Black Bayou Page 13
Glenda stood still, trying to comprehend their words. She did not say a word, just looked from one face to the other while the filthy barkeep cackled.
"Say, Mother, did you ever think of us after Daddy pulled stakes and left you? Did you think about trying to find us? No, I bet you didn't. Daddy said you were heartless and only liked sex with big long-dicked black men and that no white man could please you. Do you still? You are old and ugly but probably can find a stud or two hard up enough to take you on."
Del Marks, the bartender, was listening, not missing a word. “Say, Glenda, how come you didn't introduce your sons to me? Not very neighbor-like, for sure.” He reached between his legs, grabbing himself and lifting his hips. “I ain't so black, but I got a long cock and am always willing, even for an old hag like you. Just come by anytime.” They all laughed.
This time when she turned, she left the building, sure that Ellen had not been able to overhear. She felt sick but put on a face she hoped convinced the girl that all was fine. When they got to the hotel, she went to her room and stayed there until hunger drove her out the next evening. From behind her upstairs curtains, she saw her sons heading back toward the plantation, obviously very drunk. She hoped they fell in the bayou and drowned or became gator bait. She felt nothing motherly toward them or any of her children. It was as if she had no connection to them, none of them.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 32
Glenda awoke early. The roads appeared to be drying, and she decided to try to get home. If she was careful and watched for deep puddles, she was sure she could make it at least as far as the river. She would wait in her car for someone to come along on the road or in a boat that would take her across. What she saw when she arrived was not a boat or a car, but Mac astride his tall horse. He appeared to be following the river toward her old home. She called to him, but he did not hear her.
Her first thought was to follow him from the opposite side of the river and try to get his attention at another spot, but how would she explain her appearance so far from where she should be? No, that would not work. She would just have to let things play out as they would. She felt no remorse that Mac might be hurt in his confrontation with her children. Or that Mac might hurt them. Truly, it did not matter to her either way.
Mr. Mathers from down the road came wandering up the road on his old swayback horse and offered her a ride across the stream. Mr. Mathers was older than his horse but still had some fun left in him, as he pinched her bottom and laughed as she sat in front of him and put his dirty hand on one of the breast. By the time they had forded the river, both were wet to the waist. Her skirt, apron, and petticoats were black from the bayou water, but at least she would be home in a few minutes. After they dismounted, she thanked him for the ride and then slapped him across the face. “That is for the liberties you took, you lecherous old geezer."
Mr. Mathers laughed and said, “Liked it, did you? I could tell, so don't go puttin’ on airs with me.” He laughed again and rode back the way they had come before turning into a side road to wind his way home.
She entered the house quietly by the back door and dropped her wet clothes by the old wringer washing machine under the back stairs that led narrowly to the second floor. She knew no one would see her, and frankly, she did not care. Her dirty laundry would have to wait. But when she got to the bathroom near her room, she realized there was no water, as the electricity had not been restored and the pump was not functioning. But she wanted to be clean and dressed before she made her presence known. So back downstairs she went, wrapped in a towel, back outside and around to the pool, where she slipped into the branch-covered water. It felt so good, even with strange floating things both on top of and under the surface.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp stinging and a burning sensation on the side of her neck and whirled around just in time to see a large cottonmouth swimming away. She swam toward the ladder and right into the circling snake. It bit again, then again. She tried to scream, but her mouth filled with water. She sensed her strength draining away. It was but a few more seconds before she felt herself breathing in water. Her body floated facedown among the debris until it eventually sank to the bottom.
* * * *
Mac, my Mac, come fine me. Have ta tell ‘em who hit me. Have to tell ‘em who kilt dat girl. Have ta stop the Devil afore he come ‘gin. Mac, come close ta ol’ Florie. Lissen me. Hurry. Hurry, Mac.
* * * *
Mac followed the river at a slow pace, allowing the horse to stretch his legs, before increasing to a gait, then a gallop, then a full run through the glade until both horse and rider were ready for a break. He slid off the horse's bare back and walked with the reins loosely in his left hand. An old cabin stood between him and the river, hidden from view unless one knew where to find it, and Mac did. He called out as he moved through the palmettos and bushes that covered the path very few knew existed. “Hey, Florie, you in there? It's Mac, you sexy old thing. Can I come in?"
He waited and then called again. When she didn't answer, he felt a small shift in the very air as he rushed into the brush after throwing the reins around a tree branch. She was not sitting in her rocker as he ran to the riverside of the cabin. Her chair was still, her pipe in its tray on the busted railing. “Florie, are you here?” He took the steps up carefully for fear of falling through the rotten boards. He opened the door, peering into the gloom. He saw her on her bed against the far wall and called to her again.
She made a mewing sound, much like a kitten, not the sounds she needed to say the words. “My God, Florie, what is it?” He knelt by her side, barely able to make out her face in the darkness. “Can you hear me?” He took her hand and felt for a pulse. It was slow and slight, so he felt it again on her neck. His hand came away wet, and the coppery smell told him it was blood.
He spied a candle on the rickety table with matches beside it. He was shaking so badly it took three tries to light the match. He moved back to her bedside, putting the candle down until he could see her. Her lined black face was swollen. Blood had dried as it ran down her cheeks from the corners of her eyes and around her chin from her nostrils. There was little doubt that someone had beaten the sweet old woman and left her to die.
Picking her up carefully with a blanket around her, praying to do no more damage than had already been done, he carried her out the door and down the riverbank to the small boat he knew she had hidden there. He was afraid the horse ride would have finished her fragile life and knew that even lying in the boat could do the same thing, but he could not leave her there.
Carefully he lay her down in the bottom and grabbed the pole to shove the boat into the current when he sensed movement behind him. Before he could turn, a tree limb hit him on the back of the neck, sending him into a world of blackness. When he came to, the boat was gone, and the sound of crackling and the smell of wood burning pulled him back to reality. The house was totally in flame. He looked for the boat and found it in the water, full of holes. No sign of Florie there.
Still weak, he stood, feeling blood on his head. He carefully skirted the burning house in search of his horse. He found it on its side where he had left it, but then it had been alive. Now a bullet hole squarely in the middle of the head made it look like the animal had three eyes. He dropped to his knees, holding the head in his lap. As he sat there with tears streaming down his cheeks, he smelled what he knew as burning flesh. He looked into the flames. Whoever had done this had taken the old woman back into the house before setting it afire.
He did not know how long he sat, grieving for his animal and for the sweet grandmother whom he loved more than his own. She had been his shelter, his warmth, his haven as he grew up, unloved at Black Bayou Plantation. She was the mother he had never had. He loved her fiercely, and without reservation, the way she had loved him.
Why? Who? A hatred began to build, along with anger and all other emotions that can drive a man insane. He sat staring into nothingness until hi
s eyes lowered to the dirt. Tire tracks. Whoever had done this had driven. He stood and began to follow the tracks. Dusk fell suddenly, as it does in the South. He found a tree, climbed and waited the night away until dawn when he could follow the tracks again.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 33
He awoke after a night of broken naps and nightmares. It was a crack of lightning in his dream that he heard and not the lightening of the sky. The first drops of rain had already hit the ground and did not reach him immediately through the thick cover the tree afforded him. He climbed down, swearing, as he looked at the tire marks. Already they were becoming obscured by the storm. Fate had dealt him another blow. Rather than walk aimlessly in the direction they seemed to go, common sense told him to return home and start again with a vehicle. He knew it would take several hours to reach Black Bayou, even if he walked at a good clip, but instead he moved at a leisurely pace, letting the rain wash over him. The solitude of the trek and the storm around him gave him ample time to think ... and plan.
In the South, the thunderstorm ... not part of any defined system such as a hurricane ... was brief and soon stopped, filling the air with heat and steaming humidity that rose from the wet ground and surroundings. He began to drip again, not from water this time, but from sweat. As he neared the old house, he could see James's old red Jeep was in back by the kitchen door.
He let himself in quietly, noting the pile of muddy clothes on the floor by the old washing machine. They appeared to be Glenda's attire, but they were dry now. He fleetingly wondered when she had left them there and why she had not laundered them ... quite unlike her.
The voices came from the parlor, naturally. He smiled to himself, wondering why his grandmother did not just sleep there too, as she spent the rest of her life in her high back chair before the fireplace that was always burning, summer or winter, no matter the temperature. She had a lap robe over her legs, as usual, as he entered the room, stopping just inside the door to listen to what James was telling her.
"So Granny, I think it best if we take Mac's advice, for once, and moved out of here. It will cost too much to repair. How would you like me to build you a smaller house in the back, beside the pool and verandah? We can make the kitchen tiny, as it only needs room to feed us. It will be mostly a place like this.” He moved his hand in a circle to indicate where they were sitting. “If you don't want the library, then we can just make it a formal parlor, similar to this one. How about your bedroom off to the back, with its own bathroom, so you won't have to climb those horrible stairs again? We can put three more bedrooms on the other end, one for Glenda and two as guest rooms. For your favorite guests, your handsome grandson James and his worrisome brother."
James had seen Mac out of the corner of his eye as he talked, then turned toward him. “Ah, my dear brother, the worrisome one. Look, Grandmother, the prodigal has returned."
"It would appear that the prodigal is you, James, not I. Where the hell have you been since the hurricane? I needed you to help me with boarding this place just enough to keep the weather and nocturnal visitors out. Henry helped as much as he could but never wanted to leave Mrs. Atwater alone a minute, he said."
"Mac, please watch your language,” his grandmother admonished. “James has just returned, as have you, so sit down and let us converse like family, not tavern folk."
"Yes, Mac, not like tavern folk,” drawled James with a wicked grin. “And please tell us where you have been?"
"Where have I been? I have been clubbed unconscious, held my horse's head after he died, and watched flames consume the cabin and Florie, who may have been alive when she burned."
"I am sorry to hear she is dead, Mac. I know how fond you were of her. But she was old and her time had come, I suppose,” his grandmother said without emotion.
"Fond of her? Damn it, Grandmother. I loved that old woman more than I have ever loved anyone, and for your information, she was much younger than you. She was a mother to me, more than anyone one here ever was. She made my childhood bearable, and she loved me back, which is more than you ever did, or Glenda. And where the hell is she? Her filthy clothes are still by the back door, smelling to high heaven like a swamp."
"Now, Mac, I think you owe our dear Grandmother an apology. Not only is your language offense, your words were hurtful. You know she loved us both, as any grandmother would."
"Bullshit, James, and you know it. It may sound petty and trivial, and I should be ashamed to remind you, but Florie wanted no part of you, saying you were the Devil's spawn and would bring death to those around you. Was she right? Did you bring death to her?” James and his sarcasm and his obvious ploy of appeasing their grandmother when he was needed incensed Mac. “You were always jealous and did mean things to her. Like the snake in her bed. The fish she was drying in the sun. Like her laundry on the clotheslines. Like the mud daubers in the chimney. Shall I go on?"
Mac turned to his grandmother. “And you never loved anything or anyone except maybe Glenda, but more like a servant than a daughter. Have you every truly loved anyone but yourself?"
Mrs. Atwater stood, letting the lap robe drop to the floor. “Mac, I will not hear another word. Apologize to your brother and to me as well, or get out of my house."
Mac looked from one to the other, stood and walked to the door.
"If you leave, you are forbidden to ever return. Do you hear me, you ungrateful pup? Never step one foot on my land again. Do you hear?"
Her voice became more and more strident as he ran up the stairs. He went to his room, throwing a few pieces of clothes into a satchel, and took his gun from under the mattress and his rifle from above the mantel. He rushed to James's room, taking his guns, then to his grandmother's for the small handgun she kept under her pillow. His deceased grandfather's room held several more, which he took as well.
Outside, he ran to the barn, which had faired better in the hurricane than they thought. He gathered up the guns he knew were there and then went back to the kitchen door and James's Jeep. The keys dangled from the ignition, as he knew they would. He started the engine and roared down the road, looking in the rearview mirror to see James coming out the front door. He raised one hand, letting his middle finger salute his brother. It was a childish thing to do, and he knew it, but somehow it made him feel better, knowing James would be furious.
He knew his brother, and he knew his grandmother. Her fury would grow, and she would tell James to find him and punish him, anyway he wanted. Punishment from James was something Mac knew well. Mac was smaller than James even as young children. Out of sight from adults, he would torment and hurt Mac as often as he could. He had held Mac underwater in the bayou until the very last moment before allowing him air. He had once dug a hole, covered it with branches, and then chased Mac so that he fell into it, telling him he would leave him there forever, unless he promised not to tell anyone. He often put bugs, worms, and even snakes in Mac's food when they ate alone in the kitchen, forcing him to swallow by holding Mac's hands over the hot stove. His cruelty knew no bounds.
For the first time, Mac allowed himself to consider the possibility that James was the one who had abducted and tortured the missing women. As much as he knew James, he was not sure even James would go that far. As he drove back to the completely burned cabin of his wonderful Florie, he pushed the thoughts from his mind.
He walked about among the blackened timbers and rubble. It took all his strength of will to force himself to look to where her bed had been, now a mangled mess of springs, but not burned bones. Instead, he found what was left of them just inside the door. Whoever had beaten her had dumped her back inside, unconcerned as to whether she was alive or dead before they set the place afire. He felt sick at his stomach and barely made it to the weeds before vomiting. He found a shovel in the soil of her little garden and began digging. When it was deep enough, he carefully laid her bones as best he could in the shape of a human. He knew she would be at piece in her garden, so he c
overed her, knelt, and prayed to the Lord for her soul and his, for he would find the one who had murdered her and kill that person with his bare hands.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 34
Damn that old woman! I didn't want to kill her, but she forced me to. Why did she have to be out in her boat when I dumped that little blonde's body in the bayou? I don't like to kill just for killing's sake, and not old women. I like young ones who excite me. Who scream and beg as I do things that gives me the most pleasure. I like to see fear in their eyes and the smell of it on their bodies. I like to force them to do things I know make them want to die. All the more exciting. But even then, death for them is just the result, not the reason for what I do, and it is a necessity. This time, money is just an extra.
Killing that old black woman was not like killing a young one. When I finally found where she lived ... hell, that was a week before ... Anyway, luck was on my side when I went back to her house and burned everything so no one could figure out anything about it. I should have killed Mac when I saw him takin’ her in the boat, instead of just hitting him. As I said, I don't like to kill unless I have to. I didn't even like killing the horse, but I needed to slow down Mac, and it served as a warning, too. I thought she was dead when I was done hitting her, trying to get her to tell me if anyone else knew about the little blonde, but she said ‘no no no’ ‘til I was sure she hadn't told anyone. I hit her a few more times just to make sure and left her for the critters to take. Later, I thought it would be better if she wasn't found.
The Windy gal wasn't as much fun because she did not carry on like some do. She was brave until almost the end. Must have been her being an Indian and all. Hell, the bitch even spat in my face. Well, she only did it once. It is hard to spit with no tongue or lips. At the end, though, she did scream deep in her throat, and that was wonderful.