Diamond Duo

by Marcia Gruver

  She turned to go, and Bertha lunged, catching her in front of the hotel door. They grappled, tugging sleeves and pulling hair, both red-faced and close to tears. Just when Bertha got set to squeal like a pestered pig, from what seemed only a handbreadth away, a woman cleared her throat. Bertha froze, hands still locked in Magda’s hair, and turned to find the bluebird beaming from the threshold–though canary seemed more fitting now that she’d traded her blue frock for a pale yellow dress.

  “What fun!” Bessie cried, clasping her hands. “I feared this town might be as dull as dirt, but it seems I was mistaken.”

  There wasn’t much Thaddeus Bloom liked better than fishing, and he looked for any excuse to wet a hook. An uncommon passion for the sport took young Thad at an early age and plagued him till now. It started when he was barely old enough to sink a line in the muddy waters of Baton Rouge, and he’d trolled the lakes and bayous ever since. So it was no surprise that shortly after Papa moved the family to Jefferson, Thad discovered Big Cypress Bayou.

  He decided early on that a man could solve most of the world’s problems while dangling a cork from a cane pole. As it happened, he came to be standing at bayou’s edge while in search of just such a remedy and a rest for his troubled soul.

  As if life weren’t burdened with complication and abundant challenge for a man his age, Thad found his forward motion of late impeded by a most fetching obstacle–in the person of Bertha Maye Biddie. In the whole of his nineteen years, he’d never beheld so lovely a girl. Many a young lady seemed determined to tempt him from his goals, but no matter how much they swished and swayed or how fast they batted their eyes, Thad remained focused. Now one comely Irish elf had turned his head with just the tilt of her dainty chin.

  It would be a stretch to call Thad’s college plans his dream. As long as he could remember, his papa had spoken of places like Harvard, Boston College, and Yale in reverent tones. From the moment Papa heard they opened Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College in Brazos County, his ambition became obsession, and Thad’s fate was sealed. Oblivious to the fact that it was his younger son, Cy, who loved the books, Papa worked tirelessly, saving toward the day when Thad would leave for the military college, vowing to let nothing stand in his way.

  Nothing had until Bertha Biddie sashayed onto the scene, so small she could sit on the edge of a rug and her feet would still dangle, with dimples so deep he could swim in them and a smile so bright she didn’t need candles. With every move, she had wriggled deeper into Thad’s head and etched out a spot in his heart.

  But he couldn’t drag a bride along to military school, and he wouldn’t ask a girl like Bertha to wait. Besides, he knew her father would never agree to such a lengthy engagement. Consequently, Thad’s need to lose himself in fishing had increased tenfold of late.

  He heard a splash and turned to look. Water rings played out in wide bands from the base of a big bald cypress. He searched the area just shy of the bank for clues. Too big for a bass. Probably not a gator. Could be a paddlefish, and if so, he wasn’t interested. From the sound of the splash, it was a big one. Folks had reported seeing paddlefish as long as a man, weighing close to seventy pounds. Thad didn’t much care for spear fishing and wasn’t carrying a hook big enough to snag him.

  The ripples stilled and with it Thad’s interest. He shifted his attention to the gentle lapping of water against the tree. Submerged cypress trunks always reminded him of an overgrown foot, not unlike a giant elephant’s or dinosaur’s. He almost expected to follow the trunk up and find a brontosaurus lurking above. It wouldn’t surprise him one whit to find such a curiosity in these waters. More than once he’d hooked and pulled to shore things he’d never laid eyes on before. Not just fish. There were creatures in those murky depths that had no name and defied description.

  Thad picked up the bucket of worms, hoisted the rest of the gear to his shoulder, and edged along the grassy bank, pushing aside streams of Spanish moss and a potbellied spider on a dew-beaded web. He lined up even with a dilapidated boat shack, just down shore from where he’d spotted the water rings. He leaned his cane pole against a tree then propped the net and his daddy’s pole, which he’d taken without permission, against the side of the old building and sat down to wait.

  The crunch of a broken twig behind him gave Thad a start, more so than it would have if his mind weren’t crawling with monsters and bugaboos. He turned and gave a low whistle as he watched Charles Gouldy step into the clearing with a fishing pole in his hand. Charles picked his way over the ruts and cypress knees and joined Thad on the bank.

  “Hey, Charlie. You came.”

  “Said I would.”

  “That don’t always hold salt.”

  Charles sidled up beside him and baited his hook. Thad set to work threading a worm on his, hurrying despite himself. For some reason, they had an unspoken challenge to see who would be first to get a line in the water. Charlie bested him this time and started to whistle as soon as his cork settled onto the muddy surface. In no time his whistling became a quiet song.

  “ ‘Had a fine reputation until he sold it. Liked corn liquor, but he couldn’t hold it.’ ”

  Thad laughed, his eyes still trained on his cork. “What’s that you’re singing?”

  “ ‘Old Dan Tucker.’ Don’t tell me you never heard it?”

  Thad looked at him. “Those ain’t the words to ‘Old Dan Tucker.’ ”

  “Are, too.”

  “I’m telling you they ain’t.”

  Charlie glanced up. “My papaw sings it thata way.”

  “He made it up, then.”

  Charlie shrugged and nodded. “Probably did.”

  “Well, try not to sing anymore, how ’bout it. You’re here to catch fish, not torture them. And I know I can do without it.”

  “You wouldn’t know a good singer if he sat on you.”

  “I know I’d rather you sat on me than sing.”

  Charlie grinned and gave him a light shove.

  A quick flash of movement across the water caught Thad’s attention. He studied the tree-lined bank until he caught another glimpse between the cypress trunks, just enough to identify two windblown shocks of red hair. The Taylor boys, sitting tall in their old beat-up skiff, skimmed along effortlessly, pulled by the flow, using only the occasional furtive dip of a paddle to steer.

  When the faded blue boat pulled past a clearing, Thad nudged Charlie. “Looky there.”

  “Where?”

  “That dinghy slipping up on us.”

  Charlie tensed. “Who is it?”

  “T-Bone Taylor and that rogue little brother of his.”

  Beau and T-Bone, each barely out of knee britches, lived upstream a short row from town. They were known around Jefferson as the biggest thieves this side of the Red River. T-Bone had been asked, and not so politely, to forgo any further notions of an education at Samuel Ward’s Paradise Academy due to unruly and downright naughty behavior. Beau, two years his junior, seemed destined to follow in his brother’s footsteps.

  Charlie craned his neck to see better. “What’re they up to this far downriver?”

  “No good, I’d wager. Look how much pain they’re taking to be quiet.”

  Charlie leaned forward, ready to shout, but Thad stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, let’s watch what they do.”

  Thad pulled his line to shore, and Charlie followed suit. They ducked for cover under a yaupon bush and spied between its branches. The Taylor boys skimmed past and pulled stealthily beneath the shack, Beau lifting one hand overhead to drag the skiff well under. Thad watched them scurry around in the boat, both scrawny bodies bent under the suspended floor.

  “What them rascals doing?”

  “Hush, Charlie! Wait and see.”

  Before long, a skinny, freckled arm appeared from under the pilings to where the net was propped. Grimy fingers lifted it and disappeared. The arm was soon followed by a hand reaching for the bait.

  When a smaller, more freckled ver
sion snaked out to grab Papa’s pole, Thad sprang to life. “Hey, hold up there! That’s right, Beau Taylor, I’m talking to you. Don’t think I don’t see you two scoundrels.”

  Thad hurried to the shack and ducked to look under, just in time to see Beau lower his hand, Papa’s cane pole and all, beneath the water. “Nice try, Beau. Pull up my daddy’s fishing pole and place it where you found it.” He moved closer, trying to look fierce. “T-Bone, that there’s my net and bait. Put them back or suffer the consequences.”

  “Didn’t see you there,” T-Bone mumbled. “Just reckoned some-body left it.”

  “If they had, it wouldn’t make it yours, now would it? Save your excuses. Ain’t no right reason to do a wrong thing.”

  Beau raised his ill-gotten bounty from under the water and eased it back onto the bank. Reluctantly, his older brother followed suit, propping the net against the piling then tossing the bait on the bank.

  Charlie stormed up behind Thad, puffed like an adder, and chimed in: “What’s the matter? You boys ain’t familiar with the eighth commandment?” He clenched his fists and took one more menacing step. “What are we waiting for, Thad? Let’s drag ’em out and teach ’em ‘thou shalt not steal.’ ”

  Thad grabbed Charlie’s arm. “Didn’t you just hear what I said about doing a wrong thing? They put the stuff back. It’s over now.” He turned to the boys. “You two get on home. You keep looking for trouble, it’s bound to find you.”

  The brothers danced past each other, holding on to keep from falling in the drink. They found their seats and paddles then backpedaled from under the shack. When they cleared it, they turned the nose of the boat in the same direction they’d been traveling and left without another word.

  Charlie shot an arm in their direction. “You see that, Thad? You just wasted your breath. Those two ain’t headed for home. Their minds are well set on some thieving raid.” He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “We should’ve beat them and sent them running home to Mama. Now they’ll get their hides filled with buckshot.”

  Thad watched the boys catch the current, maneuver around a curve, and disappear. “I hope not, Charlie.” He sighed. “I truly hope not.”

  “Why? Lord knows them two deserve it.”

  Thad gave him a long look. “Now you’re an authority on what the Lord knows?”

  Charlie glared and then feigned an elaborate bow. “I beg your pardon, sir. I get ahead of myself sometimes.” He flashed a devilish grin. “We all know Saint Thaddeus is the authority on God. Too bad the Sisters of Charity sold Saint Mary’s to them Jew boys and let ’em turn it into a synagogue. You could’ve joined the convent.” He pulled his shirt up and fashioned a makeshift habit then pranced in a pious circle. “Sister Thad. Has a nice ring to it, don’t it?” He stopped pacing and fell to the ground, howling and slapping his knee. “Lord knows you’d make a fine nun.”

  Thad felt rage boil up inside. “I’ll excuse your ignorance concerning the good brothers of Sinai Hebrew and chalk up your lack of decorum to the one who raised you.”

  The last comment lifted Charlie’s hackles, as Thad expected it might.

  Charlie pushed off the ground. “What do you mean by that, Bloom?”

  “Come on, Charlie, you know your sister’s morals are questionable at best and her profession the talk of the town.”

  Charlie balled his fist. “Take it back! Isabella don’t do those things no more. Not since Mama died. And who are you to talk? Some folks think skinning every sucker dumb enough to sit across a hand of poker from you ain’t exactly the Lord’s work.”

  Thad shrugged and slung the two poles over one shoulder, picked up the bucket of bait, and turned to go.

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s not a good day for fishing, after all. I’ve got too much on my mind to wrangle with all this besides.”

  Thad started up the incline, careful to dodge the jutting roots on his way to the top. He heard rustling behind him and then running, stumbling feet.

  “I take back what I said about you and the rabbis,” Charlie panted, falling into step behind him. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

  Thad stopped and turned to face him. “I had no right to bring up your sister’s past. It ain’t no concern of mine. And you’re right. My life ain’t been perfect.” He held out his hand. “Truce?”

  Charlie grinned and clasped his outstretched palm. “Truce. And here. You left your net.”

  Thad put his hand on the net, but Charlie held it. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did you quit playing cards just when you got so good at it?”

  Thad thought a minute then decided to tell the truth. “You ever have a coonhound latch onto the back of your shirt and go to tugging?”

  Charlie chuckled. “A time or two, I reckon.”

  He nodded. “That’s how gambling started to feel. Figured I’d better quit before it brought me down.” He grinned. “Besides that, Mama found out. Needless to say, she wasn’t very happy about it.”

  On the water behind Charlie’s head, the blue dinghy shot from behind a stand of trees with Beau and T-Bone leaning into their paddles. Loud laughter and excited chatter sounded up the hill to where Thad and Charlie stood. Charlie whirled and watched with Thad as the boys skimmed past. Twin streams of smoke trailed behind them from the rolled-up tobacco that dangled from each boy’s mouth. A large, misshapen bundle rested between them in the bottom of the boat, covered in stolen hides.

  “There they go,” Thad said. “Looks like some poor fool lost his tobacco tin.”

  Charlie chuckled. “Lord knows what they have stashed beneath those pilfered skins.”

  “And therein lies their fate,” muttered Thad, flashing Charlie a somber smile. “The Lord knows.”

  Sarah dipped two dark fingers in the murky bayou and sighed. Cold. Like the wind that whipped the bare tops of the sweet gum trees on the far bank before it skipped across the water and found its way up her dress. One thing for sure, it was too miserable cold to kneel in the mud pounding the stink out of Henry’s britches. But no matter. Hands be numb, bones be chilled, her man needed clean drawers, and she’d see he got them.

  Not that he appreciated it any. She could freeze stock-still and he’d just shrug and hang his hat on her, bothered not a whit until suppertime. He’d moan then but wouldn’t lift a finger to change it. Henry King would sit down and starve plumb to death while waiting for her to thaw. Sarah was of the opinion that her husband set far too much stock in his family name.

  She held the heavy denim overalls up to the sun to inspect her progress. The grass stains were still there. She could beat until the stones in her hands wore smooth, but the dirt ground into those old britches was there to stay. She dare not scrub the worn-out legs for too long. Already the only thing standing between Henry’s knees and the world were a few crisscrossed patches of white thread. And the world wasn’t ready for Henry’s knees.

  She lifted the soggy mess of cloth, heavily weighted by water, into her pail with a grunt. She’d draw a bucket of water to pour over them and let them sit till later. A good soaking could do them no harm.

  “Woman! Where you be?”

  Sarah gritted her teeth, wondering when in life’s unfolding she’d find herself in a place where men didn’t holler and order her about. She turned, shading her eyes from the sun. A shadowy outline of Henry stood atop the grassy knoll above the creek, his hands on his hips. Even with irritation crowding her throat, she couldn’t help but mark the fact that her man cut a fine figure in silhouette.

  She stood up and assumed his same stance. “What you doing bellowing at me like that? You ain’t my daddy. ’Sides that, you know where I am. I’m down here washing your drawers, just like I washed his.”

  “Well, leave all that. I need you to ride into town with me.”

  Sarah bent and hoisted the heavy pail onto her hip then took her time walking up the hill. “What you be needing from town? We hau
led in staples and dry goods on Wednesday, and this ain’t but Friday. We still got potatoes and onions in the larder, and I made plenty of soap.”

  She stopped in front of him and tilted her head to study his face. He shifted his eyes at first but then gave her a bug-eyed stare. “Why you got to understand everything? Maybe I’d like the pleasure of your company. That’s all you need to know.” He reached around to swat her hard on the behind and then took the pail, laughing and dodging when she tried to hit him back.

  “Go on, now. Quit acting up. And no more questions. Jus’ get yourself inside and dress for town.” He flashed a toothy grin with his audacious white teeth. “And hurry up, you hear? Don’t hole up in that house and leave me here till my hair turns gray.”

  “I need water poured over them raggedy britches, Henry King. Make sure you see to that.” She continued up the rise, tossing the last word over her shoulder like a pinch of salt. At the top she paused and turned her head. Not enough to see his face, but she knew she had his attention. “And I’ll be ready when I’m ready. You look for me then.”

  Deep laughter rumbled behind her, causing warmth to spread through her core. Even being the exasperating man that he was, her husband could stoke a fire in her heart with very little effort.

  The natural slope to the creek leveled out to a wide expanse of tilled ground running from where she stood to the edge of the backyard. To her left at the end of a long furrow, Henry’s plow sat right where he’d left it, the blade still burrowed deep in East Texas soil. Just ahead, a line of young hickory trees marked the boundary of their yard.

  A big oak with knobby, exposed roots shaded the house against the summer heat and provided a fine napping spot for old Dickens, Henry’s hound. On a warmer day she’d find the dog sprawled on the cool, hard-packed dirt beneath the tree, growling and twitching in his sleep. But on such a blustery morning, he was more likely in the barn curled up in a nest of hay.

  As she neared the porch, the hens left their pecking and pranced away, squabbling and complaining among themselves. They were meant to be inside the weather-beaten old coop, but Henry had given up on keeping them in, so they wandered the grounds at will.