He had strong muscles and was stripped down plumb naked again. Seem like muscles was tryin’ to break through his skin.
He jumped on the barrel. Plopped his hind part inside the top. Soon as he got on that thing, he jumped back off. It burned him, and I knew it. Smoke was flyin’ out somethin’ heavy. Smoke that big gotta be makin’ some strong heat, I figure. It’s a wonder that whole barrel ain’t catch on fire. He started runnin’ again, and howlin’. He moaned, so I figured he was a witch doctor, ’cause Indians ain’t moan like that and I ain’t never seen no Indian wit’ no pogo leg.
Smoke kept risin’, and the man kept runnin’. He howled some more and slapped his behind. I mean a smack somethin’ awful, too. Like he was givin’ hisself a beatin’. He beat his own hind, then holla. Same kinda holla I made when Auntie gave me whippins. I knew that hurt, and I ain’t know why a man wanna make hisself feel that way. He hit hisself one more time and stopped. Stopped howlin’, hollerin’, skippin’, runnin’. He stopped like the ghost had left him, or a different ghost had come to take over his body. He stood in the middle of the field, then turned to the water well.
The man started that old crazy limp right toward me.
I was gonna take off runnin’, but I ain’t know how fast a ghost could fly or how strong witch doctors could put a spell on somebody.
I wished I hadn’t ate them biscuits. That’s why he was comin’ for me, I figure. ’Cause I had done ate food for the sick and shut-in. God had sent this witch-doctor man to get me. And he was gonna stomp me to death with that club foot ’cause I had called that boy at my school Pogo. I ain’t wanna move. I was too scared. That man sat on fire, so I knowed I couldn’t hurt him.
I could hear him comin’ closer. I heard his good foot step and the clubfoot drag. Step-drag. Step-drag. I know he was close, ’cause in my mind, I could see him walkin’.
I heard him breathin’ and moanin’. His breath made loud grunts. Sound like Auntie’s friend when he come over and stay all night in her room wit’ the door closed.
The man kept comin’ at me, and I was thinkin’ how long it take somebody to die when they gettin’ kilt. Figure God wouldn’t make me hurt too long for three little ol’ biscuits.
That ground was cool. Figured that’d be the last thing I felt—cool grass right ’fore my hot blood spilt on it. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t feel nothin’ in my legs ’cept for hot piss runnin’ down my pants. Figure it didn’t matter much if I had wet myself. Ain’t gon’ be wearin’ no mo’ pants no how.
Step-drag. Step-drag.
I could hear the pogo leg tearin’ through the grass. That moanin’ and gruntin’ was ’bout as loud as I ever heard. Sounded like he was hungry to kill somebody and . . . he was gon’ put me in that barrel.
That’s what it was. He kilt people and burned them in that barrel. Think I read a story like that.
That’s why he howled so, ’cause people’s souls was inside that barrel, and smoke was dead souls comin’ back to get folks.
I hope he wasn’t gonna set me on fire ’fore killin’ me. That’s too much to suffer for some biscuits. God ain’t hate me that much, I know.
He started howlin’ again.
I heard the bucket unwind. It was droppin’. The well echoed when the bucket bumped the sides. The rope kept unwinding until it splashed.
He was gonna drown me, gonna throw me in that well! I hoped I’d be dead before I hit the bottom. I ain’t care about breakin’ my neck, but I ain’t wanna die drownin’. I put my hands together and prayed for God to forgive me for callin’ that boy Pogo and for eatin’ the sick and shut-ins’ biscuits. Prayed that I’d die ’fore I hit the water. The bucket started windin’ back up. The man was right on the other side of the well. I could smell him. Smelled like work. Smelled like steel on hands and sweat on a back. Smelled like bein’ outdoors all day. He hollered as loud as he did the whole night. He hollered with some words I couldn’t say.
My eyes started to close like I was sleepy.
That man was puttin’ a spell on me. I read that, too. Witch-doctor men could make you turn into stuff. That’s why I ain’t wanna run, ’cause I figure soon as I made it to the woods, he’d turn me into some kinda animal everybody wanna kill.
The bucket hit the top of the well, and my eyes was tryin’ real hard to close. I was just waitin’ now. Waitin’ for his spell to work, and waitin’ to see if God had done heard me. He started howlin’. I closed my eyes. He hollered. I bowed my head. He moaned. I prayed. He moved. I listened.
Step-drag. Step-drag.
The sound got softer. Step-drag. Step-drag. He was movin’ away from the well, holdin’ that bucket of water. I stood up—slow. Peeked my head up over the well and watched him step-drag to the barrel, where he poured water inside. The smoke jumped up in his face, and he threw that barrel on the ground, then jumped on top of the barrel, looked up to the sky and went limp like the ghosts had left him again.
I jumped up and ran into the woods, thanking God, but still prayin’ that Auntie wouldn’t be mad when she saw my pants.
“Get that basket right there. Hurry up, girl. I ain’t got time to fool wit’chu.”
Auntie stayed mad for two days after I came back late wit’ piss in my pants. She thought I had delivered the plates like that and said people wasn’t gonna eat her food if I smelled when I came to they door.
“You gon’ learn them routes and learn ’em good. You messin’ wit’ my money, girl. You gon’ deliver these plates wit’ me, and if you get lost again, you gon’ lose some skin off yo’ ’hind.”
We had been walkin’ a while when I saw a open field. Through the trees I could see a cold-water well. I ain’t know if it was the same one, ’cause it looked so different in the daytime and we was up on a high road. We kept walkin’ up, and Auntie was mumblin’ every step. Somethin’ about gettin’ lost and beatin’ my tail and messin’ with her money. She kept mumblin’ until we came up on this clearing that led to a path that ended at a house.
“Whew, I don’t know why these folks live all the way up on this hill,” Auntie said.
The front porch was filled with broken pieces of wood and a few rockin’ chairs look like somebody had made by hand. It was a hole right in front of the door. Look like somebody had dropped a big ol’ boulder right through it.
“Watch where you steppin’, girl. Don’t fall in that hole. I’ll have to carry you all the way back home, and I’ll never have enough time to make my pies for tomorrow.”
Auntie knocked on the door real quick and hard.
The door jerked. Auntie looked at me. The door jerked again. Auntie shook her head and hollered to the door.
“Loodie! It’s me, Virginia. You gon’ let me in? Brought y’all somethin’ to eat.”
The door jerked again, and then somethin’ started makin’ a noise inside. Sounded kinda like a animal laughin’. One of them hyenas. It was real high, like the lady that sing them solos on Sunday and make people on the front pew close they ears.
“ ’Ginia! Heeyyy, child. This do’ givin’ me fits! Aahh-kah-kah-kah-kah!” Whatever was inside started laughin’.
The door started jerkin’ real bad, and then it opened up.
“I got it open! Aaah-kah-kah-kah-kah!”
Auntie jumped over the hole in front of the door, and I followed her. I saw a long piece of old rope tied to the doorknob. I looked at the knob and tried to see where the rope ended. It was droopin’ on the floor, wrapped around a book, draped across a ironin’ board, tied up to a washboard, looped through one of them animal traps, hooked up to the bottom leg of a stove, tied on the handle of a fryin’ pan and wrapped around the biggest wrist I had ever seen in my life.
“That’s some way to open a door, ain’t it? Ahhh-kah-kah-kah-kah!”
This was Loodie sittin’ on the bed, I figured. I do believe she was the biggest living thing I had ever seen. She was bigger than some of the animals I had seen in books. Only thing I figured bigger than this woman sittin’ on t
his bed was that whale Ahab was ridin’ on. She had ponytail balls done up on the sides of her head. Made it look like she had horns. She had the brightest lipstick I had ever seen wiped all across her mouth.
“Loodie, this here’s my niece, Parthenia.”
“Hey, Parthenia, wit’ yo’ pretty self. Just as pretty as a Bessie bug. Ahh-kah-kah-kah-kah.”
She made that laugh, and I saw inside her mouth. Look like God was in a hurry and just threw some leftover teeth in her mouth and didn’t care which way they was sittin’.
“Come on over, Parthenia,” Loodie said.
I asked Loodie, “Is you sick, or is you shut-in?”
“Parthenia!” Auntie hollered at me. I don’t know why. I was just askin’.
“This one’s a kicker here, ’Ginia! Aah-kah-kah-kah-kah!”
Every time she laughed, she got to shakin’ and jig-glin’ and wobblin’.
I looked around the house. I saw some books on a shelf. I walked over to see which ones they was, but none of ’em had titles.
It was a window over by her bed, but it had bottles stacked up, so you couldn’t really see out, but the sunlight could still come in.
She had a sink full of dirty forks. Wasn’t no plates I could see, just forks.
“Loodie. Brought some roast beef, mac and cheese, fried chicken, dumplins, and biscuits.”
“Oooh, that’s my favorite, ’Ginia.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Food! Aah-kah-kah-kah-kah!”
“Well, we bes’ get goin’, cause—”
“Sit for a while, y’all. I hear Clem comin’ up the way now.”
The whale lady looked out the window. I don’t know why. She couldn’t see nothin’ for the bottles no way.
“How you see somebody out that window?” I asked her.
“Child, I can’t see nobody. I can hear. Listen.”
She was quiet, and the house got loud. I heard acorns bombing down on the roof. Floorboards was creaking. Probably mad ’cause she walked on ’em. A long tree branch was brushin’ up against the side of the house. Then I heard . . .
“Hear him? Comin’ up the way now,” Loodie said.
Step-drag. Step-drag. Step-drag.
I looked at Auntie. “It’s time to go, ain’t it, Auntie?”
I grabbed her hand and took her to the door.
“Girl, let go my arm. We gon’ leave in a minute.”
“Gettin’ dark, Auntie. Better leave now.”
“You been comin’ home in the dark from my deliveries. Ain’t seem to bother you then, did it?”
Step-drag. Step-drag.
Maybe he was gonna fall through that hole in the porch. Or maybe that pogo leg would fall on the broken pieces outside. He could hit his head and get knocked out. Step-drag. Step-drag. Stop.
He was outside the door. I guess he ain’t howl in the daytime. Maybe he was a witch-doctor vampire, and only time he got possessed was at night.
The front door creaked. He opened it. I closed my eyes.
“Clem, sugar baby! Come on over here and make it sweet! Aaah-kah-kah-kah-kah!”
“Jelly-roll. Jelly-roll!” the man said. He had a deep old voice, like a nice grandpaw. It ain’t sound like no witch doctor.
I opened my eyes and looked at his clubfoot. It was just like I remembered it.
He was dark as the night. Surprised I could even see him at all when I was out there. Had big ol’ eyes, almost like a fish.
“I’m hungry like a wolf, woman,” he said to Loodie, and then turned to Auntie. “How you doin’, ma’am?”
“This is ’Ginia from the church. She brought me some food, Clem.”
“Brought you some food?”
“Brought it for everybody. Bless all of y’all,” Auntie said.
“Clem don’t need none of this,” Loodie said.
“Go on now, Loodie. Hush. I can eat it,” Clem said.
All he ate was blood, I bet. Dead people and dogs, I figured.
“Clem, you know what’s gonna happen if you eat all this meat and cheese,” Loodie said.
“Hush up now, Loodie. I’m hungry, and I’m gonna eat.”
The man went inside the basket and tore into that food like he was possessed.
“Clem, don’t do it!”
“Shush, Loodie. Let me eat.”
“You know what’s gonna happen!”
My stomach started to shake. He was gonna turn into that monster, and Auntie had more prayers than me. She was gonna be okay, and I was gonna be kilt for sure.
“Clem, if you don’t stop—”
“Loodie, be quiet!”
“Stop, Clem!”
“Loodie, shut up!”
“Clem, don’t do that! You gon’ be back down there in the field howlin’ and screamin’ and—”
“Loodie!”
“—sittin’ on that barrel tryin’ to steam off yo’ hemorrhoids.”
Our Kind of People
Michael Boatman
“Don’t you want to come in?” Ms. Wrong Number Who Gives A Fuck purred. “I do one hell of a good Screaming Orgasm.”
Marc Craft stared at the beautiful young woman with whom he’d just wasted four hours, and stifled the urge to smash her perfect nose.
“I’d better not,” he said.
“Why?” the waste said.
Because if I come inside, I’ll cut your head off.
Instead of throttling her, he smiled.
“I have to go,” he said, injecting just the right note of sincerity, along with a hint of frustrated lust. “I have a deposition in the morning.”
The blind date smiled, her full lips curving upward in a predatory sneer that was supposed to be sexy. She opened the door to her apartment.
“Just one drink,” she pouted. “You know, I’ve wanted to get with you from the moment we met.”
She stepped in to him, into his space, and Marc kissed her. He poured himself into his performance. It was easy: the warmth of her lips, the taste of her tongue—merlot and fresh berries for dessert—made the kiss tolerable enough that he had to remind himself not to wring her neck.
The blind date had been set up by his father and Miss Wrong’s father, an old family friend who also happened to be a prominent black judge. She was a former Miss Black New York, an accomplished young physician only recently arrived in Manhattan. She hailed from one of the better black families in her upper Westchester County town.
The right kind of people, Marcellus, his mother had said on his voice mail. Our kind of people.
And she couldn’t disappear.
Miss Wrong’s hands fluttered against his chest, pushing at him. When he finally released her, she staggered and almost fell, dropping her keys and the single red rose he’d brought her.
“What’s wrong?”
Miss Wrong shook her head. She was staring at him the way a dog stares at a television program about dogs, attracted by the sights and sounds of something familiar, confused by the play of light and shadow.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . I don’t feel well.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “Can I help you?”
“No,” she said. “Some . . . some other time maybe.”
He stooped, grabbed her keys and the rose. She took the keys from him and stepped quickly into the darkness of her apartment.
“Are you sure I can’t help—”
She slammed the door in his face.
Marc smiled. He turned and tossed the rose into the trash can on his way out. He hit the sidewalk and headed south, barely able to keep from sprinting. If he hurried, he just might make the twelve-thirty train back to Brooklyn.
The love of his life was waiting for him there.
He caught a cab back to Times Square and headed down into the subway station at 42nd Street. He had to wait for half an hour on the nearly deserted platform before the F train creaked into the station.
The only other riders on the platform were a pair of young lovers, too
high to care about the lateness of the hour, and a New York City Transit employee, a driver or maintenance man, Marc couldn’t tell.
As the F train lurched to a halt, Marc reached under his jacket and touched the hilt of the hunting knife he carried with him every Date Night. Reassured by its comforting bulk, he got on the train.
Marc, the transit employee and the young couple were the only people in their car. It always amazed him how, in a city as busy as New York, the subway seemed to clear out after midnight. At least, on the weekends.
He chose a seat close to the front of the car, hoping to surprise his love when she arrived. He chuckled at the flutter of nervousness in his gut: He was always wrong when it came to anticipating her comings and goings. He never surprised her, and he never outguessed her.
The doors hissed shut, and the F train slid into the dark tunnel, bound for Brooklyn. Marc settled in, failing miserably to suppress his excitement at the thought of meeting his One True Love.
Tonight, he thought. It’s got to be tonight.
Love is for fools and dreamers, Marcellus, his mother’s voice reminded him. People like us are bound by a greater responsibility.
Over in the corner, the young lovers were having some difficulty. The boy was apparently ill, convulsing from whatever he’d ingested earlier. He lay moaning with his head in the girl’s lap, while she whispered into his ear. As Marc watched them, the boy fell forward and vomited on the floor.
“You folks alright?” the Transit employee said.
“Fuck off,” the girl snarled.
The Transit employee shrugged and went back to his newspaper. Marc studied the big man for a moment, the thick forearms, the narrow waist just beginning to expand over his belt, the broad shoulders and heavily knuckled fists.
The Transit employee would be difficult in a hand-to-hand encounter: Marc would have to use stealth and cunning, sneak up on the bigger man and slice his throat before he could react.
Marc turned his focus toward the young couple. The boy was tall enough, nearly as tall as Marc, who stood six feet one inch in height. But he was thin, too slight, with nothing like enough bulk for Marc’s needs.
Voices From The Other Side Page 13