The papers were full of stories like that everyday. In Spunt County we were fairly warm and dry, as long as you could stay inside, which wasn’t often. Miz Eustis sent me and him out to the Diamond Horse Farm to help round up a couple of dozen equines who’d run away when their stalls flooded and the fences washed away. Those horses of Mr. Augie’s had sounded mean, though we never saw a one of them. These things was mean. They’d try to eat your arms and legs off if you got within a hundred yards of them. I thought we was gonna be killed half a dozen times an hour. Houlka gentled a few of them down; those he couldn’t he just dragged them back to the rebuilt stables.
That was at the end of April. By May the river was beginning to crest, if you call it that, and was starting to drop, if you could call it that. Every river in America was backed up and flowing uphill. The rain went from the Noe’s Fludde it had been to just plain rain. There were even a few days where there was no rain at all. It was May, but it was cool.
* * *
“I heard you done your work right fine,” said Boss Eustis. “Well, boys,” he said, looking around the verandah at the Colonels and toadies, “What we gonna do to keep Mr. Lee occupied in this nice weather?”
There was some hurried consultation among the great minds of Anomie and Spunt County, then they all looked back up at Houlka, some of them smirking.
“They’s this house of ill-repute in town.” Someone snickered, Boss Eustis looked at him, went on. “Anyway, it’s run by this Mrs. Hippola, a European Lady. I’d like you to go ask her if you could borrow her corset. The red one.”
Then everybody on the porch guffawed and kicked their heels up and down.
“Is that all?” asked Houlka.
“For right now,” said the Boss. “You be careful now, you hear, ’cause if you don’t hit her in just the right mood, she can be meaner than Uncle Cato Hacker.”
We left the front yard, walking toward town. Houlka shouldered his club on the left shoulder. His right had been giving him trouble since the fight in the graveyard. He waited till we got far down the dirt road.
“Why they think this will be harder than any of the other things?”
I didn’t know where to begin. “I’m not up on all that stuff, Mr. Lee. But I hear Mrs. Hippola’s mighty proud of that corset. It used to be people was always trying to get their hands on it—college boys from Corinth and Arcola always being sent down by their fraternities. She’s seen and heard about every kind of ploy there is. She’s ready for any shenanigans. And . . .”
“What?”
“Well, she runs the house but . . . she ain’t one of the kind of women who likes men. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“I think so,” he said. We walked on for another few yards.
“Who’s Uncle Cato Hacker?”
“Who was he, thank God. He was the meanest man that ever walked this county, maybe the whole U. S. of A. Thank the Lord I was too young and little and nobody ever took me near him; he died four years ago before I could run into him on my own. They still gonna be talking about him a thousand years from now,” I said.
“I’ll just tell you one thing—Virgil Homer wrote about it in his column, so everybody in the county knows it by heart—ain’t a house around here don’t have that one column clipped out and put up somewhere—and you can figure out the rest. Anyway, it was six-seven years ago, 1920, and Uncle Cato Hacker was about eighty-four then and he was going to the 54th Muster of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s regiment which was to be held at the King Cotton Hotel in Memphis.
“He stepped off the train. (He was with Mr. Doakes and Mr. Jenkins, who were younger than he was but in worse shape.) Uncle Cato was in his full dress uniform. (He’d been a sergeant. It still fit him like a glove, and he’d walked all the way home from Athens, Georgia, in it when the war had ended.) He was ramrod straight (I was trying to remember it like Virgil Homer wrote it) and picked up his bag and started walking toward the King Cotton Hotel. It was a cool night and they came out of the station and there, sitting on the curb beside the baggage handling area was this wreck of a man. He had one right leg and one left arm, and that arm was so twisted around all it could do was hold a cup in the lap. The whole right side of his face was gone. There wasn’t an ear on the left side. The one eye he had was pretty clouded over and the man was shivering in the cold and his homemade crutch was lying in the gutter.
“He was wearing what was left of a blue coat, and the cap he had on had a G.A.R. badge on it.
“Uncle Cato Hacker walked over to him, reached in his pocket (he wasn’t a rich man) and put a twenty-dollar gold piece in the man’s cup.
“The cripple looked up at Uncle Cato Hacker and leans up so he can focus on him, and sees his uniform and all, and he asks, ‘You’re a Johnny Reb, ain’t you?’ and Uncle Cato says, ‘That I am,’ and drew himself up to his full height and the man says, “Then why would you do something like that for me? A Yankee?’
“And Uncle Cato says, ‘You’re the first one I’ve ever seen trimmed up just like I like ’em.’”
* * *
We had been in town watching Mrs. Hippola’s place in the afternoon. Houlka watched the comings and goings before they opened for business, and got the layout of the place. It’s not very easy watching a brothel without making someone suspicious.
The moon was in the west early in the evening and we stayed around till close to midnight, listening to the music and laughter coming out of the place. Houlka was very still, and I thought I saw him brush his eyes with the back of his hand like he’d been remembering something and was ready to cry.
Even though the Delta was still under water, we’d had a break for some days. We were walking home when Houlka said, “Any place we can take a swim around here?”
“Well, yeah, but it’ll be cold as a well-digger’s ass and it’ll feel like a mudbath.”
“Maybe that’s what I need.”
I got my bearings and set off to what used to be the county’s favorite swimmin’ hole. It had a long rock ledge above it, and was deep enough to dive off in. Houlka took off his lionskin and coveralls and boots and jumped in. He swam around a few minutes, spitting water into the air like a whale.
“You’re right; it’s gritty.”
I stood up and stripped off my stuff and went down to the water and put a toe in. Damn, it was cold!
Houlka quit splashing and looked at me. The moon was just fixing to set, and you could see the reflections of it all broken in the water. The air smelled fresh and green like there was a hall full of hay somewhere around.
I jumped in and damn near died of a heart attack. “Wooie!” I yelled. “This is just what I need!” I felt my heart hammering in my chest and all of a sudden Houlka was right there beside me in the water and his hands were on me.
I thought he was just goosing me, so I moved away, but he came back and put one of his arms on my shoulders. His beard sparkled with water and I could see his eyes shine in the moonlight.
“What are you doing, Mr. Houlka!” I said.
“Give me some sugar, I.O.,” he said.
I jerked myself around. “What you mean? I like girls too much, Mr. Houlka.”
“So do I. That’s why I have to remind myself they’re not all there is,” and he opened his lips to kiss at me.
I swung my arm and hit him and brought my knee up where it would do the most good. He never expected it or it would have been useless. He bent and his mouth went underwater and he came up coughing and reaching for me.
I knew where the ledge was behind me and he didn’t. I got up on it. “Let me be, Mr. Houlka,” I said.
He roared then like a bull and started out of the water. “Jesus!” I said. I kicked him in the chest and he slipped back down on his knees on the ledge and his head slid against the rocks. “Arrr!” he yelled.
I
backed up, grabbed my shirt and pants and scrambled up the rise. He came out wet and dripping from the water, holding the side of his face and there looked like there was blood on it. He picked up his club and looked around. I saw that his dong was nearly as big and stiff as the club, and I took off with him right behind me.
* * *
I was running through the woods and falling down and I stuck a stob in the side of my foot and was limping and crying. My shoes and glasses were back at the creek but I wasn’t going back for them ever. I thought I heard Mr. Lee crashing around in the trees. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t breathe good anymore. I didn’t know if I wanted to.
After a while I just fell down in some brush, somewhere on the south side of town. I could have tried to go back home, but I didn’t want to run into Houlka again tonight, or be anywhere near him. I figured he might cool down if I could keep away from him long enough.
Then I started crying. I was mad at him, but I felt sorry for him too. I didn’t know what to do, or what I wanted, or anything. I couldn’t even keep two thoughts in my head at the same time.
I must have gone to sleep for a second because I woke up with a start. I couldn’t stay there and have him find me. So I started walking.
I could see a little now, like just before the moon comes up, but it had already set, so I guess I was just getting some night vision. I found the old Indian Trail that cut over to the main highway just below the cabinet shop and walked along that. Nobody used it much anymore except the Riding Club. Once so many Chickasaws used it it was worn down lower than the ground around it by two feet or more. It went on out of town and joined up with the Natchez Trace over by the Mangum Mounds forty miles away. Some man from Alexandria, Virginia, came through two years ago walking it—the Spunt County Shouter had done an article on him. He was making maps of all the aboriginal trails in the South.
It was slow going tonight. There were bushes growing out of it, and roots, and the sides were falling in in some places. It was like walking through a new-plowed field. I was sure if Mr. Lee was anywhere around he could hear me huffing and puffing a mile away.
Then I was up on the highway cut and I climbed and started walking along the cinders. There was a ditch on either side and I could see along the road in case Houlka was waiting for me. But I got out at the first cross street at the back of town and cut through it.
I was parched as a mule and my feet hurt. The night was still and calm. There must of been a warm front coming in. There was no noise except my feet in the dirt. I knew it was going to be a long time before I could find some water to drink.
Then I saw a coal-oil lamp lit over off the road, and heard a door open.
I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, but thought I must be somewhere near the old Interurban tracks, and could use them to cut off half a mile of walking, so I turned off through the field.
A voice, a soft woman’s voice, carried to the road.
“You, out on the road? You thirsty?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Come up and get some well water then.”
“Can’t rightly do that ma’am, but thanks anyway.”
“What’s the matter? Are you injured?”
“Some, ma’am. But I’ll be alright.”
She was quiet a moment. “Are you a Negro man?”
“Negro, Ma’am. Man, no.”
“Well, hell then,” she said, “Come on up in the yard and don’t stand in the road hurt and thirsty.”
The door opened and shut again and the coal-oil lamp lifted up inside and the door opened, and a woman came out dressed in a nightshirt like old white men wear. I couldn’t see too well in the glare but she had her hair pulled back—all I could see was the side of her face and the nightshirt and her right hand as she held the lamp up.
“You’re a mess, son,” she said, looking up and down. “Get some well water from that bucket over yonder and cool down. Did you know your foot was leaking like a bad pump suckerwasher?”
I looked down at the hurt foot, but she took the lamp back inside and set it down again and moved around inside the shack, tearing up cloth, it sounded like.
I hobbled over to the bucket and looked around for the dipper. There wasn’t one, and there was a big watering trough under the pump. So I dipped out a couple of handfuls of water. It sure was good and cool. I broke out in a sweat as soon as I drank some.
Then the woman was back. “Sit down on the trough there,” she said. “Let me clean that foot off. You’ll get dew poison or lockjaw walking around barefoot with a cut like that.
“It wasn’t by choice,” I said. I tried to take my foot away.
“Hold still, dammit,” she said. “I don’t bite.”
She bent down and poured water on my foot, which was bad enough, then put something on a piece of cloth and put it on my cut.
“JESUS CHRISTAWMIGHTY LADY?” I yelled. Tears jumped out of my eyes it hurt so much. It was like jumping into a patch of bull nettles. I bit my lips. “I’m sorry, ow-ow-ow . . .,” I said
“They say if it doesn’t burn it doesn’t do any good. Hold your foot still while I wrap it to keep the dirt out.” She wound a long strip of cloth from what looked like an old sheet around the instep of my foot then fastened it across the top with a safety pin.
“That too tight?”
“Some. Not too much.” The stinging was going away. “Thank you, ma’am. Thanks for the water and for wrapping my foot. I have to be getting home now.”
She stood up. “You look like a hurt little puppy,” she said, holding the lamp up high. “I think you’ll be alright.” Her eyes got a funny look, showed a little white under the bottom of the pupil. I’d never seen that before.
“Rest awhile,” she said. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some cornbread and milk left from supper.”
I didn’t want to stay, but suddenly I got really hungry. I realized I hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening.
“Well, ma’am . . .”
“Stay here.” She got up and went back inside leaving me and the kerosene lamp outside. She lit a candle in the house and moved back and forth across the place three or four times. I watched the shadows on the floursack curtains. She might have been dancing for all I know.
I heard a sound then and looked around and I’ll be damned if there wasn’t the biggest buck deer standing ten feet away looking at me with his big old eyes. Then I’ll swear he lowered his head and shook it back and forth just like a man shaking his head no.
I turned real slow so as not to scare him, and there was a big boar shoat with his snout right next to my hand. His eyes were big and black and he was looking at me and not moving anything but his nose that was twitching and wet like there was a real slow fountain inside.
The door opened and the white woman came back out with a glass. In it was crumbled up cornbread and milk with a big blue-speckled spoon stuck in it. The buck and boar looked at her. She lifted one of her hands and put two knuckles against her forehead like she had a headache. When I looked back around the hog and deer had turned and were walking away.
“That’s the damnest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said.
She handed me the cornbread and milk. I took it. She sat down on a little chair on the little front porch.
“Go ahead and eat,” she said. “I’m not hungry.” She looked over at the place the deer had been. “They’re real tame. They come around to drink out of that old horse trough.”
I ate the wet cornbread with the spoon. It was the best I’d ever had. It had a taste like she’d used onions and garlic in the grease she’d cooked it in.
She leaned over and blew out the lamp without lifting the chimney. “I’m low on coal-oil,” she said. “It’s getting so a body can’t hardly afford it anymore. They want 11¢ a gallon down at the big station
for it.”
I finished eating the chunks of cornbread and turned up the glass and drank the corn mush in the bottom. It had the consistency of wet sand. I could have eaten another whole glassful, but I didn’t dare ask. “You were hungry,” she said. I started feeling uncomfortable. I could tell she was watching me in the dark.
“Well, thank you ma’am,” I said. “Can I wash these out for you here in the trough?”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Aren’t you sleepy?”
As soon as she said it I felt tireder than I ever had in my life. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. But I knew I needed to go home soon.
“I . . . I . . . gotta . . .” I couldn’t even talk.
“It’s alright,” she said. “You can sleep right here on the porch steps.”
“But . . . ma’am . . .,” I said, nodding.
“It’s alright,” she said. “You’ll see. Just go to sleep.”
“But . . .,” I said. “But . . .”
* * *
I was lying on the porch, everything was sideways. I was fighting going to sleep. I didn’t know how I got there. There was someone standing over me. I could see bare legs. Beyond them was a yard and a pump. The yard was full of animals. A horse and a bull. A buck deer. A dog or two. Rabbits. A hog. A big wading bird. A snake. A cougar. A bear. They were all looking at me, not moving.
Other Worlds, Better Lives, A Howard Waldrop Reader Selected Long Fiction 1989-2003 Page 7