Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  “Yes, sir,” Hank said. “My friends and I, we were looking for a house around here. I think we might be lost.”

  The man wiped his hands on his pants. Stuck one out to Hank. “I’m Jedediah Journey; folks around here just call me Spell. You’re welcome to it. That’s my daughter out there, my little Louise Anna. We’d be happy to help you in any way we can. We don’t get many visitors out this way. Who you looking for again?”

  Hank introduced himself. “I’m looking for Delilah Turner’s place. The address is—”

  “Delilah Mae, sure. You not far from it now. You have to just keep on down this road until you come to the end of the road, you see. And when you come to the end of the road, you can’t miss it, you see. There are a couple of houses ’round there. Nothing much, just shacks. A big white church in the middle, you see. Nobody uses it anymore. Not many people come back this way. Who you looking for again?”

  “Delilah Mae.”

  Spell pulled a peanut shell out of his back pocket and popped it in his mouth. He sucked on it for a minute before he cracked it with his gums and spit the shell on the floor. “Why you lookin’ for Delilah Mae? You her husband?”

  “Does Delilah Mae have a husband?”

  “I just asked you that, son. You all right?”

  Hank laughed. “I’m not her husband, no.”

  “Good, that’s mighty good. She’s a real nice girl. You seem like a nice boy. But you’d need a mighty fine hammer to nail that one down. What was your name again? Oh, I reckon Delilah Mae wants her special stuff. You here to take it to her? I could’a sworn another fella was around here a while go, asking about her. I gave him pickles too. He was suppos’ ta bring them to her.”

  Son of a bitch, Hank cursed underneath his breath.

  The man nodded, chewing his peanut into butter. The pulp-like substance gathered at the side of his mouth, and he used an arthritic finger to wipe it away before licking it off. He opened one of the barrels, took out about twelve pickles, and placed them in a clear plastic bag. Out of the cooler, he grabbed twelve bottles of root beer, packing it all in a brown paper bag. He had Hank take the old-time candies off the shelf and put them in the bag too.

  “I think that ought to do it, son. Who you going to see again?” He stopped for a moment, tipped his hat and scratched his head. “Tell Delilah I sent that special for her, you hear, na’? Tell her the baby is coming real soon. Remember what I said na’, all the way down to the end of the road. And you and your friends, you drink that root beer. Even though it’s harvesting season ’round these parts, it’s still mighty hot. You won’t find a finer root beer anywhere else. Have a pickle too. Delilah Mae, right?”

  Hank offered him money, but the old man almost violently refused.

  Hank nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure and tell her you sent this for her. I’m mighty appreciative for everything.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. We do what we can. Folks ’round here have to help each other out. The world ain’t like it used to be. Be sure and drink those root beers, na’. You won’t find any better. I’d bet my brown eye on it. The other one is glass, you see. My other one, the one made by the hand of God, is still rolling around in the fields somewhere out here. My wife, she took it out with a pitchfork, plucked it right into the cotton fields. Said I was looking at another woman, you see.”

  Spell cleared his throat, a piece of peanut flying overhead, sticking to a pack of homemade popcorn on the shelf beside Hank. He wagged his gnarled finger. “The Bible states,” he said, his voice like a nagging old woman’s, “it’s better to take your out eye than to roam!” He cleared his throat once again, muttered something in his own voice for a second. “I reckon she never gave me a choice to do it myself. She took it upon herself to do it. I sho’ enough never did that again. They come in pairs for a reason.”

  “I’m sure sorry to hear that, Mr. Spell.”

  “I was sho’ sorry, too. Hey, you say you’re fixin to see Delilah Mae? Listen here, you be careful, all right? Like I say, people ’round these parts have to stick together. Na’, that other one—” he whistled real low “—don’t play mouse with a cat, boy. You won’t win. Ah, but she’s a good girl. Just don’t forget what I say. Way down the road there…Delilah Mae.”

  Hank waved and went to leave when Spell stopped him.

  “Oh, and honey boy, I’m still on the hunt for my eye. If you happen to see it, bring it back to me, will ya? I sure miss it, you see. My wife, she’s gone now, and it’s safe. I always figured it was too scared to come back, gettin’ poked like that. There’s a dollar reward for it. And I’ll throw a whiskey and a few pickles in, too. Damn, I miss my eye. I miss my eye more than I ever miss that wife o’ mine.”

  The old man sat on one of the jugs, crossed his legs, and started humming “You Are My Sunshine.” When Hank walked back outside, he found, pasted onto the dirt-stained window, a worn-out poster, crinkled and thinning in spots from apparent age. In the center of the wanted sign was a hand-drawn picture of a brown eye, and written below: Have you seen this eye? Please return to Jedediah Journey, he can’t see without it. Dollar reward. Last seen in the old cotton fields by Possum Road. Much obliged.

  Hank handed out the pickles and root beer once the van started throwing up dust again. The mud was so thick Dylan had to turn the wipers on. The windshield became a mucky, distorted mess, the water somehow making it worse. Their view was mucked up, to say the least.

  The pickles made up for the scenery. They were just as good as the night he had them with Delilah. And the root beer was the best he had ever tasted. It was so fresh and crisp, and it flowed down your throat like cool water, while it bubbled like a brook on your tongue. Sarsaparilla was so very concentrated and exotic tasting.

  The guys each drank two, ate two pickles too, when suddenly Curly sat straight up and pointed out the window. “Did you guys see that?”

  “See what?” Hank held a hand up to his brows, shielding some of the glare from his eyes.

  Curly shook his head. “Those women.”

  All the guys looked out the window, but all they saw were more prisoners and fields.

  “I think Curly Izza Cootie is tripping.” Stroke laughed.

  “Look!” Curly shouted. “They’re out there doing the prison work. And they’re singing so pretty like. Hear it? Listen to that, will you! How sublime. Sweetness, they’re all wet and wearing white. I can see the outline of their breasts…Oh.” He swallowed hard. “They’re like angels. Like little birdie angels, and they’re going to be free from all their shackles and chains.”

  Hank didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t see any women, and neither did anyone else, for that matter, except for Curly. And he went on and on about the birdie angels all in white until they made it to the end of the road. Just like Spell had said, it was five old shacks, able to be called houses because they had windows and doors.

  They were chipped and white, standing on red cinder bricks. Each had a screened-in porch, the aluminum screens all torn and waving in the wind. In the center was the old church. It was nothing but white cotton, except for tall pines that started the woods at the end of the land.

  Loretta Lynn, singing the same song Delilah had in the shower, played from one of the houses. Hank and Curly were going together to check it out while the rest split up in twos. The closer their scrunching footsteps came to the house, the louder the music became.

  Hank climbed the steps, Curly behind him. A table and two plastic chairs were on the porch, the old radio singing on the table. He opened the porch door, called for Delilah, but no answer. He went in anyway.

  Hank looked at the “house” in disbelief. It was in horrible condition. Weathered furniture was still inside. One old kitchen table with a small crystal vase was placed in the center. Pictures of the cornfields hung crookedly from the walls, rusty nails barely keeping them above the floor. The same little girl in the picture next to Delilah’s bed was smiling on the wall in oil. The pictures
were hand drawn, just like the ones in Delilah’s place. Plates were still housed in the musty glass cabinets.

  Hank opened the doors and two sets stared back at him, one set of fine china, in pristine condition, and one set chipped and cracked, something you wouldn’t feed a dog off of. They were miles apart, even though they stood side by side. A plump rat jumped from the cabinet and onto the floor, screeching as it ran away, long tail trailing behind it like a snake on the hunt. Hank lost his breath for a moment, slamming the door shut behind the rodent.

  “Hank, did you see this?” Curly was looking down at the floor. “What do you think happened here?”

  The light wood had been stained with blood, but years had turned the dark color into a pale shade of rust. Hank stared at it a moment. Somewhere in his head, he felt like a frog was jumping from lily pad to lily pad. It was causing his eyesight to become blurry, before he could focus again. He started to fan himself.

  “I don’t know,” Hank said, staring. He couldn’t look away. But he took a step back. The blood seemed to be moving toward him, rushing with the rhythm of a living pulse. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and when he decided to lift his lids, the stain had retreated back to its original place on the floor. “Tommy said her aunt was killed out front, on the street.”

  Curly walked down the hall, stopped at the first bedroom. It seemed to be a little girl’s room. Five white lace dresses hung in the closet, yellowed from time. Each had the same color ribbon hanging from the iron hangers. Hanging on the other side of the dresses were old jeans, overalls, and ratty shirts. One pair of lace-up boots sat on the floor below them and to two pairs of white dress shoes.

  “God Almighty,” Hank whispered, looking up to the water stained ceiling. “Did she really grow up here? I feel sick to my stomach.”

  Curly started acting real strange then. He started to twirl in a circle, humming old hymns from church. Sweat rushed down his face and a goofy smile stretched his cheeks as he spread his arms, acting like a bird. Hank’s eyes starting to twitch as he grabbed Curly by the shirt and led him from the house toward the church. One church became two before it finally connected again into one structure.

  Hank found Dylan, Tommy, Jesse, and Stroke all kneeling in front of the altar. Spiderwebs hung from walls, some humble, some intricate and beautiful, and vines were starting to creep in from outside. Hank could’ve sworn he heard a snake hiss from somewhere in the vicinity of where he was standing. He stomped his foot—stomp, stomp—to be sure it wasn’t close enough to make contact with his flesh.

  The guys all hummed the same song Louise Anna was singing back at the shop: “I Am Weary (Let Me Rest).” Hank rubbed at his eyes. He had seen the young woman singing, and then she was gone. All he could think of was that ballooning watermelon, those swelling ankles about to burst.

  Curly took off in the church, flying around like a pigeon caught indoors. Hank staggered in behind him, the door slamming shut, the light fading with it. With the crashing of the door, all heads turned his way, and then each body went in a different direction. Hank stood still, like a flower on a breezeless day. He could only watch. He watched as one pew became two, then three, and then one again. He thought half of his body was leaning back, all because the pulpit had tilted toward him. Why else would he be standing the way he was? But he was still standing straight as a board.

  Tommy ran around stuttering, shouting at the boll weevils to go away. They were attacking him, that evil flower of the south. Those monsters were invading, corrupting his core as he bounced from wall to wall, nowhere to escape their devil bites. They were whispering secrets he didn’t want to know. Straight from the graves below them, boll weevils were the telephones of the underworld.

  Dylan crouched behind a pew, talking to a ghost beside him. “Sergeant Pepper,” he would whisper. They were in a gun battle together. He would occasionally lift his arm and—pew, pew, pew—shoot back at the perpetrators, those Godforsaken outlaws. He would then turn his face to Sergeant Pepper and say, “We almost got ’em, Pepper, almost.”

  Jesse sat in a corner, his legs to his chest, wheezing. He continued to shout about all those sugar pills that were marching toward him, pitchforks, ropes, and flames in their airy hands. Jesse’s finger pointed unsteadily, trembling along with the rest of his body. Those animated pills were going to burn his throat, he screeched and gasped. “I am gluttonous for consuming too many of their kind! And gluttony is a sin if there ever was one.”

  Stroke continued to have a conversation with elves while he painted the walls with his magical paintbrush. He wanted it colorful, and he wanted to meet that tiny little leprechaun at the end of the rainbow. The painting he drew promised to lead him to those big rock-candy mountains.

  Curly, doubled over, laughed at nothing remotely funny, weeing on himself as he continued the fun for one. He claimed that he was watching a humorous picture show. Nilla, the thirties killa’, was running after him, but she couldn’t catch him. No suh, no way, Curly Izza Cootie was too quick for any dame. He was a monkey with fourteen arms, a bug with a hundred legs, and a nuisance with four heads of wild curly hair.

  Hank started to laugh, but he didn’t know why. As he laughed, he felt his body catch fire. He was that burning bush. He had to stop the flames. Heaven Almighty! He felt like he was scorching at one hundred and fifty degrees. He flung himself to the floor, splinters piercing his skin, rocking back and forth, trying to kill the misery. He was burning way too fast on those highways she traveled.

  Hank thought he saw a cool river trickling down, rushing over brown stone and glass-like pebbles. He rolled all the way to it, splashing and thanking Jesus for big favors. He rested on the wooden floor then, a big grin on his face, while a cool breeze passed over him.

  As he rested in the water, he watched the day REO and Pilgrim were killed. He watched as the water turned into blood. He looked to his left and there was REO, smoking a cigarette next to him in the water. He told him something about stars and a ticket. Pilgrim said something about his family. Then he was back to clean water again.

  The door to the church opened and all the guys screamed something different about the light: “I see it!” “I need it for my painting!” “Hey, I can’t see my movie!” “Don’t shoot the light, Pepper!” “Melt the pills, melt”—big wheeze —“the pills!” “Ge-Ge-Get Boll Weevils!”

  Melody walked in and shook her head. “Good Lord. What happened to you boys?” She stopped when she was standing over Hank. He was grinning up at her. “You okay, Hank?”

  “Yes, um, ma’am. I think we might have had a bad batch of root beer. Oh look, Spell’s missing eye! I get a dollar! Hey, Melody, where is your sister? That purty little woman of mine?”

  Hank saw her then, as clear as day. He pointed at her, told her how miserable she was making him, but he loved her regardless. She was sitting outside in the fields, on a yellow and purple patchwork quilt. Her lips were pink and her head thrown back in laughter; that laugh was hard rock candy gashing through his beating heart.

  She had a big hat on her head. She was bathing in the honey-colored sun. Her stomach was round, another watermelon. Thin ankles, though. Hank was terrified of those bursting ankles. Delilah was digging her feet into the dry soil. The edge of her white dress and her toes were stained brown.

  “Hey, Hank,” she said so pretty and soft like, “your daddy, he always wanted to be a preacher?”

  Hank reached out and rubbed the watermelon for nectar luck. “Well, uh, no ma’am. You see, my daddy, he was a bad boy. A rebel. After June-bug gotta hold of him, though, he straightened up real quick. He runs when she calls his name. He became a preacher because he said God told him she was such a blessing, he should always be thankful.”

  “You seemed to do the opposite, Hank. You started out good, but a woman has turned you inside out. You sure are funny, Mississippi man.”

  “Good or bad, we all do the same thing when we find the woman we love the most. We all come a-runnin’ when they
call our names. Call my name, Delilah.”

  “Oh, Hank…”

  “See, I’m already here, darlin’!”

  Hank was happy because the sugar wasn’t stopping and he was making her laugh. Disappear, little scowl lines, disappear, he was chanting.

  “Look!” Curly pointed. “It’s them again. All those beautiful birdies, wet and in white. Oh, and there are little girls, too. Go ahead and play, girlies, go on. You’re free now, little angels. Ladies, please stay with us. Yes, keep on singing that purty little song. Oh, lift that hem a little higher. A little higher. Uh, huh, just right.”

  Hank sat up on his elbows, blinked his eyes. He saw them now, too. He looked around the room. Melody was staring down at him. The guys all stared toward the door, where those women filed in, all wet and in white. They were humming, singing together a haunting lullaby. They rocked their hips back and forth, their bodies glistening with water droplets. The water slid down their sleek legs, burst when the drop hit the floor. They’d stop for just a moment to slap their hips and stomp.

  Hank’s head fell to the floor. He watched as their dirty bare feet filled the church.

  Slap, stomp. Hank was in church; everyone dressed up for Sunday mass. Boots and women’s heels, slacks and pretty flowered dresses. Slap, stomp. Lewd women running their fingers through those boys’ hair. Slap, stomp. Resist sin, give thanks, and poke your husband’s eye out with a pitchfork if he roams. Oh, look, its Spell’s eye. Slap, stomp.

  “Melody, how’s my Louisiana girl?” Hank said, his voice not really sounding like his own, floating right out the door to that field full of white snow on the tan ground.

  “Oh, you know.” She grinned. “She’s about to go off the deep end.”

  “That’s nice. Real nice. You see, we had to drive all the way here, all the way to the end of the road. I have pickles and root beer in the van for my darlin’. And those old-time candies she loves. But don’t give her the root beer. I think it’s bad. Oh, but it was so good. The best thing I ever tasted, apart from your sister, you see.” Hank sighed. “Why did she come here?”