Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “Thanks, Sook, but we have to get going,” Angelle said.

  Sook’s thick eyebrows peaked. “Already? Y’all just got here.”

  “I know, but Dunny hasn’t even had a chance to unpack yet. We came straight here from the airport. I’m sure she’d like to freshen up.” Angelle looked at me, her eyes holding a clear command. Just tell the woman you’d like to go freshen up so we can get the hell out of here . . .

  I was about to comply when I heard the whir of a small motor behind me. It was Poochie, driving up on her scooter. The thing looked like a revved up wheelchair with handlebars.

  “Hey, y’all come see!” Poochie said to no one in particular, then zipped past us and headed for the swinging doors. She bumped the doors open with the nose of her scooter.

  “We’re leaving,” Angelle called after her.

  “No, no, come see first!”

  “What’s wrong, Pooch?” Sook asked. “You look like somebody stuck a bee in your butt.”

  “Just come on!” Poochie insisted, then disappeared behind the doors.

  Angelle sighed. “All right, all right, we’d better go. If we don’t, she’ll just wind up chasing us down the highway in that scooter until we do.”

  For some odd reason an image of Fritter came immediately to mind. Him chasing me down the highway, barking and snapping. Instead of finding the correlation funny, it worried me.

  Sook chuckled. “You know her too good, Gelle. She’d for sure do just that.” She shook her head in an appreciative gesture. “You’ve gotta admit, for her age, that old woman’s still got a lot of piss and vinegar left in her.”

  I heard Angelle mumble a concession that Poochie was indeed full of something before she pushed her way into the next room.

  As I’d suspected, a bar lay behind the swinging doors. It was dark, the room much smaller than the grocery store. A man with a handlebar moustache and a surly expression sat at one end of an L-shaped counter. His potbelly and barrel-chest had a camouflage t-shirt stretched to capacity, and the pant legs of his jeans were tucked into rubber boots.

  “’Bout time,” he said, and tapped the bottom of the beer can he was holding on the counter. “Was gonna send out a search party. Fixin’ to hit dry hole here.”

  “Where’s Vern?” Sook asked.

  He shrugged. “Either chockin’ his chicken or stirrin’ the chili in the back. Fetch me another beer, will ya, Sook?”

  Poochie pulled her scooter up beside him. “Pork Chop, you all de time got a dry hole. Whatchu doin’ here dis early anyhow? It’s not even one and look at dat, you already guzzlin’ like an old Ford.”

  “Just leave him be, Pooch,” Sook said, detouring behind the bar. She grabbed a Bud Light, and handed it to the man.

  “Yeah, leave me be,” Pork Chop agreed. “Ain’t none of your bid’ ness, anyway, Poochie. You ain’t my mama and you ain’t my wife.” He popped the top on the can, pulled long and hard on the contents, then let out a belch that sent beer and garlic fumes wafting our way.

  Even in the gloom of the bar, I saw Poochie’s face darken. “No, thank de good Lord dat I’m not you mama.”

  Porkchop snorted and took another hefty swig from the can.

  When he came up for air, Poochie held out a hand. “Lemme see dat.”

  “I thought you were all fired set to show us somethin’,” Sook said.

  Poochie ignored her and waggled the fingers of her extended hand impatiently. “I said lemme see.”

  “What?” Porkchop asked.

  “Dat can.”

  “How come?”

  “Something’s on it.”

  Frowning, Porkchop examined the beer can. “No, there ain’t.”

  “Yeah, dere is. I’m gonna show you.”

  “Where?” He leaned towards her, holding out the can of beer.

  “See?”

  “I don’t see nothin’.”

  “It’s right . . . dere!” At the word there, Poochie backhanded the can out of his hand, and it went sailing across the room, beer splattering across the wooden floor in an arc. The can hit the floor with a loud thunk, then rolled out of sight.

  “Hey! What the hell’d you do that for?” Pork Chop shouted.

  “Talk sass to me again and see what else you gonna get,” Poochie yelled back.

  Just then, Vern appeared in a doorway behind the bar. “What’s goin’ on out here?”

  Poochie harrumphed. “Just Pork Chop actin’ de donkey. Go get de mop so he can clean up dis mess.” With that, she revved up her scooter and headed for the back of the room and a door that stood open about fifty feet way.

  Porkchop sat open-mouthed, watching her, the fingers of his right hand still curled as if holding a beer can.

  A deep laugh suddenly erupted from a dark corner of the room, startling me. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one surprised, because Angelle grabbed hold of my left arm, and Sook gasped and slapped a hand to her chest.

  “Lord, Cherokee!” Sook said. “You dang near scared the earwax out of me. You got to start wearin’ somethin’ other than black, sugah. I didn’t even see you sittin’ over there.”

  I heard chair legs screech against the floor and squinted to get a better look at the man getting to his feet from behind a small table. He looked to be in his early forties, and his body unfurled to at least six foot two. He sported a Van Dyke, wore a black Stetson low over his brow, and a long black leather coat over black clothes. “Sorry, about that, Sook.” His voice reminded me of fine leather, rugged yet soft.

  “I thought you was goin’ out with Leon and Mark to hunt for them kids,” Sook said.

  “Already been and come back.” He stuck a hand in the right front pocket of his pants, pulled out a few dollars, and dropped them on the table.

  “Any luck?” Angelle asked, releasing my arm.

  Cherokee shook his head, then the Stetson slowly turned in my direction. In that moment, Poochie saved me from further scrutiny.

  “G-53!”

  We all turned in time to see Poochie’s scooter bop over the backdoor threshold like it was a speed bump.

  “Where the hell you goin’, Pooch?” Vern called after her.

  “To de pier!” she yelled back.

  “Whoa, hold up!” Sook took off after the old woman, the bun on her head bobbling as she went, her shorts flapping around spider-veined legs. “That old pier’s on its last leg. You’re gonna wind up in the water if you’re not careful!”

  Everyone hurried after Sook, Pork Chop taking the lead.

  “Jesus,” Angelle said, darting past me. “Does that woman ever stop?”

  By the time we all made it outside, Sook was standing near the edge of a dilapidated porch, hanging onto the rear wheel lip of the scooter, trying to keep Poochie from going down the rickety-looking pier that butted up against the porch. “Would you stop already?”

  Poochie waved a hand, motioning towards the end of the pier. “Go then! Go look. I seen it from out de window in de storeroom.”

  Without a word, Vern headed down the pier. Porkchop followed him, as did Mr. Stetson, whose angular face, black eyes, and high cheekbones were finally revealed in the sunlight. The rest of us took up the rear.

  When Vern and Pork Chop reached the end of the pier, Pork Chop let out a low whistle. “Holy shit-eaten crackers.”

  “What is it?” Angelle asked.

  “Looks like Woodard’s cow,” Vern said. He glanced back at us. “Stuck ‘tween them pilin’s. The head’s cut clean off, and it’s gutted like a fish.”

  “How do you know it’s his?” Sook asked.

  “The W brand on the rump.”

  At the end of the onlooker train was Poochie, and she slapped her hands together. “You see, I tol’ y’all dat man was cuckoo.”

  I was about to ask Angelle what a preacher was doing with a cow, when a sharp pain shot through my extra finger. I bit my bottom lip to hold back a gasp and clutched my left hand with my right. The finger pushed against my palm as if it meant to fo
rce its way out of the glove and fold over backwards. I’d never felt such pain from it before. It made me sick to my stomach. It had pinched when I hunted for water, but this was way beyond pinching. Not even close. The pain was so excruciating I could barely draw a breath. I felt sweat trickle down the sides of my face. Then Angelle’s face entered my line of sight, her eyes filled with concern. I wanted to say, get me out of here, get me somewhere else, now. Now! But I was afraid if I opened my mouth, a scream would fall out.

  “Hey, where’s everybody at?” someone called from inside the bar.

  “Out here, Beeno,” Sook shouted over her shoulder.

  A short stocky man dressed in a police uniform appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “Dat tock-uh-lock preacher done cut off his own cow’s head, dat’s what.” Poochie said.

  Sook admonished her with a tsk. “We don’t know that Preacher Woodard did this, Pooch.” She looked over at the cop. “Just a dead cow, Beeno. Vern says it’s carryin’ the Woodard brand.”

  Pursing his lips, the cop stepped onto the pier. He acknowledged me with a nod, and I returned it, working hard to keep a grimace and whimper in check. It felt like someone was trying to saw my extra finger off with a dull knife. As he drew closer, the cop asked,“Who’re you?”

  Before I could answer, Sook said, “Look at me bein’ rude again and not introducin’ a one of y’all.” She waved a hand in front of her face as though fanning away a fart, then pointed to me. “That there’s Angelle’s sister, Dunny. She came all the way from west Texas. Dunny, this here’s Beeno Leger, the deputy in Bayou Crow. And that one there in the shrimp boots, that’s Pork Chop, and the big one over there, that’s Cherokee.”

  Afraid my teeth would chatter with pain if I spoke, I nodded a greeting to each. I had to get out of here, had to get away from the water and whatever was in it. Had to get out—the pain—stomach starting to churn, knot up. It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep myself calm, my expression cordial. I didn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary.

  “Don’t talk much, huh?” Beeno said, his eyes hard brown marbles rimmed with suspicion.

  Angelle grabbed my right arm and gave it a tug, signaling it was time to leave. “She’s just tired from traveling and has a bad headache. We came straight here from the airport, so the poor thing hasn’t had a moment to catch her breath. I’m going to take her home now so she can rest.” She gave him a quick smile, then tugged on my arm again. “We’ll be back to pick you up at four-thirty, okay, Poochie?”

  “Yeah.” Poochie’s eyes darted from my face to my clutched hands back to my face. The sparkle in her green eyes told me she knew the headache excuse was a crock, and she fully intended to uncover the truth.

  Uncover the truth . . .

  The truth shall set you free . . .

  Not always—not for everyone . . .

  As those unbidden thoughts tumbled through my mind, a horrible sense crept over me, making me shudder. Uncovering truths in this place might very well mean the death of us all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angelle’s house was only three blocks away from the Bloody Bucket, but even that short distance seemed to do wonders for my finger. The pain had eased to a dull throb, and it had finally stopped feeling like someone meant to saw it free from my hand. Now that we were alone, I took off my gloves, tossed them on the kitchen table and let out a huge sigh of relief. My hands were wrinkled from having been stuck in their own personal sauna for too long. It really was too hot for gloves here.

  “Want a Coke?” Angelle asked.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Angelle headed for the fridge. “Don’t see how you’re not thirsty. Heat’s different here than back home, don’t you find? Out there dehydration sneaks up on you because the humidity’s so low. Here it just smacks you in the face. I’m thirsty all the time. Gotta drink more water, though. You know what they say about too many Cokes . . .”

  It was the first time she’d spoken since we left the bar. I knew my sister, knew she was holding back an avalanche and was using small talk as a way to gather her thoughts. I also knew from experience that it was best to wait and let her drop the first rock. I pulled out a chair, sat at the table and began massaging my extra finger. Starting at the knuckle that met my hand, I pressed and kneaded, working my way up to the fingertip. The exercise relaxed me, centered me—readied me.

  As Angelle busied herself with ice and a soda, I took in her kitchen—the pale blue wallpaper, the white lace curtains over the window, the miniature tea kettles arranged just so on a display shelf near the stove, two wicker baskets overflowing with ivy on the counter, and a clock in the shape of a rooster on the wall straight ahead. Angelle always did have a knack for warm and homey. A room left to my care was typically shit out of luck, getting stuck with same ‘ol, same ol, like wall-mounted telephones and outdated pantries. Oddly, though, as bright and cozy as Angelle’s house appeared to the eye, there was heaviness in the air. The kind of heaviness that usually followed a person through a funeral home during a wake.

  “I like your house,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

  Angelle joined me at the table, Coke in hand. “Thanks.” She settled into her chair, then popped the top on the can and took a sip of soda. It seemed to take her forever to swallow. When she finally did, she set the drink on the table and wrapped the fingers of both hands around the can. “What happened to you back at the Bucket? Did you pick up on the kids?”

  “I really don’t know what happened. A lot of pain. Stuff I’ve never felt before. I didn’t get a bead on the kids at all.” I massaged my finger again, but the exercise no longer relaxed me.

  “I saw how much you were hurting. You had to have picked up on something.”

  I gave up on the massage therapy, crossed my arms and settled them on the table, remembering the fear that had overwhelmed me, the fear about uncovering truths.I didn’t want to frighten her by trying to explain something I didn’t understand myself. “Yeah, there was something. I’m just not sure what.” I fought to keep my voice steady, reassuring. “Look, why don’t you tell me what’s been going on? Maybe that will help me make sense out of what happened back at the pier.”

  Angelle bit her upper lip, glanced over at the stove, then towards the archway that led to the living room where we’d entered the house. When she looked back at me, I saw anxiety flicker in her eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  I grinned and tried to lighten the mood. “Girl, I’ve known you were crazy since we were kids.”

  The attempt at humor didn’t work. Instead of laughing, my sister’s eyes welled up with tears. Feeling like an insensitive asshole, I quickly reached across the table and placed a hand over one of her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “You know, me asking you to come here wasn’t all about Sarah and Nicky.” Angelle glanced over at the stove again, and I waited for her to continue, my stomach doing a slow roll. “It . . . it started about two and a half, three weeks ago, about the same time Poochie moved in here. I was . . . I was cooking supper, right there at that stove when it . . . it touched me the first time.”

  The hair on my arms jumped to attention. “When what touched you?”

  “I don’t know what it was.”

  I stared at her, waiting, suddenly fearful of what she had to say. When a long, silent moment grew into two, I prodded gently. “I don’t understand.”

  “It . . . my . . .my . . .” She wouldn’t look me in the eyes, and her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Something pinched my right breast . . . hard.”

  I sat back, startled by her words. “What?”

  Angelle nodded.“And there was nobody in here but me. Trevor wasn’t home; he was out running crawfish traps. Poochie was in her room at the other end of the house.” She drew in a shuddering breath and finally looked at me. “I was by myself, Dunny.”

  I gaped, then quickly scrambled for composure so she wouldn’t be
afraid to tell me more, even though a part of me didn’t want her to. There had to be a logical explanation. Had to be. “Could you maybe have just pinched yourself while stirring something? Under wire in your bra maybe, or—”

  “No!” She sobbed and pushed the soda away from her. The can bobbled, and I scooped it up before it toppled over. “Because it happened twice more, same place. And . . . and on the other side, my other breast. Then . . .uh . . .a little later, I felt something try to . . .try to . . .” She glanced at the stove again, then leaned closer to me, the tears on her cheeks fat and constant, and whispered. “Something tried to get between my legs.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious as a coronary. Dunny, it felt like a man’s hands. Big hands.” Her words came faster now, a tumbling avalanche. “They kept touching me, hurting me, only when I was alone, though, alone and in here. But no matter where I went—in the house, at school, the store, anywhere, I always felt like someone was watching me. All the time. Then it started happening in other places, the touching and pinching I mean. Once when I was driving back home from the store. Scared me so bad, I damn near wrecked the car.”

  I sat, too stunned to speak, unable to absorb what she was telling me.

  “The very next day it happened at school, when I was in the middle of teaching a class for heaven’s sake!” Angelle got to her feet, wrapped her arms around her chest, and began to pace. “Then when Sarah and Nicky went missing, it got worse. The kids were gone, and the touching got worse . . .harder. And . . . and it wasn’t just a man’s hands touching me anymore. It felt like it was . . .it was a man’s . . .uh . . .” She gave me a woeful look. “You know . . .”

  I sat bolt upright. “Are you talking about a man’s dick?”

  She nodded, a loud sob escaping her.

  “Jesus, Gelle . . . Jesus . . .” My mind was a whir of mush. Nothing seemed to make sense. “Have you told Trevor any of this?”

  “Oh, God, no. He’d think I’d flipped out, like Poochie. Besides, what could he do anyway? You can’t see it. There’s nothing to shoot at, hit, or kick. There’s just . . .nothing. Nothing, but what I feel.”