“Nah, man… The big house. Mile or so up river. Saw it from the bridge, most likely. I guess you'd call this'ere my place. Never seen it quite like that myself. I'm the…” He paused and thought. “. . . the caretaker. Yeah. Yeah, the caretaker.”
He seemed pleased with the formulation.
“Uh-huh, sorry to interrupt your care-taking. I was wondering if the Ayers were in.”
“You a friend?”
“Bo Pickett,” and Pickett stuck out his hand.
The black man looked at it as if it were a dead fish. He took hold of it awkwardly and smiled.
“Del Trap. Delano Trapani, really, but nobody believes it.”
“Don't know why. What about the Ayers?”
“Well, ol holy Ed and the fambly's in town, I think. Bel'aven. Aint seen them for weeks. Mizz Ayers come by this morning, though. Maybe gone up to the house. She didn't say.” Del Trap looked down to the dusty ground between his boots and marked it with his spittle. He looked up. “Something I can do for you?”
“How often they use the place?”
“They? They don't use it at all.” Trap winked at the thin man next to him. “They comes up mosly by themselves, know what I mean?” Trap smiled with satisfaction, like he'd just explained Einstein's theory. Apparently Pickett didn't look sufficiently enlightened. Trap explained further: “See, they don't come up here together much—except sometimes in the winters. Don't come no more in the summers, not since Mister Clayton—Ed's daddy—not since he and Mizz Marjorie was kilt. Mosly come down by themselves, now. Mizz Jan makes it, oh, I dunno, once, twice a month or so. Usely business. Sometime that Matt fella—Matt what's-his-name—he come down too. Anyways, the Holy Reverend gets down, maybe, oh, every other weekend.” Trap winked again. “He comes down by hisself, but he aint usely alone.”
“He meets someone then?”
Del Trap smiled, but he said nothing.
“What about Mark?”
“Yeah? Yeah… What about Mark? Massa Mark.” Trap smiled, then winked. “There's hope there, know what I mean? He come down ever now an again—by hisself, like the others. His momma and papa glad to have him outta their hair. He aint much for that holy roller shit, y'know. But then again, he aint quite sure how to get outta it neither.” Trap clucked and shook his head. “The Way aint easy, m'man. Aint tall easy?” Trap scratched at his beard; then he studied his boots for awhile. He looked up slowly, his face brightening. “Y'see that don't you? Simplest things aint clear no more. We beat down them prison walls and all we find is that they the wrong walls.” He smiled, spread his arms. “We's just in another cell. Bigger, maybe—sometimes bigger, if we lucky, but a jailhouse just the same. Crazy, y'know… Just plain crazy.” He looked up, a light in his brown eyes. “Kinda funny too, don't y'think?” Del Trap did anyway. Tremors of laughter began to rise from his round, black belly like smoke from a wood stove.
Pickett broke in: “Know Mark pretty well then?”
Trap made a gesture with his hands and shoulders, as if to say, Who knows anybody? “I sees him plenty—or he sees me. Spends the time with me when he's here. He used t'axe questions all day long. Stopped that though.”
Pickett smiled as if able to understand why.
“He can sit all day now thout a word. Nothing like that, m'man—the quiet tween two people, the kind what comes when nothing needs be said.” Del Trap stopped with another sentence on the tip of his tongue. But he closed his mouth and looked at Pickett sorrowfully. “Too bad. Too, too bad.” He turned and shuffled out onto the dock.
Pickett followed. “Does he ever come with a girl?”
Trap went down on his knees and pulled a bait cage from the river. He paused for a moment, staring out into the haze, then poured flopping minnows into a plastic bucket. He picked it up, and walked back toward the cabin. Pickett stayed at the dock, following Trap with his eyes alone. Trap stopped, set the bucket down, and turned.
“Comes on her own. Stays up to the big house.”
“With Mark?”
“Nope. She aint never come when Mark's here.”
Pickett pulled out the torn photo and held it up to Trap. “This girl?”
Del Trap looked at it, then at Pickett, then back at the photo. “Could be… Aint seen her close up. But her hair's sort a like that—blacker'n me.” He looked at Pickett again, and grinned. “Wouldn't mind seeing the rest of that piture none, neither.” He winked, then picked up the bucket and a bamboo pole that lay in the shadow of the steps. “Nah. Never seen her with Mark. Nope. Never with Mark. She only comes round when his daddy's here.”
Delano Trapani shambled into the swamp grass like some great herbivore seeking refuge from the sun. Soon, only a red and white plastic float that bobbed at the end of his pole was visible above the high grass. Pickett watched it dance for a moment, then walked back to the highway. When he got to the pickup, he reached in and flipped open the book on the seat—Burton Watson's translation of the Chuang Tzu. It smelled of fish.
Pickett looked back into the saw-grass and he laughed.
20
It was visible from the highway on the far side of a well grazed pasture dotted with grey stumps and an occasional pavilion of oak and palm. Cattle hunched in their shadows. The house itself was small, low and long. It faced away from the river toward the pasture, a few outbuildings, and the sun. A barbed wire fence ran along the mud drive then cut along the front of the house to a long steel gate that ran before the largest of the outbuildings. A lone brahma bull stood in the angle at the end of the drive.
As Bodie Pickett peeled himself from the seat of the Nova, the beast looked up, grey, dumb and malevolent. Pickett rattled the screen door with his fist. It was dark inside and Pickett's eyes still squinted from the glare. Jan was at the door before he saw her.
“Oh, Bo. Thank you so much for coming. Come on in out of the sun.” She padded away on bare feet, leading Pickett through the cool darkness to the back of the house and a deep screened porch. The St. Johns spread out on three sides providing a light cross breeze, warm but comparatively pleasant. An old dock lay crooked and low on the water beyond, ending in a ramshackle shed like an old duck blind. Occasional new planks striped the weathered grey green. Jan settled into an upholstered chaise longue and motioned Pickett to an aluminum lawn chair opposite. Her legs were bare and tucked beneath a short denim skirt. Her pale arms took on a bluish cast where they curved from a sleeveless plum-colored blouse. Sweat stained the thin muslin material a darker purple under her arms and between her breasts. Her body was smaller, younger than it had appeared the day before. Her face, though, was drawn. Her eyes—wide, glassy, intense—belied the languor of her pose. And her body hung suspended from them like a marionette. She spoke softly.
“Mark's disappeared, he—God Lord, what happened to you?”
“Where'd he go?”
“Go? That's just it, I don't know. He left the house last night after dinner and never returned.”
“Why tell me?”
“Well, I'm afraid he's in trouble.”
“Why? Lots of reasons a boy his age might stay away from home for a night—”
“But he's never done this before. Not without telling me—us first. He's been…” She moved her chin through a slow arc away from Pickett and to the river. “Well, he's been very upset ever since he spoke to you.”
“Look, Mizz Ayers—”
“Jan. Please.”
“Jan, then. We both know that it wasn't talking with me that upset Mark.”
“Whatever it was, you've taken on a certain degree of responsibility for his actions.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You encouraged him in this—this fantasy of his.”
“Come on. Mark saw something that worried him. I suggested he tell the truth.” Pickett wrinkled his brow. “I hope that he has.”
“Yes, we spoke to Sheriff Beane. That's not what I mean. I'm talking about that Mooring child.” The words were harmless enough, but the tone w
as ugly. “She's not suitable for him. She will cause him—has caused him—nothing but trouble.”
“What do I have to do with that?”
“You encouraged him in his… Concern. At least, he left the impression that you had.”
“I was worried about Amy, sure. I still am—for all that I can do about it. As it turns out, the concern was well placed.”
“You mean the woman—the one last night, I suppose.”
Pickett nodded.
“It must have been terrible, really. To have your mother—that's who it was, as I understand it, her mother—to have her destroy herself in such a horrible manner.”
Pickett straightened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “She was fairly well destroyed all right. But not by herself.”
“Is that so?” Jan Ayers' voice was calm, but in her eyes was panic. Some desperation lurked behind the studied calm of her pose.
“She was shot in the face, actually. Like the man in the canal.”
“I had—I was under the impression that she'd done it herself. To herself, I mean. The paper said—”
“Not likely. No weapon, for one thing.”
“Ah…” Jan Ayers raised her chin, putting a hand to her throat. She let the hand fall, slowly, to the moist skin between her breasts. “. . . I see.” She was silent then, her body still. Pearls of sweat glistened on her upper lip; the tip of her tongue slowly swept them away. She unfolded her pale legs and stretched them out before her.
Pickett looked back to her eyes, and they were on his, and no longer far away.
“But,” she smiled, “in the end, we all destroy ourselves, don't we?” It was a statement of fact, not a speculation. Jan pulled up the leg closest to Pickett, bending it at the knee. The denim slid down with a slight hiss to rest, crumpled, at her hips. The white flesh of her thigh was damp, its pallor alive in the river's glare.
Pickett looked away. “Is that what Mark is up to, do you think, self-destruction?”
Jan Ayers started at the sound of Pickett's voice, as if her mind were on something else. “What?”
“You asked me here to talk about Mark, didn't you?”
“Yes. Mark…”
“And he's never gone off like this before?”
“Never.” She stretched out her leg, and brought the other up, bent at the knee, revealing more pale skin—and a small triangle of white lace below the folds of denim. “Mark's gone off on occasion, but he's always come down here. And he's always told us beforehand.”
“He comes down here alone then?”
“Yes, occasionally. But he seems to spend most of his time with the caretaker. Trap is his name, I think—Delbert, Delmare… Something like that. I've tried to discourage Mark from seeing him, but…” She raised open palms to the ceiling and exhaled.
“You don't approve of Mister Trap?” Smiled Pickett.
“Approve? It's not a question of approval… The man's quite simply a pagan. A godless man of the worst sort. A heathen, even.” The tension between the intolerance of her sentiment and the sensuality of her pose hung in the humid air between them. Jan let her head fall back to the chaise longue, let it loll toward Pickett. Then she smiled.
“And yet you employ him to take care of the place?”
“We allow him to use the house by the bridge in exchange for looking after things, yes. He's been there for years. Ever since I was a child. He went off to school at one point I think, but he had a breakdown of some kind. Never been quite—well, right ever since. We couldn't just throw him out. Wouldn't be Christian. Not that we would want to… In any event, he's certainly not an employee.”
“I didn't know you'd been coming here that long.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said that he'd been here since you were a child.”
“Did I?” Jan exhaled slowly, then turned to Pickett, her eyes quick and cautious. “I grew up near here, actually.” She paused and waited for Pickett's reaction. When he made none, she continued: “You wouldn't have guessed it, would you?”
“No, I wouldn't have guessed.”
Jan relaxed; it had apparently been the right answer. “It was the other side of the bridge, but I spent a lot of time near here as a child. I didn't know this… Trap fellow or his family of course, but I understand that he grew up in that cabin. His father was a sharecropper on this land when it was still being worked. Celery, I think.” Jan looked up self-consciously. “Anyway, when we—Edmund inherited this place, Trap was already here; he had the same arrangement with the Edmund's parents. He's been there alone since his Mother died, I believe. It didn't seem, well, right just to turn him away. What with him being not quite”—she tapped her temple softly—”altogether.”
“Have you asked Trap about Mark's whereabouts?”
“Of course. He denies any knowledge of Mark. Or his whereabouts.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“Just this morning. When I drove in.”
“You don't sound like you believe him.”
“Well, I don't. But then”—her eyes drifted toward the river—”what I believe, or anyone believes for that matter, is of no consequence to Satan.” It was as if the tension in the air had distilled into that final word. Jan peered silently at the opposite shore, her eyes wide, but somehow blind. Her breast rose and fell in steady rhythm as, gradually, her flesh flushed pink. She leaned forward, without turning and whispered: “You—you don't understand, do you, Bodie Pickett? You aren't a believer. You've never… Felt the call, have you?” She turned suddenly. “I have.” Her eyes wide, expectant, she whispered: “Thou sufferest that woman Jezebel, which calleth herself a prophetess, to teach and—and…”
She swung one glistening leg to the concrete floor. The other remained cocked at the knee, her skirt crumpled at her waist barely shading the cream colored lace that figured her groin. “Thou sufferest that woman Jezebel to teach, and to seduce and—and to commit…” She leaned forward.
“Do you know those words?” Eyes wide and blank, she stared into the narrowing eyes of Bodie Pickett. “Blessed is he that hear the words of this prophecy and keep those things which are written therein…” Jan took a deep breath; her eyes widened, a thin smile flickering nervously on her lips. “Do you hear the word of God, Bodie Pickett?”
Her breasts hung heavily, the dark centers shadowy points taut against the restraining gauze. Jan watched her own hand move to Pickett's knee as if the hand belonged to someone else. She smiled grimly, and looked up. Wide and blank, her eyes bore into the eyes of Pickett, her voice almost a growl. “Thrust in thy sharp sickle. And gather the clusters of the vine of the earth, for her grapes are fully ripe…” She dropped to her knees. Her hands rested on his thighs. Her voice rose. “Cast them into the great winepress of the wrath of God…”
Pickett started to his feet.
Jan remained as she was, her hands on his thighs. “And I will kill her children with death.”
Pickett's jaw dropped; he stepped backwards. The lawn chair folded back on itself, and Pickett went over on top of it. He scrambled quickly to his feet and turned back to Jan.
She stood ramrod straight, her eyes keenly focused on his, a slight smile played on her lips. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I'm okay. I…” Pickett rubbed his brow. “I hope I didn't hurt the chair.”
The two of them stared mournfully at the collapsed chair. Each seemed embarrassed by the silence. But it was Jan that spoke first.
“Thank you for coming out here, Bo.” She looked at her wrist. It was bare. “I must, however, get back to Belle Haven. Preparations… For the Sunday Service. You understand.” Her eyes wandered for a moment, confused. Then found Pickett's. “It was kind of you to come. I mean…” She hesitated, seemingly confused. “If you hear from Mark, please let me know.”
Pickett said that he would but by the time he'd finished speaking Jan Ayers had disappeared into the cool shadows of the inner house. He found the front door on his own and let hims
elf out into the sun. The sweat that he felt was cold.
#
The bull brahma glanced up as if surprised to see Pickett again. He blinked, the eyes glazed and fanatic.
“That there's Li-Po. Fucker's crazier'n a coot.”
Delano Trapani's pick-up napped before the open door of the largest of the outbuildings. Trap emerged from the darkness and, with a grunt, tossed a bale of hay up onto the half full bed.
He pulled a large red handkerchief from his chinos and dropped to the running-board of his truck. “Think he's found the Promised Land, Li-Po does. Grazes that there spot till it's bald, then won't go no wheres else. So I toss him a bale so he won't starve. And, y'know, that sucker just stans there grinning at the moon. Praise the Lord, he says. Manna from Heaven, he says.” Trap chuckled, the sound like an old two cycle engine. “That sucker's convinced hisself he found the land of milk an' honey.”
Pickett shrugged. “Maybe he has,” and Pickett rested his backside against the hot steel of his Nova.
“Maybe has at that.” Trap wiped his shiny black brow, then launched himself back into the barn. He reappeared with another bale of hay. He paused, tossed his head toward the house and winked a sorrowful brown eye. “Been confrencing with Our Lovely Wife?”
Pickett blew a short, silent whistle.
Trapp dropped the bale of hay and erupted into laughter so intense that he had to hold on to the side of the truck just to stay on his feet. Looking furtively toward the house, he clamped his hands over his mouth and sank onto the running board, shaking with mirth. “Jee-sus—” Trap wiped his eyes. “She's sure as hell something else.”
“Yep,” said Pickett sagely.
“Know what her problem is, don't ya? I mean what her real problem is?”
“Damned if I do.”
“She got Yin-Yang problems. She got'em bad.”
“Aint we all,” said Pickett.
“Aint it the truth,” said Delano Trapani.
“Mu-wah—” said crazy Li-Po.
Trap rose, picked up the bale and threw it past the Nova to the waiting bull. Suddenly, he turned to Pickett. “Whataya doing out here, anyway.”
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