Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  After his shower, Scratch was getting dressed. He had to sit down for a minute. He sat on his bed, basically just a cot with a sheet, blanket and one flat pillow. Next thing he knew, he'd dozed off, still sitting up. There was a knock on the door. A gentle rapping was more like it. The knock startled Scratch.

  He sprang from his bed, looked around the room. The knocking continued and there was a voice.

  “Mr Williams?” Mrs Howard's voice was faint through the closed door.

  Scratch didn't want to open the door. He wasn't in the mood. Mrs Howard meant well. He knew that. She doted on Scratch like the son she never had. Again, Scratch was not in the mood for her. Still, it was her house.

  Scratch opened the door and the old woman appeared in the doorway, looking apprehensive. She was in a black and white floral kimono and she held the top of it closed with one hand while she flashed an envelope with the other.

  “Hello, Mrs Howard,” Scratch said.

  “Hello, Mr Williams. I was coming down to give you this letter. As I was coming down the steps, I heard you scream. Are you all right?”

  Scratch chuckled. “Yes, Mrs Howard. I… uh, this is embarrassing…” He was trying to make something up. He didn't want to say he was dreaming. She'd never leave. She'd offer to make him dinner and coax him upstairs to have tea and a talk. “I slammed the bathroom cabinet on my hand. I'm so clumsy.” Scratch chuckled again.

  “Ohh, you poor thing.” Mrs Howard invited herself in. Had a quick look around to see if a woman was there. That was one of her pet peeves. She mentioned it almost every time she saw Scratch when he first moved in. “Why don't you come upstairs and I'll fix you some dinner? Have you had any yet? I bet you haven't?”

  “No, no. I'm good. Actually, I had some with Shep earlier.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Steven is such a good man. How about some tea?” Mrs Howard said.

  “I can't. I'm working on something… with Shep. He's going to meet me somewhere.”

  “Oh! That's too bad! You boys work so hard protecting the community. Maybe one day Shep will make you his deputy,” Mrs Howard gasped when another thought came to her. “Or you can be Sheriff when Steven retires! That would be wonderful!”

  “Yeah,” Scratch laughed. “Maybe one day.”

  Fat chance, he thought. The old man will never let that happen.

  Mrs Howard turned toward the door. “I'll let you finish dressing. I put some fresh shirts in the top drawer of the bureau. I washed and ironed them yesterday morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Howard,” Scratch said, holding the door for her.

  She went out, then turned quickly. “Oh! Your letter! I almost forgot.” She handed it to Scratch. Just a plain envelope with Scratch Williams written on it.

  Scratch took the envelope gingerly. “Thank you.”

  “Well,” Mrs Howard said sadly, “I'll say good night.”

  Scratch smiled. “Good night, Mrs Howard.”

  “Good night, Mr Williams.”

  He watched her take the first step, then the second slowly. She looked over her shoulder at Scratch. He closed the door to send a signal the conversation was over.

  Scratch ripped the envelope open. He sighed. What now? He thought. A sheet of plain white typewriter paper was inside.

  Scratch took it out and smelled the paper. Brand new. Just out of a pack. He unfolded it. Read the typed message, made a face, then reread the letter, mouthing the words.

  “I know who you really are. I know what you really are. You were born in St Johnson Infirmary in 1934. You are a nigger and you grew up in Darktown. You killed your father and your sister knows. Pay $500.00 and no one will ever know, except you and me. If you don't pay, you will go to the Electric Chair and everyone will know your sister's shame. You know how he feels about your breed. Meet me at Kemora Lake, around the back side leading into Darktown at 10pm tomorrow.”

  No signature.

  “Five hundred dollars. Who the hell has 500 dollars on their person?”

  Something caught Scratch's eye.

  Hmm. What's this in the right corner? It was faint, faded. Something printed. A stamp? No. More like a company logo. Whoever sent it tried to erase it.

  Scratch thought about it. He smelled the paper again. Wait. That wasn't a new smell.

  “Lye soap,” he said. “Son of a bitch tried to use lye soap.” He touched that corner, felt how brittle it was.

  He took the paper to the lamp, removed the shade and held the paper under the glowing, naked light. The print became more evident. Sheriff's office. The letter had been written on a typewriter on paper with the header COLEMAN COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE.

  “Shaw wrote this,” Scratch said out loud.

  He started to crumple the letter, and thought better. He smoothed out the letter, read it once more.

  “Son of a bitch calling me a nigger,” Scratch said. “I'll show him.”

  He was already on his way to see Darktown to talk to Dobro. Maybe Scratch would discuss the letter with him.

  Scratch went to the icebox, took out a saucer with liverwurst and a jar of mayonnaise. He sat it all on the counter by the sink, opened the bread box and cut two slices. He fixed the sandwich and went out the door, leaving everything sitting on the counter.

  12

  Scratch didn't exactly miss Darktown. He missed the people. He missed Immy and Dobro. He didn't miss Culke Lowe, the self-professed sheriff of Darktown not recognized by any judicial or state law. He sure as hell didn't miss his uncles, who basically ran Darktown.

  The area still looked the way it did in the twenties before electricity hit Oklahoma. Rows and rows of broken-down houses that used to be sharecroppers' homes went on until the horizon turned into woods.

  It was way too late to see Immy, but he decided to go to her house anyway. Her kids would be asleep, but last time Scratch spoke to her, Immy had as much trouble sleeping as he did. He went to a small faded green shack that sat among several larger shacks. A big brown four-story house sat behind the shacks. That house belonged to the landlord, Calvin Stevens. He was a miserable old bastard when he could remember who owed rent to him. Immy had in the past had to offer her body to Stevens to pay the rent.

  Scratch stepped on the porch and looked through the kitchen window. A gentle breeze blew the drapes and he saw Immy sitting at her kitchen table, reading. A quarter bottle of Carmen Brothers' whiskey sat beside a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

  Scratch knocked lightly. Immy looked up, startled. A huge grin spread across her face. She jumped from the kitchen chair, her nightgown riding up, and trotted barefoot across the linoleum floor to the door. She opened the door and Scratch stepped inside. Nothing was said.

  Immy threw her arms around Scratch's neck.

  “I missed you, Allan,” she said. Scratch hugged her back. “I missed you, too, Sis.”

  Immy raised an eyebrow, lifted his eye patch. “You wearing your eye patch. Where's the eye?”

  “I lost it,” Scratch said and smiled. “A long story.”

  Immy shrugged. “You'll tell me when you're ready.” Immy hugged Scratch again. She pulled away, shut the front door and lead Scratch by the hand to the kitchen table.

  “Sit down,” she said. “You want some meatloaf?”

  “Oh, no,” Scratch shook his head, sat down. “My stomach is in knots right now.”

  “Want some coffee?” Immy asked.

  He really didn't. Immy was just like their mother. If you kept denying her hospitality, she'd get angry. One thing to consider about both women was they were nice to an extreme, but if you got them riled there was no end to their dissatisfaction with you.

  “Yeah, sure,” Scratch said.

  She filled the coffee pot with water, and spooned coffee into the filter. She gave Scratch a curious look.

  “What brings you back to Darktown, brother?”

  “Problems,” scratch sighed.

  “Aren't they always?” Immy said. “You left Odarko with troubles, brought
them to Darktown to add to their troubles? Darktown is not going to fix anything for you. You should know that.”

  “Where's Carter?” scratch asked.

  “That shiftless jackass? He left again,” Immy said.

  “Back to the oil rigs?”

  Immy shook her head. “No. Gone for good,” she watched the percolator bubble up. “I'm not so sure I'm sad he's gone.” She looked up at Scratch. “He reminds me of Daddy.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I found out two months ago Carter had another family. Less than a mile from here. Two kids with that poor young girl and she was four months pregnant. That poor girl.”

  “He go to her?”

  “Fat chance,” Immy laughed. “That piece of shit can't be tied down, Allan. Just like our piece of shit daddy.”

  “Yeah,” Scratch tried not to think about his father. His mind often drifted back to the man. The things he did right, which weren't many, the things he did wrong, which were countless.

  “You had it worse than I did when he was in the house,” Immy said. The coffee was ready. Immy poured Scratch a cup, sat it on the table and pushed the sugar toward him. “I'm out of cream.”

  “I don't use it anyway. I drink it black nowadays,” Scratch said.

  Immy smiled. “Me too.” She sat down, scooted her chair very close to Scratch, placed her head on his shoulder.

  “You can't sleep either?” he asked.

  “The past keeps haunting me… ghosts root under my skin.”

  “Yeah.” Scratch drank his coffee. “Me too.”

  “Been thinking about what happened to us. What happened with me and Daddy… what he did to you when you were born. How he thought you were the devil, tried to drown you in the kitchen sink. All of your childhood that son of a bitch called you Mr Scratch because he was sure you were evil and you would bring bad luck to everyone. I hate that damn nickname. Don't you?”

  “No.” Scratch stared off in the distance. “I try not to think about it,” he said. “Any of it.”

  “You didn't bring me bad luck.” Immy snuggled closer to Scratch. “You saved me, brother. More than once. You saved me from him.”

  Scratch scoffed. “Immy, let's not talk about it.”

  “We should,” she whispered. “It helps me get over it for a little bit. Just… knowing you'll always protect me.”

  Yeah, Scratch thought. Who's going to protect me?

  “How's Micha and Justine?” Scratch asked.

  “They miss their Uncle Allan,” Immy said. “Micha is reading The Adventures of Robin Hood. He had an idea to steal some fruit from Mr Pitt and give it to the Rodgers twins.”

  Scratch laughed. “He didn't steal for himself…”

  Immy laughed. “Don't start, Allan. Stealing is stealing, no matter how you look at it.”

  “I know,” Scratch said. “I know. His heart is in the right spot.”

  “Just like his uncle,” Immy said.

  “What's Justine been up to?”

  “She stayed two days with Carter's mama. She's six years old! Started eatin' peanuts and hooked on those silly soap operas,” Immy said.

  “How does she watch them? You don't have a television,” Scratch said.

  “See those cardboard boxes?”

  “Yeah,” Scratch got up and examined three boxes sitting on top each other sideways.

  “That's her television,” Immy laughed. “The bottom one is the phonograph where she listens to Miles Davis.”

  Immy chuckled and Scratch joined in. He stopped, looked inside the top box. A piece of white paper lay inside. He reached in and retrieved it. A familiar smell offended his nostrils. Lye soap. He showed the paper to Immy.

  She looked away. Embarrassed and ashamed.

  “What's this?” Scratch asked.

  “I thought I destroyed those letters,” Immy said.

  “There were more?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “They been coming regular every month,” Immy said. “All saying the same.”

  “All demanding 500 dollars,” Scratch said.

  “Yes.”

  “You've been paying,” Scratch reread the letter.

  “Twenty a week,” Immy said.

  “Do you even have 20 dollars to spend?”

  “No, Allan. I don't. I'm working at the factory cuttin' up chickens one shift, leaving, coming back for another shift until 10pm and packaging chicken parts. Damn, I hate chicken!”

  “You've met this blackmailer?” Scratch asked.

  “Nope,” Immy shook her head. “I mail the money.” She got up, went to her bedroom and returned with an address book. “Send the money here.”

  “Looks like a PO Box,” Scratch said.

  “That's exactly what it is,” Immy said. She leaned against the living-room wall, her hands behind her back. “I sat in my car, waited to see if anyone picked it up. I waited two hours. I didn't see anyone go to the box.”

  'I'm not surprised,” Scratch said. “They came the next day or two, I'm sure.”

  “No,” Immy said. “I'm not sure, but I needed gas. So I drove around the corner, got some gas, drove back and I caught a glimpse of a woman leaving the post office. Just before they closed.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “White,” Immy said. “Light-brown hair, glasses. Our age. Reminds me of a schoolteacher we once had,” Immy shrugged. “That's all I remember. You've got that same letter?”

  Scratch sighed. “Yeah, Immy. I have. Only this person or persons wanted to meet up with me 10pm at the lake. For some reason they think I have the whole sum of 500 dollars. They agreed to you paying a little at a time?”

  “They had no choice. I wrote back, explained I didn't have the thing,”

  “Why did you pay?”

  “Why do you think, Allan?” Immy raised her voice. “I didn't want people to know my daddy fucked me and my brother killed him for it!”

  She took a few steps and burst into tears. Scratch consoled her. He put his arms around Immy and she sobbed hard, her cries muffled against his chest. Faint footsteps cut the situation short. Immy pulled away from Scratch. Micha stood in the open area of the dining room. He rubbed his eyes as he softly called out to Immy.

  She told the little boy she was OK and took him by the hand back to the bedroom he and his sister slept in.

  Scratch sat the table, drank the coffee from a chipped white mug. He read the letter to himself.

  “I know who you really are. I know what you really are. You and your father committed a vile sin. Your brother killed your father for that sin. Pay $500.00 and no one will ever know, except you and me. If you don't pay, your brother will go to the electric chair and everyone will know your shame and why. Send the money to PO BOX 445. Instalments are fine.”

  After a few minutes, Immy came back in the dining room. They stared at each other, trying to read each other's minds like in a science-fiction serial they saw at the movies when they were kids. Finally, Immy spoke.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “No more payments,” Scratch said.

  Immy sighed, tapped her long fingernails on the wooden table. “OK,” she said.

  “I think I know who is blackmailing us,” Scratch said.

  “Who?” Immy leaned in closer to her brother.

  “Deputy of Coleman County.”

  “You're talking about Deputy Shaw,” Immy said.

  “How do you know him, Immy?” She didn't answer him. She looked away. “I asked you how you knew him!” Scratch grabbed Immy's wrists.

  “Get the hell off of me!” Immy screamed. She jerked out of his grip, stood and ran to a corner of the room.

  Scratch stood. “I'm sorry, Immy.” He held his hands up. “I didn't mean to do that. I just… needed an answer that might make a difference to my decision on this matter.”

  He took a few steps toward Immy. She relented, fell into Scratch's arms. They hugged. She separated from Scratc
h, wiped her eyes with a hand and went back to the table. Immy fell on to her chair, worn out from everything. She slumped forward and stared at the floor. She couldn't look Scratch in the eyes.

  “There was a party in Rockville,” Immy said and her eyes moved to see Scratch's reaction. He wasn't judging her now. He was listening intently. “An old beat-up trailer. That damn thing was falling apart, Scratch.”

  “Rockville? Never heard of that area,” Scratch said.

  “Used to be called Wisteria,” Immy said. “You were in Korea when they changed the name. Some family's son became a senator or something. Bob Rockner.”

  “OK.”

  “Anyway, Celeste Holmes asked some of the girls at the factory if we wanted to make some extra money. Well, of course we all did. Who doesn't need money? Except your boss.”

  Scratch sighed. “Can I go one day without a person mentioning him? What kind of party was this?”

  “It was a party. The kind you don't invite your preacher to,” Immy said.

  “How many girls?”

  “Celeste could only get three of us,” Immy rubbed her face. “So she had to come, too. Then it was me, Corinne Hawkins, Debra Smith and Lanie Bright. We got 100 each. That kept us in groceries for two weeks, Scratch.”

  Scratch nodded. “It's OK, Immy. You don't have to explain yourself. Who was at the party?”

  “Older, rich white men. I don't really know who they were by face. Except one was talking about owning a newspaper.”

  “Local paper?”

  “Yeah..uh… Message?” Immy said.

  “The Daily Message,” Scratch said.

  “At first it was just a card game. They were gambling over us girls. Over what kind of…” Immy looked away and cleared her throat. “What… kind of sex acts we would do to them. They were gambling over this hatbox. One old man got real pissed off when he didn't win. The newspaper owner won. Then it got real ugly, Scratch. There was this younger white guy serving drinks. We saw him sneak that hatbox out the trailer. He got in his car and drove off. Those old men started rantin' and ravin'. Throwing things at the car. No sooner did they kick us girls out, Colman Sheriff department showed up.”