Standing at the Scratch Line (70 page)

“Good night, Mrs. Tremain. If you need anythin’, don’t hesitate to ask. You been real good to us, so my husband will be happy to help you move any heavy things that you need to get ready for business on Monday. I ain’t bein’ polite either.”

Serena smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate your offer. I’ll remember it. Good-night, Mrs. Hoskins. Best to your family.”

“Good Sabbath, Mrs. Tremain,” Ida said, as she wrapped herself in her coat and hurried down the street.

The wind whistled down the corridor of Main Street like the sound of a cheap harmonica. February was ending with falling temperatures. The thermometer stayed below ten degrees for several weeks at a time. Sometimes the wind would sweep northward off the Red River and bring a momentary warmth, a present from southern climes, but other times the wind would roll down the side of the Ouachitas and hit the foothills like a giant snowball.

Serena locked the front door and went upstairs and stoked her fire with wood that Sampson had brought from the woodshed. She had drawn enough water from the downstairs tap that King had installed to heat water for a bath, but she didn’t have the energy to carry the water upstairs. Although she had Ida Hoskins working in the store with her and Sampson weighing out grain and feed sales in the barn, it took a lot of work to deal with customers and keep the store provisioned with staples. The reconciling of receipts and orders alone took more than two hours each evening after closing. Running the store was hard, strenuous work and the paperwork took long hours to complete. She didn’t mind the hard work. It was the loneliness that was almost overwhelming. Part of the reason that Serena worked so hard was to escape, through activity, the feelings of isolation.

She spent many evenings thinking about the letter and why she had not given it to King when he first arrived. She did not completely understand it herself, but she rationalized it as an act committed out of an instinctual desire to protect her unborn children. Serena had been the firstborn in her family and she knew that commensurate with the responsibility shouldered by the oldest child came dictatorial power, power to determine the level of justice and pleasure enjoyed by the younger children. She could not willingly give another woman’s child such primacy over her own, especially a dark child who would forever remind her of its mother.

Serena walked over to the calendar and saw that King had been gone more than a month. She missed King more than she knew was possible. The space taken up by the lower register of his voice seemed to stretch for miles and she noticed the absence of his sound everywhere she turned. Every morning she awoke with a dull ache in her chest and a coldness between her shoulder blades. Her consuming desire was to just lie back against the warmth of his body and feel it enfold her, protecting her from the chills of the night. She had begun to daydream with increasing frequency about the ways that they had made love. Sometimes late at night she would sit in the rocker by the stove and touch herself under her flannel bedclothes as she thought about him.

Serena finally forced herself to carry two buckets of water upstairs and placed them on the stove. Until the water heated she sat in her rocker and darned King and Sampson’s socks. Then she washed up and donned her flannel sleeping gown. She turned down all the lamps and placed the revolver by the headboard. She still had not been able to get the electricity hooked up in the apartment. There was another foul-up in Clairborne. She tried to free her mind of all the worries that seemed to be closing in on her and prepare for sleep. She pulled back the covers of the bed and removed the bed warmer. She climbed into bed and waited for sleep.

Sleep did not come. Despite her desire to keep her mind blank, her memory was stirred by some unseen implement and images of King floated unbidden across her consciousness. Strangely, the memories brought the sensation of touch with them. It was almost as if they had substance. The memory that most often haunted her was the one in which she was sitting astride him and he was deep inside of her. She was controlling the movement, but when he chose he would lift his hips and she would be briefly airborne. Then she would feel him deeper inside of her as his muscles bunched beneath her. Sometimes, his hands would travel up the flatness of her stomach and cup of her breasts. Then she would feel the calluses on his hands. All the time, she would continue to slowly grind on top of him, building, building to a takeoff point that caused her skin to tingle. She felt his hands on her throat and her breasts, moving in rhythm to her hips. Suddenly she felt his rigidity inside her thrusting, pressing upward, penetrating her until she filled completely. In the darkness, she could see the dim outline of the muscles on his chest and the glint of his dark eyes. She threw herself back and forth on top of him, jerking until it seemed that she could contain the explosion no more. The release caused spasms to writhe through her body before she subsided into sleep.

Serena awoke the next morning as a gray light filtered through the shutters on the windows. She was tired as if she had worked all night, yet she had slept the dark, dreamless sleep of the dead.

It took her only an hour to discover that Sampson had packed his bags and was gone.

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Captain René LeGrande stood quietly while the sheriff cursed Dr. Boyer. He knew that the doctor was merely providing the best medical advice that he could under the circumstances. It was not really Boyer’s fault that Sheriff Mack was an obstinate fool on occasion, but it was foolhardy to make declarative statements that consistently had the effect of irritating the sheriff. Corlis Mack was a powerful man with connections throughout the parish and into the legislature and, most dangerous of all, he was merciless. All of his enemies and many of the people who had pestered him ended up as alligator bait in some lonely bayou. Captain LeGrande had firsthand knowledge of this because he had actually been the man who had left many of the victims tied to stumps at low tide.

“Boyer, get out of my sight, you goddamn asshole!”

Dr. Boyer attempted to explain. “Corlis, you have to have more surgery on that leg. That’s all there is to it! If we do it soon, all we have to do is cut out the infected areas. If we wait, you endanger your life!”

“Old Dr. Devereaux doesn’t think I need more surgery!”

“Old Dr. Devereaux is just that, old! He can barely see and he has done nothing to stay abreast of the latest advances in medicine. He’s stuck in the past! I’m giving you the best advice you’re going to get!”

“I’ll think about it, Boyer! Get him out of here, LeGrande!”

LeGrande returned after ushering the doctor out of the room. “Maybe you should listen, eh?” he suggested to Mack. “Devereaux is old, you know.”

“You too! Damn!”

“Even if you and me weren’t friends,” LeGrande tapped his chest, “I have a good thing here. Why jeopardize it, eh? Without you, it’s a whole new political situation. I don’t want you dying from something we could avoid.”

“I said I’d think about it! These damn doctors are just barbers with a couple of science courses. The thought of these fools cutting on me again is not enticing. Enough about this!”

“What did you do with that little pickaninny? You’ve got to remember, we may have to produce it in trade for the deeds.”

“I sent it to a colored orphanage in southwestern Texas. Nobody but me knows its name or location and I can get the child anytime. I told the people at the orphanage the boy’s parents had been killed by King Tremain and that he wanted to kill the baby too. So, even if he finds where the baby is, they won’t release the baby to him.”

“Good! Good! How are we doing on finding that nigger Tremain? We know he’s around here somewhere. I want all your available men on it! The DuMonts should be willing to help. Tremain just recently burned their tribal home to the ground, didn’t he? Is there anything left standing at DuMonts’ Landing?”

“Nothing but ashes and bodies. The women and children got out okay, but he got most of the men, all except for Old Man DuMont himself and a couple of others. I saw at least ten, twelve bodies out there and there are probably more.”

“Didn’t the Old DuMont nigger have anything to tell you?”

“He says he may have a lead to some of Tremain’s friends. He will come to my office in a day or two. It is no doubt, the DuMonts are finished as a force to be reckoned with in southwest New Orleans. This is a bad-blood Tremain; he bad business.”

“I want to spill his bad blood! He owes me a leg and I’m going to collect! I tell you if he’s caught, there’ll be a big bonus for the man responsible! One thing! I don’t want him hurt! I want to be the one who causes him all the pain and I’m going to take my time! I don’t want a mark on his skin before I start! You remember that embezzling bank clerk who wouldn’t tell us where the money was hidden?”

“The one you skinned?”

“That will seem like a horse race compared to what I have planned for Tremain! Every time I look at my amputated leg, I see him! Every time the pain makes me grit my teeth, I think about him! I’ve been confined to this wheelchair since he tried to kill me! I’ll make him relive every bit of misery that I have experienced since he destroyed my leg!”

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The wind was warm as it swept leaves and debris in fits and starts through the trees that lined the dirt road. Billowing charcoal clouds were rolling across the gray expanse from the southwest as big, fat raindrops fell from the darkening sky and splatted intermittently on the ground. The heavens were in turmoil. It looked like hurricane weather. Charles Baddeaux pulled his hat down more firmly on his head and snapped the reins sharply across Jethro’s back. The mule started from the sting of leather and pulled the wagon at a faster pace briefly, but true to form he had returned to his usual plodding gait within a half-mile. Charles Baddeaux snapped the reins repeatedly as he and the mule vied for control over traveling speed.

The wind noticeably grew in force. Gusts were rushing through the surrounding trees and bushes with a loud and constant rustling. Tree limbs were whipping back and forth and small branches were separated from their moorings as the wind swirled and surged. The rain started to fall just as Charles pulled in behind Templeton’s Roadhouse. After securing Jethro firmly to a hitching post, Charles made his way to the back door of Templeton’s. The rain poured out of the sky and fell to earth with a roar. The wind was not content to let the rain fall straight down; with powerful blasts it drove the rain in slanting sheets. Although Charles was wearing an oilskin, he was soaked before he finished tying the reins to the post.