Black Bayou

by Beverly Sims

  "'Nother name for cray-daddies or crayfish. Some folks think they taste like lobster. Harder to eat, though. Lot of pickin’ for a bite."

  "Do you like them? I have my doubts about eating anything called a Mudbug."

  The woman laughed deeply, slapping her ample hip. “Hell, yes, I love ‘em. Ask at any of de food places ter cook you up a batch."

  "Thank you. Did anyone leave a message for me, by any chance?"

  "Well, lemme check.” In the row of boxes behind her, there was a piece of paper in the one marked 11, but she made a production of moving her hand from box to box, peering inside each, knowing full well all were empty but one.

  Ellen took a deep breath and looking around the lobby. A few old wicker chairs sat behind a table that held some old National Geographic magazines, and a grandfather clock reading 4:33 stood below the stairs. She moved to pickup the 1957 issue and smelled the decay as she did.

  "My nephew da mail driver likes ta look at dem. Say every one have a ‘Pigmate of the Month’ in the center. Likes dem saggy tits, I guess.” She chortled again.

  "About that message, may I see it, please?"

  "Best not get uppity with Mrs. Clarke, and dat would be me.” She was clearly angry with Ellen, apparently because the young woman did not like her crude joke.

  "I am sorry, Mrs. Clarke, if I offended you. I apologize profusely."

  "Well in dat case, sorry accepted. Here be yur letter.” She finally handed it to Ellen. It was a sealed envelope. Mrs. Clarke bent forward, hoping to see the contents, but Ellen tucked it into her pant's pocket, smiled at the hag, and left the lobby. She spied the café across the muddy street, but hunger forced her to wade into it.

  There were two old men playing checkers on a bench in front of the café. They were chewing tobacco and spitting it into the street each time one would make a move. It was almost funny, as if choreographed. She smiled at them and received blank stares in return. One mumbled something to the other under his breath, and she somehow knew it was a sexual comment that set them both into gales of laughter, which caused the tobacco to spray over their board and clothes, but they didn't seem to know nor care.

  She found herself alone in the café, but for a gray-headed woman sitting on a stool at the bar. Ellen sat at a table near her and waited. Finally, she cleared her throat, hoping to make the woman aware she was there. “If you want something, speak up. None of those body noises—I hate ‘m."

  Ellen sat for a full minute before rising to walk to the woman and take the stool beside her. “Hello. I have exactly $3.71 to my name and want as much of anything as that will buy."

  The gray head turned to her, but instead of an elderly woman, the one looking at her was hardly older than Ellen. Lines etched her face, and her brown eyes had a flat, defeated look. She looked Ellen over carefully and then spoke. “That not much money, but I'll see what I can come up with. My name is Alma Juneau, and this is my place. Sign says Effie—was my mama, God bless her soul.” She climbed down, holding her back with one hand, and poured a huge mug of coffee and a tall glass of milk, which she shoved to Ellen. “Be back with some grits and such in a few minutes."

  Ellen pulled the envelope out of her pocket and tore it open carefully.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 26

  There was no greeting. Inside were a bunch of twenty-dollar bills and a scrap of paper that simply said, “No sign of your friends. Will keep looking. Find Glenda and come back with her to get your things."

  She sat, staring at it. Well, what did she expect? Her heart hurt, and then she wadded up the paper and tossed it on the counter. She would throw it out with her food scraps ... just so much more trash.

  Alma returned with a full plate of food ... thick slices of ham, a bowl of grits, three eggs perfectly fried and a stack of soft pancakes. Ellen began to eat, all the while mumbling that she could never get through it all, and that she now had money to pay for it, and could she have some more coffee. She consumed almost the entire meal, ashamed of her gluttony, but what the hell? She was hungry.

  The two women sat side by side, at first making small talk, when Ellen found herself telling the entire story of her missing friends and the damage to the plantation. She recounted the trip up the bayou and into the river that wandered endlessly it seemed to her, leaving out her relationship with Mac. Alma explained that the town was actually almost an equal distance from both the Black and Woodward Plantations if one traveled over land, which explained why the two had seemed so close but so distant from the town.

  Alma responded with an abbreviated version of her life and that the farthest she had ever been from her home in Cotton was a honeymoon trip many years ago to New Orleans. She had loved the town and began to hate the man she had married. He was cruel to her, and later she was glad they had no children. One day he went out into the swamp and never returned. Some whispered that she had killed him, but no one really cared one way or the other.

  "I was fifteen when we wed. My mama kept me pure, a hard thing in a place like this. Harry was determined to be the one to break my cherry, as he called it, even if it meant marrying me. Once he had taken me in that dirty hotel room and did what he wanted, not caring about my pain, he got dressed and left, only to return drunk and abusive.

  "Twice I went out without him, and he accused me of being with other men and demanded I give him the money I had earned. I had done nothing, but he decided I could lift my skirts for the drunks he met, so he tied me to the bed, stuffed my mouth with his dirty sock, and brought them in. He took their money for my services and then beat me when they were gone. I went home with so many cuts and bruises the town folk stayed clear of me, except mama, for fear of what he would do."

  Ellen was horrified. “If you didn't kill him, you should have. You should have cut off his balls and thrown them in the bayou. I hope the gators got him and took him apart piece by piece, after he was gored by a wild hog and bit by poisonous snakes."

  Alma burst into laughter and put her arm around Ellen's shoulder. “You are something else.” Their new friendship was already deep. “Actually, he disappeared one night in the swamp. No body found, so he was probably gator bait, like you said. So as of now, I am still married to the ass, which makes it easier for me to ward off others like him—and there are no end of his kind.

  "I will start asking after your friends. Think Glenda is staying at the hotel, too, but I saw her walking west real early this morning. The only new folk I have seen in town bought a wagon, a couple horses, and a lot of supplies a few days before the storm hit. There were three of them, all men. Transplanted Southerners from up North, or transplanted Northerners come South. Bit of accent in their speech. Closed mouth about where they were going, but maybe I can find out from the grocer or the man who sold them the wagon and horses. They had one of those Jeep things, four-wheeler, but I didn't see the license. Come back about suppertime for a meal and information.” They hugged, and Ellen went outside to stand on the old board sidewalk, trying to decide what to do.

  With no plans, she wandered west, hoping to run into Glenda Woodward that way. She walked until the plank walk ended, then in the ankle-high grass along the dirt, now mud, road. She passed a few shacks, most with old black people sitting on the porches. Some cabins were roofless from the storm, but folks were still there. Where could they go?

  A group of children stopped their play to stare at her. One of them threw a ball at her, hitting her back. They all laughed. She picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand, as she continued walking. A small tow-headed boy ran toward her with his hands out. “Is this your ball?” He nodded. “What is your name?"

  His little voice was almost inaudible as he whispered, “Billy."

  "Well, Billy, since it hit me, doesn't that make it mine?” He looked confused, so she put it in his little hands. “Just be sure it does not hit me again, or I will see how far I can throw it into the water. What do you think?” He turned and ran as fast as his little legs
would take him back to the safety of his friends.

  The walk produced no sign of Glenda, so she reversed her path and went out of town in the opposite direction. Soon she was off the boardwalk again and out in the wooded area next to the river. She could see downed trees everywhere and other signs of the hurricane. Funny, she thought, she supposed it had a name, but she had not heard it and really did not care. For the rest of her life, she would simply know it as Hurricane and the Summer of Mac.

  Why she thought of him, she did not know, but no matter how she studied her surroundings, he was always just behind what she saw. The face above her who had whispered that he loved her. Well, a fine way he had of showing it. He had yelled at her, ordered her to bail like some sort of servant, and belittled her with his stupid song. Back in Atlanta, there was Stephen, Stephen Morgan Beauregard, her intended. He would never yell at her, treat her like a servant, nor belittle her. He would always be polite, caring, and boring. She had to admit it, he was boring. And not much to look forward to in bed, either, as their little trysts had shown her. Before Mac, she hadn't known the difference, but now she did. Yes, she really did!

  "Stop it, Ellen, stop it!” She spoke aloud to herself and jumped, startled when a voice answered.

  "Stop what? I ain't done nothin’ ta you. Yet, that is. You a fine looking woman, just walkin’ along in those tight pants and sweaty blouse. I think you would be cooler if you took them off. I would sure like to help you."

  She turned to see two men sitting under a tree between her and the river. They rose and walked toward her. She felt a stab of fear and disgust as she looked at them. “Oh my, you startled me. I was just daydreaming and enjoying my walk. Now I think it is time for me to go back to town and meet my friends who are waiting for me at the hotel. Alma at the café knows where I am, so if I don't stop in, she will get worried and probably send somebody to look for me. Have a good day."

  She waved and started walking, trying to keep from running. She did not want them to know how scared she was. It did no good, however, as in a trice, they were beside her, one on each side, taking her arms.

  "Hey, mister, leave her alone.” It was the small boy named Billy whose ball she had returned. She had not noticed him following her.

  One of them men turned to him, picked up a rock, and threw it, making a direct hit to the boy's cheek, drawing blood. The child ran away crying, back toward town.

  "Honey, I think what ya all need is a drink to relax ya. Come on, Sam and I will buy you one. Mudbugs is just around that corner. I be Joe. We are cousins, live out in the swamp, and it ain't often we see pretty things like you. Sam, smell her hair. Ain't that nice? Hoowee. I bet ya smell nice all over.” They continued to propel her along, and within minutes, she could see the building ahead. It was minus part of the roof and had a porch that leaned at almost forty-five degrees. The door was open, and loud music poured out.

  Once inside, she realized they and the bartender were the only ones there. The bartender was in his forties, she guessed, but people here seemed to look older than they were. He leered at her, showing toothless gums, and his big belly spilled over the top of his belt. “What we got here, boys? A juicy-looking thing. You boys going to share? Or I can take her off your hands when yur done?” His words made it quite clear what they had in store for her. She had no idea what she could do to stop it.

  She looked frantically around the dingy room. Three candles sat on the bar, the only illumination. Whatever was on the floor made soggy sounds under their feet. The only exit except the door in which they had come in was a doorway covered by a curtain. She shivered, imagining it was worse back there.

  One of the younger men, she did not remember the names, sat and pulled her down on his lap. He forced her head back and covered her mouth with lips that tasted of stale tobacco, and his breath was abominable. When she pulled away, he moved down and suckled her neck as his hand grasped the front of her shirt, pulling it until the button gave way and popped to the floor. He ran a filthy hand down into her bra and pinched her nipple, rolling it hard between his fingers.

  "Hey, she dun have rightly big nips and nice tits. Sam, come and feel.” Sam did as suggested, and then started to tug at her pants. “I stand her up, make it easier fer you."

  She struggled, and they all laughed. Suddenly the door opened, admitting light. “Let her go unless you want to have me remove your balls for you, and that includes you, Del Marks.” She pointed at the bartender. “You and your family give a bad name to all Southerners. Nothing but a bunch of inbred swamp rats, the lot of you."

  "Hey, Mrs. Woodward, we was just funnin’ with her. Not going to hurt her."

  "Sure you were. Now, Miss Ellen, pull yourself together as best you can and go on outside. I will be with you in a minute."

  As Ellen waited outside, she could here whispered voices but could not hear what they said. Nor did she care. She was shaking and thanking God for Mrs. Woodward. When the woman came out, she put her arm around Ellen, and together they started walking back to town.

  "Oh, Mrs. Woodward, how can I thank you? How did you know where to find me? Those men were going to—"

  "Never mind that. Mrs. Clarke said she saw you walking this way, and then that boy they call Billy came running, crying that you were in trouble. You should have known better than to go in there. It is no place for your kind."

  "I did not go in there by myself. I was just walking. Those two were sitting under a tree. That one,” she pointed, “and they came up and made me go with them. If you hadn't shown up, I probably would be dead by now.” She shivered.

  "No, they would not have hurt you, just played with you for awhile. They are not bad boys, just not well mannered."

  "Played with me! Look at me. They were already abusing me when you stopped them. If that is your idea of playing, I would hate to think what you think would be serious.” Ellen was incensed by the cavalier attitude of Mrs. Woodward.

  "Come now, girl, just let it go. You are safe now, and in a day or two, the roads will be clean and we can go back to the plantation. Now, how is Mrs. Atwater? I have been worrying about her and the house. Tell me what happened there, as I was thinking the worst."

  Instead of railing at the woman, she shrugged and gave her an encapsulated report of the days Mrs. Woodward had been gone. By now, they were back in town and went to their rooms at the hotel. Since Ellen had no other clothes and her shirt was beyond repair, Mrs. Woodward had draped her own sweater over Ellen to cover her condition. “You stay here, and I will bring you something to wear."

  Ellen fell into the unmade bed, closed her eyes and slept.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 27

  She woke from a nightmare of men pawing her, ripping her clothes off, hurting her while Mac's laughter rang out in her mind. She was shaking, sweating and frightened until her consciousness took over. Beside her on the bed was a complete change of clothes, even shoes and underwear. Mrs. Woodward had been here, she was sure, and again she was thankful.

  In the bathroom, she found shampoo, soap, and even a razor for her overgrown leg and pit hairs. That woman seemed to think of everything. This time, the shower felt like a real luxury, and she enjoyed the feel of the warm water seeping into every pore, rinsing out the horrors of the last few days.

  She met Mrs. Woodward in the lobby as she headed for the door, glad Mrs. Clarke was not at the desk. “You are the best lady in the world, do you know that?” Ellen gave her a big hug and was rewarded with a smile and a definite blush on the wrinkled face. “Look, the clothes fit perfectly.” She pirouetted to show them off. “How did you know my size? Even the shoes? Incredible how much better being clean can make a girl feel. I cannot thank you enough, but you must let me reimburse you for the costs. And let me take you to dinner, your choice of the best establishments in town."

  Mrs. Woodward smiled and actually gave a little chuckle. “Well, thank you, but I have already dined. May I suggest either Bayou's Best or Effie's for y
our dining pleasure? I am tired and think I will retire early. Have a good evening, Ellen. I will see you in the morning."

  The mud was not as deep now as it had been this morning, but Ellen was wearing her old shoes. The new ones would be black before she crossed the street, she had decided. Alma looked up as she entered Effie's Café. She came around the counter and gave Ellen a big hug. “Heavens, gal, I was getting really worried about you until I saw Glenda leading you into the hotel. She usually eats here, but tonight she went down the street. Guess she knew I would cross-examine her, so come on, give! Where did you go and what happened?” The place was full, and orders were hanging on the circular silver hangers above the pass-through.

  Ellen followed Alma into the kitchen and said, “I will tell you later. Looks like you have plenty on your hands now. But, I have to ask, did you hear anything about my friends?” Alma shook her head sadly.

  The woman was a whiz, cooking breakfasts along with orders for supper and sandwiches for the kids. Ellen counted nine tags hanging, and Alma handled them all, including taking orders, serving food, and bussing tables. Ellen felt like she was in the way, so she grabbed a coffee pot and went out to refill mugs. When a foursome of old folks came in, she greeted them, took their orders and soon was serving meals. Alma smiled and pointed to the food, then the booth, and Ellen, now with an apron covering her new clothes, was getting into the swing of waitressing. It seemed like a never-ending wave of new faces and new jokes and even a couple pats on the butt, but she shrugged it off. She put her tips in the jar on the counter by the cash register, knowing that every penny mattered to Alma. Finally, at about 9:30, the place finally emptied, and Ellen sank into an empty booth.

  "Alma, how can you do this day after day? I am exhausted, I was only here for a few hours, and all I did was serve food. You do that, plus cook, plus cashier, plus everything else. You are a superwoman in my book."