeople. Lloyd, I imagine with some trepidation, accommodated her wish and they headed into town. They had no sooner parked the truck and they had a crowd forming. The crowd started rocking the truck back and forth, yelling out, “Go back where you came from. Take your damn curses and go home.”

  After the incident, the frequency of vandalism out on Tanner’s land increased. A rock through a window, an occasional flat tire, unexplained fires, and some of the animals were killed. The vandals used the blood to paint messages. “It’s time to move on.”

  Things escalated from petty vandalism in 1953. A few of the gypsies were riding out on Route 377 in that old yellow Ford, probably coming back from Freiburg. Some of the local boys decided to take matters into their own hands and they ran the truck off the road. A woman and a toddler were in the back along with three other men. They were all killed when the truck rolled.

  A few of the gypsies did put Junction behind them. Anselina’s family stayed on until early 1954. I guess Griffin came along sometime that year. It was the same year the good people of Junction came onto his grandfather’s land and burned everything. Anselina’s family was lost in the fire. It weren’t long after the fire, Anselina slipped away. She left Junction and never came back. After her departure, the heat disappeared as mysteriously as it had come. That alone proved to the townspeople of Junction they had done what needed to be done.

  Jar flipped through the rest of the slim book until he caught sight of a picture that made his blood run cold. He stared at the black and white image of a girl with sunken eyes. It was the same girl who had haunted his dreams. He looked at the caption and breathed the little girl’s name, “Maple McManus.”

  He closed the thin book with trembling hands. He would have swiped it, but Lola Edwards watched him as if she could read his thoughts. Leaving the book on the table, Jar walked out of the library. There was a golden glow over Junction as the moon rose into the night sky. Jar pedaled across town, feeling the hot air against his face. The girl with the sunken eyes stayed with him and he knew first thing in the morning, he was going to ride out to Maple McManus’ ranch.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reserve, Louisiana

  A single pass by Chick’s told Nathan he didn’t want to venture inside. The place was packed and Nathan didn’t have the stomach to discuss Gwen Doucet’s butchered Collie over lunch. He pulled past the diner and parked in the library parking lot. He’d already been there a few days back, looking up the topic of Voodoo, but he figured a second glance at some of the reference material couldn’t hurt. He’d grab something to eat later.

  Mary Dugas, the librarian, greeted Nathan with a
tight smile. Understanding her cool detachment, Nathan touched the tip of his hat in a show of courtesy and nodded toward the reference section. Mary had reported her missing Boston Terrier back in May. At this point, there was little doubt what the fate of her favorite pet had been.

  She acknowledged his unspoken request with a single sentence. “Don’t go leaving a big mess,” and continued scanning a pile of returned books.

  He settled into a hard plastic seat and the smell of musty books enveloped him. As he flipped through the books on Voodoo, he recognized various names like Barron Simondi and Marie Laveau. Summers in Reserve had exposed him to stories about voodoo. As a teenager he had even gone out to St. Louis Cemetery and marked Marie Laveau’s tomb with three Xs, desperately wishing for Margo Roussel to fall in love with him. Margo had gone on to marry Keith Devare and Nathan had grown up and come to realize voodoo was simply a mixture of old wives’ tales and exaggerated accounts publicized by Hollywood.

  Gwen Doucet’s butchered collie wasn’t an exaggerated account. He’d seen it, had to cut it down himself and break the news to Gwen. He pushed the books away in anger. He could read every book published and not get a bit closer to knowing who in his town had cut up that dog. One statistic had surprised him. Fifteen percent of the people surrounding New Orleans still practiced voodoo. The sacrifice of dogs had also raised an eyebrow. Goats, chicken and sheep, yes—but dogs? More than ever he wanted to talk to Nute. Somehow, he knew the old guy was involved. But Nute as Roland had called it had, “gone missing.”

  Nathan left the library an hour later, still confused. He was almost to his truck when he felt someone watching him. He glanced toward Chick’s Diner and saw Narried standing at the back entrance of the restaurant. She didn’t appear to be looking in his direction. In fact she was leaning against the back wall, smoking a cigarette. She could be waiting for a delivery or simply taking a break but he sensed she was waiting for him.

  Following his instincts, he walked across the parking lot. He pointed toward her cigarette and asked, “Mind if I bum one?”

  Narried exhaled with a wide smile, blowing a plume of exotic smoke in his direction. “You don’ smoke.”

  “I could always start.”

  “Mmm.” She pointed toward the library with the hand still holding the cigarette. “You fine anytin’ intrestin?”

  He watched the line of smoke hang in the air and wondered what brand she smoked. The cigarette looked like a slender cigar, brown with gold etching.

  “Just doing a little research.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “About Voodoo?”

  Had it been anyone else, he might have been embarrassed, but she breathed the words into the hot air like they had meaning.

  She rubbed the cigarette against the wall and let the butt drop to the ground. “I imagine what you lookin’ for cahnt be found in a book.” She turned to go through the back door and beckoned for him to follow her. “Come inside. Eat.” She winked. “I know you don’ have lunch.”

  Inside, the temperature defied human tolerance. Along the back wall there were vats of barbeque boiling. A small black girl with her hair pulled back in a red kerchief stood on a chair and used a giant wooden paddle to stir one of the pots.

  Narried called out, pointing to a pot smoking heavily, “Celeste, don’ you let that pork burn.”

  Giggling, Celeste called back, “No ma’am, I won’t.”

  They walked away from the hot kitchen toward the stock room. Behind them a chair scraped across the floor as Celeste changed her position over the boiling pots.

  A small table sat between the large racks of restaurant supplies. Narried settled herself in a chair and he joined her at the table. Sweat pooled under his shirt and along his collarbone. His face glistened. While he was mopping the sweat from his brow, Celeste appeared carrying a plate of red beans and rice and a glass of iced tea. He could have kissed her. The girl scampered away to tend to her boiling pots.

  Narried offered, “That’s my granddaughter. Her daddy’s in de kitchen.” She settled back in her chair, looking him over, sizing him up.

  He felt like a prize pig at the state fair. He half expected her to start poking at his ribs to see how much meat he had on his bones.

  “I use ta know your gran’mother.” The word grandmother rolled off her tongue, the last syllable hanging in the humid air. She paused to sip her own tea, watching him.

  Convinced she could read his mind, he fidgeted under the weight of her eyes. Her next words proved him right.

  “I imagine, you wonderin' what dat has to do wit’ anyting’?”

  He nodded, waiting for her answer.

  “Las’ time it was dis hot we was just girls. She circled her finger in the air. “Life a cycle. You find where it comin’ from you know where it goin’.”

  He laughed. “That’s what I needed today, more riddles.”

  Her smiled widened. “All life a riddle, mon.”

  The smile left his face. He leaned forward, this time making eye contact. “If you know the answer to this one I’d be much obliged if you let me in on it.”

  The long pause that followed made his heart quicken. Had she been waiting for him?

  It was her turn to lean forward. She tapped his chest with a slender finger. “I wonder if you believe the tales of an ol’ womon?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Hmm.” She leaned back in her chair, tracing a finger lightly through the crumbs on the table. “Dat girl who watched over your gran’ mother, you still see her sometime?”

  He shook his head in amusement, still amazed at how little was left unknown in a small town. He said “Elise,” in response to the question. An image of a naked thigh flashed through his mind.

  She waggled her finger at him. “You watch dis girl, no tellin’…” Her words came to an abrupt halt. She didn’t offer an excuse or try to change the topic. Instead she reached into the mysterious folds of her clothing where slender cigars remained hidden. Her hand reappeared with an envelope. She placed it on the table between them.

  “I suspect this goin’ to lead to more questions before it give you any answers.” She gave the packet a brusque tap with the tip of her finger, “I promise Ninon I give it to you if ever the time came you need it.” She pushed the envelope across the small table.

  Nathan sat in silence for a moment contemplating the small packet. There were no markings to give any clue as to the contents but he knew whatever was inside was a message from beyond the grave—a message from his grandmother.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Junction, Texas

  Maple McManus stood in the predawn light of another day, pulling deeply on a cigarette. She had long since rounded the bend of middle age and was moving comfortably toward old age. If she had learned anything in all her years it was that the Texas skies were rarely kind to ranchers and they made no differentiation between men and women. She could proudly boast she worked the land as hard as any man, and each craggy line that marked her face corroborated her words.

  A small radio sat on her kitchen table and through the static she could hear a monotone voice discussing pig futures, the price of grain and the relentless heat. She didn’t need a specialist to tell her about the weather, or the precarious future that loomed just down the road for the ranchers in this area. She’d seen it all before, recognized the signs and knew a drought was coming long before anyone started using the word.

  She opened the screen door and threw down her cigarette, then stubbed it out with the toe of her boot. A gust of wind pulled at the screen door. A fine grit rode the wind and it stung her arm. She rubbed her thumb against her fingertips contemplating the gritty sensation. Sand. Worried eyes searched the horizon. How long before the sandstorm hit town? In the distance, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a coyote let out a mournful cry. The pigs, either spooked by the presence of the coyote or sensing the pending storm, stirred restlessly in their pens.

  The first drought had gotten so bad, all the g
razing land had dried up. Her daddy, always willing to try something new, took the ranch hands out and started burning cactus. They’d spend the day pulling needles out of the burnt cactus, then chop it up and feed it to the cattle. In town, water got so scarce they started selling it by the gallon; at 50 cents, it was more expensive than gasoline.

  There were days when she completely understood why her daddy had taken his own life, and other days when she didn’t believe a word of her own eulogy. Strong people just don’t take their own lives. She stepped back into her kitchen and said out loud, “Hugh, what in the hell were you thinking?” As an afterthought she added, “And why did you shoot the best of the herd? I could have used the meat, or at least the money from the sale of the meat.” She laughed. Hugh would have appreciated the sentiment. On a ranch, business always came first.

  Piles of dirty dishes were stacked on either side of the sink. She grabbed a coffee mug from the heap, gave it a quick rinse beneath the tap, and poured herself a cup of coffee from the stained pot. By the time they had found Hugh out in the field, he and the dead cattle were baking in the late afternoon sun and had attracted quite a swarm of flies. The meat wasn’t salvageable. After taking care of Hugh’s body, she had Lionel and Curtis grind up the dead cattle and feed it to the pigs. Today, the next step in the cycle of life was about to take place.

  Normally she would wait for November, but this heat wasn’t going to give. She had a sense for that, just like her daddy. The pigs were just another thing that needed water. They needed a place to keep themselves clean. She knew before long there wasn’t going to be any extra water to spray into the pigpen. The last thing she needed was a case of Swine Fever to deal with, and unclean pigs sooner or later ended up infected. Better to do it now and smoke the meat than to wait and lose them all.