The Murderer Vine

by Shepard Rifkin

  “Ummm.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Well, local gossip, you know. People like to believe lots of powerful mysterious people control all sorts of power.”

  “You think mine is a typical case of the conspiracy theory of history as applied to Milliken County?”

  I didn’t think so at all, but expressing doubt about something is a fine way to get someone to spill more.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  He shrugged, too. Maybe he thought he had been talking too much.

  “Your funeral,” he said, not knowing how close he was coming. He sipped his drink. “How’s life up in Canada?”

  “It’s all right, I suppose. Good fishing. When I have some extra money — which is hardly ever — I fly up north and hunt caribou. Aside from that I find this Southern environment much more interesting; the cooking, the people. Things like that.”

  “It is better down here. I tried livin’ up North for a couple years outside Milwaukee. My wife’s home town. Couldn’ stand the cold an’ those cold Northern faces an’ lookin’ at TV all night an’ no one sayin’ ‘thank you’ when I held the door open for people. Missed the warmth an’ the friendliness you’ll find down here even between a man who’d shoot his sharecroppers for votin’ but who’d go out huntin’ coon with ’em. It’s a complex thing out here. Don’t know where it’s goin’. You show you’ve got good intentions towards blacks — that’s the new word, right? — and they’ll back off. They don’t trust us. Why should they? They can’t level with us. Too many centuries of deviousness between us. An’ we remember what happened when they ran the legislatures the three, four years after the Civil War. The feet on the desk, the bribes, the corruption, the arrogance. But in a way I can’t blame them. Not after two hundred years of slavery. That’s what it came to in eighteen sixty-five. An’ I’ll take some of the blame. Well, that’s enough of a speech. We ought to shoot us a couple turkeys up in the hills next weekend.”

  “I think I’d like that.”

  “Good. I’ll phone you in a day or so an’ we’ll make it definite.”

  He shook hands decently. I liked him. I liked the idea of rambling around the woods with him hunting turkey.

  I turned toward the buffet table and began to assemble a heaping plate of rare roast beef, slices of onion, little plum tomatoes, and pickles. I filled another plate with tossed salad.

  “You like spiced crab apples?”

  Mrs. Brady was standing next to me. She was a bit unsteady but holding it very well. She must have had at least four drinks by then. She put a hand on my arm to steady herself.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  She reached out, grabbed a fork, speared two crab apples, and shook them off onto my plate. The juice splashed onto the sleeve of my jacket.

  “Ooops!” she said.

  “No problem.”

  “ž‘No problem!’ Listen, buster, it’s a problem. Say it’s a problem. Say I’m a drunken bitch. But don’t stand there and be bland. Be honest!”

  “And frank and spontaneous.”

  She speared another crab apple and dumped it onto my plate. She said, fluttering her eyelashes, “Oh, Mr. Wilson, Ah think you’ll find these puffectly delicious!”

  “You don’t have much fun living in Okalusa, do you?”

  “I don’t have much fun living period. How could you ever marry a Southerner?”

  I noticed that a few couples were listening with that here-she-goes-again look.

  “She’s a great girl.”

  “All right, she’s a great girl, but what about that awful, cloying Southern accent? How can you stand it? You seem intelligent, but admit it, buddy, you certainly screwed up on that one.” She dumped two more crab apples on my plate humming, “puffectly, puffectly delicious!”

  “I’m going to get a demerit from you,” I said, in a jolly tone, “but I like her accent.”

  “Don’t talk to me the way people are supposed to talk to drunks, goddam you!”

  This was the time when a good husband should appear and take her home. He wasn’t around. I could tell from the way that the nearby couples were edging away that she was close to her lift-off time. I couldn’t see any way to ease out gracefully.

  Kirby saved me again. She appeared at my elbow. “Mr. Wilson,” she said, “you dragged me here sayin’ you were goin’ to dance with your wife. Who’s your wife?”

  “You, baby.”

  “Dance with me,” she said, lifting her arms. I put my plate down.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Mrs. Brady. “Duty calls.”

  “Funny, funny,” she muttered. She waved a hand without a ring but covered from wrist to elbow with about thirty narrow silver bracelets.

  “Take him,” she commanded. “But I’ll be waiting for him.”

  Kirby smiled at her but muttered “Yankee bitch,” under her breath.

  I grinned. Kirby had strong back muscles. I felt them flow like live little things under my palm. I didn’t want to talk about Mrs. Brady. I found her a bore. She was like a million other bored country-club wives. They were the ones I had to catch in compromising situations up North, and I didn’t want to handle another one down here. I was holding something unique in my arms and I wanted to concentrate on it.

  “Ummm,” I said.

  “She must be quite a handful for poor Owen.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What should poor Owen do?”

  “He ought to be a little mean. Open the door on the hinge side once in a while. But it’s too late. Now he’s stuck with her till she sleeps with one too many visiting firemen. The local code demands that he kill the both of them.”

  “Will he?”

  “My guess is that he will, then commit suicide.”

  “I think you’re right. I’ve been digging up information on him while you were talking to him and the witch.”

  “He seems a nice guy.”

  “He is. He’s also the town liberal. Contributes to the American Civil Liberties Union and the NAACP. Has local black lawyers over for dinner.”

  “How come no flaming crosses on the lawn?”

  “Old family, over here ever since the first settlements were cut out of the woods, around eighteen hundred five or so. They fought the Indians and were the first traders. His great-uncles fought in the Civil War; one was a governor, another one a senator. You can get away with a lot with that background.”

  “I like him. We’re shooting turkey maybe this weekend.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I looked at her.

  “Honey,” I said, “don’t tell me what to do. You’re lovely to look at, delightful to hold, and a great typist. Let’s keep it — ”

  She pressed her face against mine and nuzzled her nose against my neck. I smelled her skin. It was like a garden after a shower.

  “Town liberal,” she murmured. “You’re too friendly. Pick a fight. In public.”

  I kissed the top of her head. No one looking would have guessed that we were having a serious strategical discussion.

  “You’re right,” I murmured. I should have thought of it myself. Maybe the languorous Southern night was ruining my brain. The dance ended. I let Cravens take her for the next dance and stood there, trying to figure out how to get rid of my new friend. Publicly. And loudly.

  Mrs. Brady suddenly ran her arm around mine and pulled me out to the patio. I was about to break away when it occurred to me that here, properly handled, was something I could work up into a nice situation.

  There were wicker chairs with deep cushions scattered around the patio in groups of two, three or four. She steered me to two chairs, sat down, and hitched her chair so close to mine that our knees touched. She leaned forward and put a hand on my knee, gently stroking it. People noticed. Good.

  “This is the most goddam boring town in the world,” she began. “You and me could liven it up. I don’t mean that literally. This goddam liquor affects the choice of words. But my mind is cl
ear. What I mean is that we could liven it up for each other. And discreetly. Oh, so discreetly. For instance, I hear you do a lot of driving on the back roads. And every week or so I drive the hundred and sixty miles to Jackson, take in a movie, go shopping with the girls, and have myself a hysterically exciting time generally. We have a summer camp out on the river, where we go weekends. Never during the week. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “During the week?”

  “During. You could drive past Alexandria, take the second right, drive six miles, and turn in at a sign reading Brady. About two would be just right. I’ll be there dusting. I’ll be wearing one of those shirt dresses. And nothing else. I’ll be airing the bedding about then. You can try out my Northern speech patterns as adapted by a Southern environment.”

  “I don’t notice any.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll say, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh!”

  Somehow she made the cry of a woman having an orgasm, Southern-style, sound very funny. It sounded well-bred as well. It was an obvious dig at Kirby’s diction and I suppressed a smile. But she cried out so loudly that people nearby turned to look. She paid no attention.

  “Oh, those Southern ladies,” she said, with disgust. “You know, you can make any Southern lady as long as you don’t tell her what you’re doing?”

  I laughed.

  “Then,” she went on, exhilarated, “you could use me for a control. Then you could continue along the road, looking for poor but noble peasants while I finish airing out the bedding, which now really needs shaking out. Your aroma will be in them. But I’ll be very pleased with myself. About three hours later I’d go home to hubby, and we will have passed a pleasant and rewarding day. You could use an hour’s break in your dusty progress through our red-clay roads, and I could use whatever screwing you’d care to hand out. What do you say to that, Wilson?”

  I thought it was a very good idea with not too much wrong with it. Being placed in close contact with Kirby every night was putting a big strain on my self-control. I was sleeping badly. Mrs. Brady looked like an expert bed mechanic, and she had sketched out what seemed to be a very workable scenario. I idly twirled a swizzle stick and looked at her.

  “Well?”

  I could see Brady walking toward us, smiling. It was now or never. She put a hand on my arm and looked at my face in an intent, pleading manner.

  I waited till he was about five feet away. I picked up her arm and threw it away as if it were a filthy handkerchief I had accidentally picked up.

  He saw the gesture and his smile clicked off. I stood up and shoved my chair back so hard that it toppled over on the flagstone patio. Several people turned.

  “Brady!” I said.

  All the hum of conversation stopped. I went on. “Brady. Do me a favor. Take your wife away from me before she gets herself slapped.”

  She sat there with her hands clasped on the table like a nice little schoolgirl.

  “Who’s going to slap me?”

  “If your husband won’t, I will!”

  “Look here, Wilson,” Brady said. “There’s no need to talk that way.”

  “Oh, yes there is. She’s been insulting my wife all evening and I’m getting tired of it!”

  “Come on home, honey,” he said. He took her elbow. She tugged it away and hitched her chair closer to the table.

  “Lemme alone!”

  But he pulled her to her feet and clamped an arm around her waist. It seemed to me she was yielding. I felt sorry for the poor guy. But it was beginning to look as if nothing was going to happen. I had to step up the pace.

  “Mr. Brady,” I said in my best Ph.D. candidate style, “the Japanese make a doll. The doll has a round bottom packed with lead. You push the doll and it lies down on the floor. But the lead makes it spring right up. You know what I think? I think you have a real life-sized dolly in your house.”

  He couldn’t let that one pass. And sure enough, he let her go and walked toward me. The patio was silent and the French doors leading to the dance floor were filled with people who had heard the last few sentences. They were standing with drinks in their hands. Behind them I saw Kirby biting her lower lip and looking pale. I hoped she wouldn’t bite too hard when the action started.

  “I must ask you to apologize,” Brady said.

  “Apologize, hell! I’m getting tired listening to a phony liberal like you bullshit me!”

  Well, shoot the works. We’d see what would happen now.

  He was looking at me with his mouth a little open. He was in too close. A good fighter would be staying much further away. I could get in fast with a good short right. I had to make him look good. If I creamed him too fast, I would look like a louse.

  I said something vulgar. He had no alternative after that. He wouldn’t ask me for another apology, not if he lived down South.

  I saw his muscles begin to bunch at his right shoulder. When I’m very tense, everything seems to go slow-motion, the way it does when you’re in a car and know you’re going to be in an accident.

  His right arm pulled all the way back. It was pathetic. He should have lifted his elbow and hooked. He might have made it. He weighed enough and he could have pivoted enough to dump me easily.

  Instead, it took him two seconds to get the stance he wanted. I would have to help him.

  “Now see here, Brady,” I said, lifting a warning finger. It looked as if I weren’t taking him seriously. That would be sufficient explanation for a beholder why such an amateurish swing could have connected.

  His fist caught me on the side of the jaw. I snapped my head around a fraction of a second before he hit. It looked to the audience as if he had a powerful punch, but he was too far away and his feet were badly placed. And I drained out whatever force he might have put into that swing by rolling with it.

  Only an expert boxer would have known I was throwing the fight. I stumbled backward, tripped over the low cocktail table, and smashed into the wicker chair. I felt one of the chair arms crunch.

  I struggled to my feet, cursing loudly. More people appeared, bless them. Brady was standing there, looking surprised and pleased. I let him hit me again. I took a strange kind of masochistic pleasure in it. I felt guilty about the whole setup, and I wanted the guy to carry away a couple nice memories. This time he hit my left cheek, right over the jawbone. I spun around like they do in movies and fell into a flower bed. I could have made a fortune wrestling on TV. I got up, brushing the dirt from my knees. Now I had a big audience, most of whom had seen me decked twice. He was dancing on the balls of his feet and feeling pretty good.

  “Apologize!” he demanded.

  When I was a kid, I lived on 53rd Street between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. That’s a tough Irish longshoremen’s neighborhood, just a block off the North River docks. My father was a longshoreman. He was killed when a heavy crate slipped out of a sling.

  You fought. If you were going to the seminary and become a priest, you were excused. Otherwise, you fought.

  Ex-pugs used to teach boxing at the Catholic Youth Organization gym. I learned to come in fast with a low crouch, ready to drop one hand to protect the family jewels. “Don’t waste time,” Jim O’Neil told me. “Don’t waste energy being a ballet dancer. You’re gonna fight ten, fifteen rounds, you save your energy. And suppose one night,” O’Neil said, “s’pose one night you run across a guy in the street, he wants to fight. All right, suppose he’s as good as you. That fight is gonna run on half an hour if no one calls the cops. The guy in better condition is gonna win. But if you ain’t in good condition, chances are you ain’t gonna be fightin’ in top condition. So don’t waste energy.”

  O’Neil taught me how to cover my face and still see what was going on. He taught me how to tighten my stomach muscles against a belly shot by grunting just before the impact. He taught me to smack them over the heart and kidneys until they would drop their guard and then come in high for the convincer.

  So I watched Brady dance around for a second. I sighed inwardly. />
  Then I hooked a hard left into his solar plexus.

  He opened his mouth in pain and surprise. I hooked another one, and he dropped his guard in order to bend over to relieve the pain. I had my opening. I hooked a hard right at his jaw, but he turned his face into it, and I knocked out three of his front teeth. I wanted to say, “Brady, you damn fool, I didn’t mean it.” He spat them out as if they were grains of rice and stood staring at them. The blood began to pour through his lips and run down his chin.

  Mrs. Brady kicked me on the ankle. I backed away. She followed me, swinging. I covered my face, wondering where the hell Kirby was. I needed protection and she could give it to me.

  Mrs. Brady told me what she thought of me for knocking out her husband’s teeth. I silently agreed with her. Still, it was hard maneuvering backward around the oleanders in their tubs. I was beginning to look ridiculous, and suddenly I saw Kirby appear again in the French doors. I felt a surge of relief that showed in my face, and Mrs. Brady turned around to find out the reason. Kirby came up in a few long strides.

  “You leave mah husband alone, you damn Yankee!” She was three inches taller than Mrs. Brady and ten pounds heavier.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  Kirby pointed to Mr. Brady. He was holding a sopping red handkerchief to his mouth.

  “Get him to a doctor, you damn fool,” she said conversationally.

  The sheriff appeared in the doorway. His hat was tilted to one side and one khaki pants leg was crammed inside one boot. The other leg hung down outside the other boot. His hands were in his pockets.

  Mrs. Brady turned to him and yelled, “I want him arrested!”

  He ignored her and walked up to Brady, pulled the hand away from the mouth, and peered inside. Satisfied, he grunted. “You’ll live, Mr. Brady.”

  He turned to me. “You all ri’?”

  I nodded.

  “Well. It seems like y’all traded punches, an’ Mr. Wilson here was a bit luckier. Why don’t y’all start dancin’ an’ Mr. Brady, have your wife drive you to the doctor ’n’ get patched up, an’ le’s all forget the whole thing.”