I charged a nickel a week. If no one was home to pay me, I'd just leave a tiny heap of lime, no more than a handful, down on the floor at the base of the commode. That way they'd know that I come by, and I'd just collect the following week. Daddy kept track of it all in his head, and I did the same. Of course, just after he died, I didn't know who owed what, but most folks were real good about it and paid what they knew was due.
There was one man, though, who was just plain hateful and crooked. Crooked as a barrel full of fishhooks. His name was Wendell Burroughs, and he never had a kind word for nobody. What was left of his hair looked like a mercury-shined nickel. He was short and beanpole skinny, but you could tell he was strong. When he did something as simple as grab a shovel handle, his muscles rippled like pond water. His face and arms were burnt red from making his living off the land. He lived in a tiny shotgun house on the far end of Dr. Love's property, tucked way back in the woods and off to itself.
The first day I showed up without Daddy, he was standing on the front porch atop a steep set of rickety stairs, glaring with hateful eyes down across the yard at me. The privy was about seventy-five feet from the steps, and I'd gone straight to work, not wanting at all to mess with him. I'd seen how he talked to Daddy before, and I didn't expect he'd be any nicer to me.
"Heard your daddy's dead, boy,” he said from the porch as I dumped the first shovelful of slop into the whiskey barrel.
"Yes, sir,” I said. “He passed Saturday evening."
"Well, I didn't owe him nothing, and I don't got no money for you, neither,” he said. “Not today, anyways.” As he climbed down the steps and into the yard, he gimped along like an old fyce with a bad paw.
"That's all right, Mr. Burroughs,” I said. “You can just pay me next week.” I went around to the back of the privy for another shovelful.
"Goddamn, boy, you'd probably go around your elbow to get to your thumb, seeing how you're doing it. Your daddy done it lickety-split."
I'd learned early on to just zip my mouth shut and keep working when dealing with white folks like Wendell Burroughs. I finished up and scatted out of there as fast as I could, repeating to him that next week would be just fine for payment.
Now, Dr. Love couldn't have been more different from Wendell Burroughs. He was a fine man and always kindly to me. He had a fancy house on the west corner of the square in Woodley, with long white columns out on the front porch that stretched all the way to the roof. Thick live oaks shaded the yard, and pretty crepe myrtles added bursts of red all around the property. He loved those crepe myrtles, and lots of times he'd be out in the yard trimming and shaping them. Loved them so much he named his daughter Myrtle May Love. She was born shortly after Daddy died, and over the years that little girl grew on me.
Myrtle May was about the sweetest thing you ever did see. She looked just like that Shirley Temple that was in the movies a few years later. She wore the same frilly dresses and had fluffy locks hanging from her head like little blond sausages. Big blue eyes, too. She was the cutest thing, and you could tell by looking at Dr. Love that she was everything to him. He was getting on in years and had never had any children until Myrtle May come along. She'd always follow me around the yard when I come by. Often times, she'd have a baby-doll in one hand and a carrot in the other.
"Hey, Jim Limey,” she'd say, “you reckon I can feed your horsey a carrot?"
Now Miss Annabelle was a mule, not a horse, but it didn't make no difference to me, I just told her to go right ahead. Myrtle May would get a big kick out of that, giggling and carrying on the whole time Annabelle munched down on the carrot. I'd gotten so I'd always bring some rock candy along that your grandmamma Hixie made out of sorghum. Your grandmamma was Mose's daughter, and I ended up marrying her just after I turned eighteen. Kind of strange that I married the daughter of the man that killed Daddy, I reckon, but I never had no ill will toward Mose. He was a good man. And besides, it wasn't his fault.
Anyway, I kept that candy folded up in my hanky, and I'd always open it up for her before I got started on Dr. Love's privy. I'll never forget those little hands, white and creamy as goat's milk, reaching into my hanky, rooting around for the biggest piece. She always wanted me to eat a little with her.
"Ain't you gonna have a piece, Jim Limey?"
"No, Miss Myrtle May, I don't reckon I will."
"Please have just one square with me,” she'd say, and then I'd go ahead and have a piece. It was like a little game we always played. Then I'd get to work and that smell from the privy would directly drive her away.
Even though I only charged a nickel for my work, Dr. Love always gave me fifteen cents. Every time. And at Christmas he'd give me an extra dollar. Tell me to buy something nice for Mama. I got her a brass picture frame that first year and stuck Daddy's picture in it—the only one she had, which she kept tacked to the wall above her bed. It was a good picture, too, of him wearing his favorite floppy hat and smiling wide. I set it by her little bedside table so it was the first thing she saw on Christmas morning. She come into the kitchen just a boo-hooing, squeezing that frame to her chest, and gave me a bear hug so tight she nearly choked all the breath out of me. I think there were some happy tears mixed in with all those sad ones, though, because she smiled and her eyes said thank you. It nearly got me to crying, seeing Mama like that, knowing how much she missed Daddy.
I can recollect the day he died like it was yesterday. Got knocked upside the head with a horseshoe and it killed him dead on the spot. Deader than a sack of hammers. Like I said before, it was ol’ Mose that did it to him. He and Daddy and Rufus Cupp and Bigbad were playing one Saturday evening. That's what they always did, played horseshoes every Saturday, except when it got too cold sometimes in the winter. They'd get stewed like witches, drinking corn liquor and chewing plugs of tobacco. Had themselves a big time.
After supper that particular evening, Daddy and the others got to tossing shoes while all the ladies sat around on the front porch, gossiping. I was playing mumblety-peg with my little brothers and remember turning toward the pits when Bigbad yelled real loud and sudden at Daddy.
I saw Daddy all bent down, brushing his hand in the river sand that filled the pit, looking for the shoes that Mose and Bigbad had just pitched. But what Daddy forgot—Mama blamed it on the hooch and I reckon she was right—was Mose had only tossed one of his shoes. Mose was in mid pitch and had just let go when Daddy dropped down to check for points, his head leaning right over the steel stake.
Mose was the best player out of all of them. He had himself a pretty throw that turned over and over, and he always pitched more ringers than any of the others, even Daddy. Well, sure enough, Mose was on his way to another ringer when Daddy's skull got in the way. Hit him right in the soft spot on the side of his head. He dropped down, his face full of sand, dead just that quick. At least he didn't suffer none. Mama suffered something fierce.
Well, anyways, one day six years later, on October eighth—I'd headed to town on privy duty. I remember the day exactly because me and Hixie had been married for two years that day and she'd pestered me to stay home. Just like a woman, using all those tricks you women use, keeping us men from doing our jobs. But I told her I had to get on. It took everything I had in me to fight her off, too, because I was still a young jackrabbit back then and Hixie was an eye-popper if there ever was one. But I went on, telling her I'd try and get home early if I could manage. Well, I managed it all right, but not the way I'd planned.
The first sign I had that something wasn't right was when I saw ol’ nutty Caledonia in the street, mumbling something or other. Caledonia was a big, heavy woman and crazy as a coot. She used to keep house for some of the white folks until she went loony. She always walked around wearing a dirty dress and carrying a straw broom, sweeping pine needles and pine cones. But she never did sweep the sidewalk or the street; she only swept the yard, in winter just as likely as summer. And not just in front of her house, in front of every dern house in Woodley, an
d talking to herself all the while. I couldn't ever understand a word she said. All the children, colored and white, they were more scared of her than any haint that might have been floating around in the woods.
I knew something was off when she stopped sweeping and looked up at Miss Annabelle and me when we come rolling into Woodley. Caledonia always kept her head down and didn't pay no mind to anyone that come by, like she was off in her own place somewhere. But this time she looked up at me and spoke clear as day. “It's a dark time, Jim Limey. Dark as death and there ain't no hope.” I didn't know what the devil Caledonia was talking about, but it scared me bad. I didn't even know she knew my name, seeing as how she'd never spoken a direct word to me before. But there she was, talking about death and darkness. It sent a chill running up and down my arms, standing my little hairs on end. I snapped the reins and Miss Annabelle broke into a trot, which must have meant she was scared too, because she didn't ever go no faster than a blind turtle for nobody.
I made my first couple of stops and that's when I got my second sign: There wasn't a soul at home at any of the places I went to. And then it hit me after my fourth or fifth stop that I hadn't seen anyone walking on the streets either, other than Caledonia. When I rounded the corner in the square, heading for Dr. Love's house, that's when I knew something bad had happened. The sheriff's prowler was in the driveway and there were a mess of people standing around talking to each other, no voice above a whisper. I stopped when I spotted Bigbad in the crowd—it wasn't hard to do, he was about a whole head taller than any other man in Woodley—and he come over and told me everything.
"Miss Myrtle May gone missing,” he said to me. “They cain't find her nowhere."
My heart just about fell out of my chest when Bigbad said that.
"They said there ain't no trace of her. It's like she plumb disappeared."
I sensed something in the air, the same way you feel a storm coming on, and I think every one of those folks standing around felt it too. I decided I'd head on home, not feeling much like working. I knew Hixie would be all excited when I pulled up, thinking I come back early for a little coitus, but that wouldn't last once I told her the news. Trying to explain it to Hixie, that's what I was thinking about when I noticed someone other than Bigbad next to my wagon.
"Hey, boy, I'm talking to you."
I looked up to see Wendell Burroughs staring at me, his eyes sharp and squinted like a snake's.
"Did you hear me?” he said quietly, as if he didn't want no one to hear him talking to me. His face looked weak, tired. “Don't be going by my place today, you hear? Under the circumstances and all."
"Yes, sir. Okay. That's what I was just thinking to myself. That I ought to go on home."
"You just come on by tomorrow. And make sure you bring me plenty of lime,” he said. “I'm nearly out."
"You're out, Mr. Burroughs?” I said. “I just refilled your bucket last week."
"Just bring some, boy,” he said, mean and nasty as ever. “Don't you know to stay out of a white man's business? You best be careful, understand?"
And I understood, all right. I understood exactly. I got real scared then, not because of what he said, but because of what I knew. Caledonia's words, the feeling in the air, Wendell Burroughs needing lime. It just all come together. Like Jesus whispered it in my ear. And Wendell Burroughs standing in that crowd all cool and calm like he was just as worried about Myrtle May as the rest of us. Sickened me, is what it did. And all of those folks, including Dr. Love and the sheriff, having no idea.
"Yes, sir,” I replied. “I'll bring some by tomorrow.” Then I popped the reins and got on out of there. On the way home, my body shook as bad as a dog afflicted.
That next morning I still felt sick, like I'd been in the corn liquor the night before. I didn't want to go over to Wendell Burroughs’ place, not for anything, but I knew I didn't want to cross him just then. There was no telling what he might do. Besides, I still didn't know for certain if he'd done something. Hixie begged me to stay home. She was scared for me ever since I told her about Caledonia and all the signs and what I'd felt in my bones. She stuck two dried cattails into a pair of Coke bottles and lit them. They were smoking on the front porch when I left, warding off the evil.
There was a grassy lane that ran on the very back of Dr. Love's property, leading to Wendell Burroughs’ place, and I steered Miss Annabelle under the limbs of the pecan trees to get there. I wasn't sure what might happen, though I did feel a bit better when I saw the sheriff's prowler in the driveway, same as the day before. I wanted to yell for the sheriff to follow me because I thought I knew who done it. But it was just like what Wendell Burroughs had said to me—I knew better than to fool in a white man's business, no matter what the circumstances. If I accused him of taking Myrtle May and it turned out I was wrong, I'd be swinging in the Hanging Woods by nightfall. I wasn't going to take that chance, not even for little Myrtle May.
When I showed up, everything was quiet and still, the only noise being the cardinals and catbirds singing in the morning sunshine. It was a pretty day, felt real nice, like that humidity had finally decided to up and leave and wouldn't be back until spring. Floating in the breeze was that good smell of fresh-turned crops.
Wendell Burroughs's house looked closed up and dark. I hoped he was either sleeping or out working. I slid off the wagon seat and went to the privy to grab his bucket. When I opened the door, I got the Holy Jesus scared out of me because Wendell Burroughs was in there. I smacked him with the door and he screamed out. I always made a habit of knocking before I went in, but my mind was so filled up with Myrtle May that I must've forgotten. I stepped back and he come out a second later, gimping on that bum leg, his face as white as the lime I was about to give him. When he saw it was me, though, his face changed to an angry red.
"Goddamnit, don't you know to knock before you open a johnny house? Stupid sonovabitch. Almost give me a heart attack."
My whole body shook I was so scared. “I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Burroughs,” I said, dropping my head to hangdog. “I just wanted to get your bucket filled up. Then I was fixing to clean out that hole for you. Figured you was still sleeping."
"Well, I ain't sleeping, boy. And I decided I ain't gonna be needing you to clean out the hole no more. Just fill up my pail."
He went inside the privy and come back out with the bucket. I filled it up at the wagon and carried it back over, but he blocked me from taking it inside for him.
"I'll do it,” he said, and grabbed it from my hands. With the door open, he dumped the entire thing down the hole, then handed it back to me. “Give me one more bucketful. Shoot, I don't know why I been paying you to do this. I can do it just as easy."
"Usually, Mr. Burroughs, I only dump a few scoops in at a time, not the whole thing like that."
He got all mean, then, and I knew I should've just kept my mouth shut. He stepped up and put his nose where it was just about touching mine. It would have, too, if I hadn't been wearing a brimmed hat. The whiskey on his breath nearly got my own head a-buzzing. “I thought I told you yesterday to stay out of a white man's business. Ain't that what I told you?"
"Yes, sir, that's right. And I'm sorry. I'll get you another bucketful."
"You're sorry all right,” he said.
I went to the wagon, got him one more bucketful, then got back on my seat, ready to skedaddle. He reached into the pocket of his overalls, pulled out two dimes, and handed them to me. I wasn't expecting that, I'll tell you.
"You come back in a few days and bring me some more lime,” he said. “If I ain't here just leave it, and I'll pay you when I see you. But I don't want you messing with that hole. You understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand,” I said. And then I got on out of there. I hadn't been certain before, but I was certain right then and there of what he done.
The rest of the morning, as I cleaned out the other privies around town, I couldn't think about nothing but Myrtle May. It bothered me more than anyth
ing had ever bothered me, knowing that the lime I made with my own hands was the very thing covering her up, keeping the sheriff from finding her.
Now, this last part I'm about to tell you, I ain't never told to nobody before. Not even your grandmamma. Reckon I've been ashamed all these years. Or just too scared. When Hixie was dying, I wanted to tell her, just so there wouldn't have been no secrets between us, but it would've only killed her that much faster. I'm an old man now, had a good life, I reckon, and I know just as well as you that this cancer's got me good. I figured I better tell someone before I die, just so I'd have a clear mind when I go to meet Jesus.
Myrtle May never was found, and the whole thing wasn't never solved. Nobody arrested for it or nothing. Only me and Hixie and Wendell Burroughs, I reckon, ever knew the truth about where Myrtle May really was. As the years went by and flush toilets became more popular, I guess you could say that my business went straight down the drain. Dr. Love was one of the first to get a flush toilet, but I didn't blame him none. I'd have probably had me one down at my place, too, if I could've afforded it.
I'd see Dr. Love outside in the yard sometimes when I'd go past. He'd never been the same since the day Myrtle May disappeared. I don't reckon nobody ever is, losing a child that way, with no answers. Always wondering. He'd stare at his crepe myrtles, trimming them here or there, but he didn't ever seem to be on this Earth no more. Like Caledonia, I reckon, off in his own place.
Wendell Burroughs couldn't afford a flush toilet, so he still had me come every week with the lime, but he never did have me clean out his privy for him again. One day I went out there to drop off a bucketful. This was years after Myrtle May disappeared. I had a bunch of children of my own by then, including your daddy. Well, anyway, I went out there and stopped where I always did. It was early morning in midsummer, barely light out. When I got off the wagon, I looked back and saw the tracks in the grass where the wheels had gone through the dew. It was kind of sparkling, the grass was, with that early morning sunshine lighting it up.
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