The Secrets of Silk

by Allison Hobbs

  Silk’s ears perked up. “What do you mean?”

  “I tell the customers they’re gonna need an extra-strong mixture to get rid of their infestation of bugs and vermin, and then I charge ’em an extra twenty bucks. That’s my side money that goes right inside my pocket,” he boasted, holding the steering wheel with one hand and smacking his bulging left pocket with the other.

  “Does the stronger mixture get rid of the bugs?” Silk asked, feigning interest in the exterminating business, when her mind was actually focused on his left pocket that was filled up with cash.

  “Nah, I spray those restaurants with the same basic, pest control spray that I use for all commercial businesses. But you know what they say: What the customers don’t know won’t hurt ’em.” He chuckled and gave Silk a conspiratorial wink.

  “Anyways,” Floyd continued, “aside from the filth that I find in the kitchens of restaurants, my wife is such a heck of a good cook; I don’t want to eat anyone else’s cooking.”

  “What’s your wife’s specialty?” Silk asked, faking a smile while her brain was at work trying to figure out a way to sweet-talk Floyd out of some of the money he’d collected from the restaurants. Maybe he’d fall for a hard-luck story about a sick old mother who was depending on her. The cash she’d taken out of the bread box would only last but so long, and she suddenly wanted Floyd’s money so badly, it became difficult for her to breathe.

  “My wife, Shirley’s baked ham is one of her best dishes, but everything she cooks is mouthwatering.” He patted his protrusive belly, and said, “This here ain’t no beer belly—it’s from Shirley’s good, home cooking. She packs me up enough food to feed an army when I have to drive long distances out on the road. I got some fried chicken in a Tupperware container in a brown sack, back there.” He turned slightly, nudging his chin toward the backseat. “If you’re hungry, reach back there and get yourself a leg or a wing. I’m a thigh and breast man, so you won’t find none of those parts left.” Again, Floyd erupted in laughter.

  “I’m not hungry, but thanks for your hospitality,” Silk said politely. Looking out the window, she noticed a sign indicating Baton Rouge was only eight miles ahead. Floyd was tearing up the road, driving fast. With time ticking away, she didn’t have a lot of time to come up with a believable sob story.

  “So, where are you gonna be teaching school, Missy?”

  “I’ll be teaching at a private school, uh, for Christian children.”

  Floyd chuckled. “A teacher with your good looks is gonna give those little Christian boys a head full of impure thoughts.”

  Silk lowered her eyes demurely.

  “I ain’t never been up North and can’t say I want to. What city is the school located in?”

  Silk was planning on putting down roots in either New York or Chicago, and willing to go wherever the next bus that pulled out the station was headed to, but she didn’t want to give Floyd the full truth about her intended destination, in case he was ever questioned by Sheriff Thompson. “I’ll be teaching in Boston, Massachusetts.”

  “Oh, that’s where President Kennedy hails from. I’m Irish like the president and I was happy to give him my vote. But I’m not too pleased with the way he supports those radicals that want to change the segregation laws here in the South. I consider myself to be a reasonable person, and as long as you coloreds stay in your place, I treat you with decency. I don’t like the way those high-minded Negroes are starting to insist that their little pickaninnies be allowed to go to the same schools as white children. It’s unnatural and goes against God’s plan.” Floyd gazed at Silk curiously. “Is that school you’re gonna be teaching at, a school for coloreds-only or are the races all mixed together?”

  “It’s all colored, sir,” Silk replied.

  Floyd nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good.”

  They rode along with Floyd jabbering a mile a minute, his conversation shifting back and forth from pest control to race relations. They were only five miles from Baton Rouge when Silk turned to Floyd with her face flustered in embarrassment. “I hate to trouble you, but I need a restroom something terrible. I tried, but I can’t hold it any longer. Would you mind pulling over so I can relieve myself in those bushes?” She pointed to the forest area on the right side of the darkened road.

  “I reckon it’ll be all right if I stop for a few minutes,” Floyd said, pumping the brakes.

  “Did your wife put any napkins in with your food?” Silk lowered her eyes demurely.

  “I forgot…you females can’t piss and shake your snake like men can.” He twisted around in his seat, reaching inside a large paper bag, scrounging around for napkins.

  While his back was turned, Silk reached into her bosom and pulled out her knife. When Floyd turned to hand her a napkin, she plunged the knife in his chest.

  “What did you do that for?” Floyd stared at Silk and then grimaced down at the knife that was sticking out of his chest. Dying painfully, Floyd beseeched her in a croaking voice, “Don’t let me die. Help me.” Not only did Silk ignore his plea, she gripped the protruding handle of the knife and twisted it cruelly. With Floyd now silent and still in death, she rifled through both pockets, relieving him of the thick wad of money he’d collected from the restaurants.

  Using Floyd’s pant leg, Silk wiped her knife clean and returned it to her bosom, and then calmly counted out four hundred and eighteen dollars. Woo wee. I hit the jackpot!

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said to the dead man. She retrieved her suitcase, opened it up, adding Mr. Floyd’s money to the pile she’d stolen from Big Mama. Humming one of the songs she’d heard playing from the jukebox in The Low Moon tonight, she began the trek to Baton Rouge.

  CHAPTER 4

  The only bus going up north was headed for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but it wouldn’t be pulling out of the station until six in the morning. Half-expecting Sheriff Thompson to burst inside with his hounds, Silk ambled over to the colored waiting room, steadily glancing over her shoulder. There wasn’t any point in trying to blend in with the straggling few late-night travelers. With her fair skin and straight hair, she stood out like a sore thumb. She considered hiding out in the restroom, but that was futile. The other colored travelers would only point the sheriff in that direction after he described her.

  Hoping her luck would hold out until sunrise, Silk sat on a bench and tried to relax herself. Three killings in one night had given her a sort of high unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It seemed like her whole body was tingling and buzzing with excitement.

  Clutching the handle of her suitcase that was filled with cash, Silk closed her eyes and began to reminisce about her childhood.

  “Miss Mattie ain’t your real mama,” Ozella Scott said to six-year-old Silk.

  “Yes, she is,” Silk shot back.

  “I heard that some trampy white woman left you in Miss Mattie’s backyard.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “It’s the truth,” Ozella insisted, giving Silk a hard shove that knocked her down and resulted in a scraped knee.

  When Silk went home, crying to big Mama, the old woman frowned in disapproval. “If you don’t stick up for yourself, those ornery churren jest gon’ keep on taunting you.”

  “But Ozella is bigger than me; she’s a fifth-grader.”

  “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Big Mama stated, whipping a switchblade out of her ample bosom. “You take this here knife and I want you to use it on that blubber-lipped gal the next time she starts deviling you. If you give her a deep slash across the arm and if you draw a good amount of blood, I guarantee you won’t have any more trouble out of the little heifer.”

  The next day, Big Mama lured Ozella to their shack under the pretext of wanting her to run a quick errand with the promise of paying her fifteen cents for her time and trouble. When Ozella arrived, she knocked on the creaky wood door and yelled through the wire screen, “I’m here, Miss Mattie.”

  In the shadows of the d
arkened shack, Big Mama put the switchblade in Silk’s hand. “Go on out there and cut her. Make her blood flow like a river; do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Silk said in a shaky voice.

  “All right, then. Get to it, gal.” Big Mama gave Silk an encouraging shove.

  With the switchblade hidden behind her back, Silk went outside.

  “Hi, Silk,” Ozella said in a friendly tone, as if she hadn’t taunted and pushed Silk the day before.

  “Hi, Ozella,” Silk said shyly.

  “Where’s Miss Mattie?”

  “She’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay.” Ozella stomped her foot, scaring off a chicken that had come snooping around her shoes. That sudden movement prompted Silk to take action. In two swift movements, she slashed Ozella across her arm and put another gash across her back. Ozella shrieked to high heavens, which was a signal for Big Mama to come outside.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” Big Mama asked. “Goodness, gracious, where’d all that blood come from?”

  “Silk cut me for no reason at all. She just hauled off and cut me,” Ozella cried as Big Mama examined her wounds, clucking her tongue.

  Big Mama shook her head. “Looks like you need stiches, so I guess I’m gon’ have to sew you up.” She turned to Silk. “Go clean that knife you cut her with before it turns rusty.”

  Silk scampered off, skipping happily as she went to clean and polish the switchblade.

  Ozella howled in pain as Big Mama doctored on her. After she finished, she patted Ozella on the head and said, “You’re too messed up to run my errand, so go on home. Tell your mama that she owes me a dollar for doctoring you up. And tell her to bring my money around here by Friday…or else.”

  “Yes, ma’am; I’ll tell her,” Ozella responded. Bent over in pain, the girl slowly made her way back home.

  It took several more knife slashings for kids to realize if you messed with Silk, you’d end up requiring stitches. Since the closest physician was eleven miles away, it was Mattie Moreau who tended to the wounded. Parents who complained about Silk found themselves hexed: their chickens refused to lay eggs, fresh milk suddenly turned sour, and alligators began crawling out of the swamp and hanging around their property.

  As the years progressed, Silk didn’t have to be provoked to cut someone. If she so much as suspected a girl had eyes for her current boyfriend, she’d cut her on the spot and ask questions later.

  Big Mama accused Silk of being hot-in-the-butt and boy-crazy. She tried her best to dissuade Silk’s interest in the opposite sex by climbing on top of her numerous times throughout the day. Sometimes she kept Silk in bed for hours on end, but even her best efforts failed to calm down Silk’s unnaturally high nature and her desire for sex with members of the opposite sex. As a last resort, Big Mama made up a potion for Silk to drink. “You gon’ wind up with a gut-full of responsibility if you don’t calm your hot butt down. And if you get pregnant, you’re on your own. I’d be a fool to take on another screaming baby with a big ol’ mouth to feed,” Big Mama had grumbled.

  Early one morning when Big Mama was out fishing, Silk opened the door for Mr. Perry, who made a weekly delivery of a big, cinder-block-sized chunk of ice. He carried the block of ice with a pair of sharp, pointy-ended tongs, dripping water as he made his way to the antiquated, wooden ice box against the wall, a few feet away from the outdated stove.

  “You’re growing like a weed,” he commented, looking Silk over with a slow, caressing gaze. She was fourteen years old at the time, and her body had ripened into womanly maturity.

  “Did Mattie leave me any money for this ice?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Perry, but she’ll have your money for you next week.”

  Mr. Perry mopped sweat from his brow with a large, pink hand. “I had to leave my truck back there on the side of the road and travel on foot through the forest to get to this out-of-the-way shack and bring y’all this here block of ice. I need something for my trouble,” he said in a voice that oozed with a sexual overtone as his eyes roamed Silk’s curves that were visible in a tight pair of orange pedal pushers. Braless, her pert, young breasts pushed at the cotton fabric of her sleeveless blouse.

  “You sho’ look tempting, Silk. Looky here,” he said, advancing toward her with a leering expression. “You take care of me and I’ll forget about Mattie’s ice bill.”

  Silk backed away. “If you come back tomorrow, Big Mama will have the money for you,” Silk lied, trying to get rid of Mr. Perry.

  “I won’t be anywhere near these parts tomorrow.” Mr. Perry shook his head regretfully. “Now, you keep what goes on between me and you to yourself. Don’t go running your mouth to Mattie. You hear me?” He yanked Silk toward him.

  She yelped in fear.

  “Shh. Shh. I just wanna feel you up a little bit.” He squeezed her breasts, ran his hands over her backside, and then roughly dug his fingers between her legs, stroking on the thick seam of fabric in the crotch of her pants. “Take them pants off so I can get me some.” He tore at the side of her pants, popping off the button and ripping open the zipper.

  Silk looked around in desperation, wishing she could defend herself with the knife Big Mama had given her for protection. But in the safety of her home, she rarely kept her weapon on her.

  Mr. Perry backed her across the room, threatening her with each step. “You’d better be nice to me, nigga bitch, or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.” Soon, he had her stretched out on the iron bed. His physical frame, comprised of mostly bulky muscle, was much heavier than Big Mama’s loose, fleshy body. Feeling as if she were being crushed, Silk could barely breathe. She didn’t possess the strength or the courage to try and fight him off.

  She wasn’t a virgin and it didn’t physically hurt when he pushed himself inside her. But each thrust was an intrusion, a violation of her personhood. She hadn’t felt this helpless since she was a six-year-old being taunted and bullied by Ozella Scott. Only this felt a hundred times worse.

  After ten excruciating minutes elapsed, he gave a harsh groan and a violent shudder before rolling off her. Lying on his back, he stared at the moldy, exposed-beam ceiling, smiling in satisfaction. Finally, he stood, pulling up his pants and straightening out his shirt.

  Afraid that even the most subtle movement might entice Mr. Perry into wanting to start up again, Silk lay still and dared not move a muscle.

  “Tell Mattie the ice is free of charge this week,” Mr. Perry said, giving Silk a head nod and a wink.

  Silk didn’t move until she heard the screen door slam behind Mr. Perry. The rage that overcame her seemed to vibrate through her system. She shot up from the bed and pulled up her pedal pushers, which were loose around her waist due to the ripped zipper and missing button. In a blind fury, she felt beneath the mattress and retrieved her switchblade. Knife in hand, she moved purposefully across the room, and when she reached the cabin door, she noticed that Mr. Perry had left his tongs behind.

  “Mr. Perry! Mr. Perry!” Silk yelled, running through the forest in the direction that led to the road where Mr. Perry always parked his truck. She spotted him in the distance, moving swiftly through the thicket of trees and bramble bushes. “Mr. Perry!”

  Hearing his name, Mr. Perry stopped walking and turned around. Silk waved her hand through the air. Realizing that Silk wanted to tell him something, he sighed as he waited for her to catch up.

  “You forgot your ice tongs,” she said, breathless, when she caught up to him.

  “Girl, what’s wrong with you…are you simple-minded or something? I have extra pairs of tongs. Why you come running out here in the woods, slowing me down when I’m already behind schedule from fooling with you?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you needed these,” she said, extending her arm, offering him the tongs. But before he could accept them, she swung the heavy, metal object upward, knocking him upside the head. Mr. Perry let out a sound of pain and stumbled backward. Silk whacked him again. Only harder. An
d this time, a big knot appeared on the side of his head, and his knees buckled. He tried to get away from her, but disoriented, he stumbled around with no idea of which way to turn.

  Silk had him at her mercy, and with a deadly look in her eyes, she approached him, waving the ice tongs menacingly. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive that ice truck, Mr. Perry,” she said with an amused smile.

  “You…you’re crazy; get away from me.” His voice shook and so did the hand that he held up defensively, but to no avail. Silk had him at her mercy. With a malicious glint in her eyes, she swung at his head with the ice tongs until blood seeped and his legs gave out.

  The burly man hit the ground hard, like a fallen tree. As he lay on his side, balled up and with his hands pressed against his battered head, Silk struck again. Knocked unconscious, his arms fell to his sides. He was lying on his back now, exposed and vulnerable. Silk dropped the switchblade that she’d been hiding behind her back. Using both hands, she opened the tongs, aiming the pointy ends at Mr. Perry’s closed eyes. She widened the handles and then tightened them together, using the sharp, curved ends to gouge out his eyes.

  Howling like a trapped animal, Mr. Perry’s screams echoed through the forest. With bloody eyeballs hanging on both cheeks, he scrambled around, trying to sit up. Silk dropped down, picked up her knife from the ground, and straddled him. Using her switchblade, she slashed him up, causing the flesh of his face and arms to hang like ribbons. Barely alive from blood loss, he softly whimpered, emitting a whoosh of air when she plunged the knife into his privates.

  Back at the cabin, when Silk told Big Mama what Mr. Perry had done to her and how she’d left his bloodied body for the buzzards to eat, Big Mama insisted on going out to the woods and dragging the dead body back to her property. Burying him in the ground would fertilize her garden and also keep the iceman’s remains undetected by Sherriff Thompson and his lawmen.