The Cottoncrest Curse (8 page)

After Marcus sent Cubit and Jordan to look again outside the front door and back and all around the garden and the washbasin, Marcus confided to Sally, now that the two of them were alone in the hallway.

“Woman, I'm gonna have to go out and tell Mr. Raifer there ain't no bullet here.”

“You'll do no such thing, fool! Don't you go tellin' him there ain't no bullet. You don't know that. All you know is that you ain't found no bullet yet. What you go and tell him is that it's too dark to see good, what with the sun going down and all. That's the truth, and he gonna know it to be the truth. Then, if in the mornin' he wants to come and look for himself and decide that there ain't no bullet, then it's his decision, not yours. Don't you go givin' the white man anything but what you know. And all you know is that you ain't found a bullet yet.”

Sally was right, as usual. Mr. Raifer and the others, they weren't like the Colonel Judge. Marcus would talk to the Colonel Judge, and even Miss Rebecca, without having to watch his tongue. Maybe in the last year, with them being in the house and not going out, with it just being them and him and Sally and Jenny and Little Miss and the others, he had forgotten all the caution he had spent a lifetime developing.

He didn't like Mr. Bucky anyway. Didn't like him coming around, bossing them. Oh, he wouldn't say anything to Mr. Bucky or even show what he thought. He never showed what he thought. Mr. Bucky was the law as much as Mr. Raifer. And what good was the law to him except to be something else to avoid.

Had the law helped Cubit's brother? No, he had been caught and beaten and strung up by those men in white sheets. Did the law do anything? No. All they did was cut poor Cubit's brother down and bring him home to be buried.

Had the law helped Jordan's daddy when the claim jumpers said that the land he had worked since after the war, the land he had bought with his sweat and toil, was theirs cause they had a piece of paper and he didn't? No. The law had told them to get off. If it weren't for the Colonel Judge, as poor as he was two years ago, letting Jordan and his daddy stay in one of the old slave cabins and work around the house and garden, if the Colonel Judge hadn't let them have half an acre to farm, well, who knows what would have happened? Sure, the Colonel Judge charged them a fifty share while he charged the white sharecroppers only a third, and then there was the furnish that had to be paid for at the commissary, the food and salt and supplies and all. But at least they got a roof over their heads at night and credit at the Cottoncrest plantation store to live.

But the law was no help. No help at all.

He'd tell Mr. Raifer only what he saw and what he didn't see. Let Mr. Raifer decide what it all meant.

Marcus walked out the back door toward the barn, and Sally followed, pulling the big handle and making sure the latch caught.

Jenny, peeking out from Little Miss's room, breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they'd all be gone for the night. The sharecroppers already had left. Maybe the Sheriff and his deputy and the doctor from Parteblanc would leave soon also.

Jenny knew that she couldn't do what needed to be done until they were all gone, until the darkness of night covered her and prevented anyone from seeing where she was going.

“Woe! Oh, awful woe! Oh, terrible woe! She is dead! She is dead! My loving wife is dead! What have I done?”

Bucky was now fully in character, and his arms waved wildly in the air. He added embellishments. He pulled at his hair. He rolled his eyes.

The crowd at the bar beat upon the tables and clinked their glasses against the liquor bottles in appreciation. They egged him on.

“Oh, where is your head, my darlin'? Where is your dear head? Gone! Gone! Gone!” Bucky, like a sea captain scanning the horizon and shielding his eyes from the bright sun, put his hand to his forehead and, squinting hard, looked this way and that.

“Hey, Bucky, didn't this take place at night? Are you afraid of all that glare from the half-moon?” The big sandy-haired man in the stained shirt and dirty trousers, whose forearms were as thick as Bucky's thigh and whose skin was as leathery as his voice, sat at a nearby table, drink in hand, enjoying the spectacle.

“Jimmy Joe,” said his large, bearded companion in the next seat, “don't you think the reason he done lost that head is 'cause he couldn't keep it in his britches?”

They all had a good laugh.

Bucky ignored them and kept in character. “My darlin' wife. My young, beautiful wife, I must hug her once more.” Bucky threw himself on the floor, hugging the sawdust.

Some of the men moved back to give Bucky more room. Bucky gathered up into a pile all the sawdust within reach and, pretending it was the small of her back, put his head down on it. The toe of Jimmy Joe's big boot, to which pieces of dry manure had stuck, was directly in front of him.

“Don't you want to hug my boot like you're huggin' that sawdust, Bucky? Hell, take a lick of it if you want to.” Jimmy Joe lifted the toe of his boot and put it within inches of Bucky's face.

Bucky pretended not to notice. “Let me hug your dead body once more. Let me rest my head but a moment longer on your lovely back before I…”

As Bucky paused dramatically, embracing the sawdust, the bearded man spoke up. “Before I kiss your lovely ass.”

Jimmy Joe laughed so hard he almost choked. “That's a good one, Forrest. And I bet her ass was real sweet! Hey, Bucky, you think the Colonel Judge got his fill of her ass?”

Now the entire bar was chuckling, but Bucky paid them no mind. They were appreciating his performance—that's what was important.

Bucky had seen a traveling medicine show once. They had done some Shakespeare and a bunch of other things he hadn't understood but had liked a whole lot. He knew that fancy words would carry the day.

“Now, I shall take thee, oh precious pistol, and with thee I put thee to my most sad… most sad, sad brow and thusly end my life… thusly.”

Jimmy Joe interrupted again. “You ain't pointin' that finger at your brow, stupid! You're pointing above your ear.”

Bucky broke character and sat up. “I'm almost finished here, Jimmy Joe. You got to let this language kind of wash over you. It's elevatin' language, don't you see?”

Whiskey dribbled out of the corner of Forrest's mouth as he grinned at Bucky's foolishness. Wiping his beard, Forrest said, “If we don't let him finish, Jimmy Joe, he's liable to go on all night.”

Jimmy Joe motioned for Bucky to continue. Bucky put his head back down on the pile of sawdust and, making his right hand into a gun-like shape, shot himself in the temple. “
BANG
.”

Bucky kicked his legs up in the air. He twitched. “I'm dyin'. I'm dyin'. I killed my wife, and now I have killed myself. Woe and tarnation. I am dead.” He tried not to move. He tried to stare at the ceiling without blinking. He opened his mouth and let his tongue droop to one side, and he held it out as long as he could until saliva started drooling down his chin. Then he stood up and took a bow.

There was loud applause. It sounded so good to Bucky. It was what he had always dreamed of. He bowed again, even as the applause was dying down and coming to a halt. And, not content, he bowed once more, but by then the men were already talking among themselves.

A lanky man standing by the bar summoned Bucky over and handed him a glass. “Here, Bucky, have a drink. You done yourself proud.”

Bucky gratefully took the glass, although the lanky man, his thinning hair drooping down long over his ears, did not offer to pay. Bucky knew better than to hesitate. This man was not to be messed with. He was shorter than the massive Jimmy Joe and fifty pounds lighter, but Jimmy Joe would never cross him. Forrest, with his thick beard and eyebrows, with his wild hair cascading off his head and sprouting out of his ears and off of his chest, deferred to Jimmy Joe and even more to this lanky man.

It was well that he did. The lanky man's emotions ran high, and his build was deceptive. His frame was as tightly wound as his temper, all sinew and meanness waiting to be sprung. Bucky reached into his pocket for a coin and put it on the scratched surface of the bar. Only after the bartender had picked up the coin did he pour Bucky a drink.

“Was that the way it really was, Bucky? He killed her and then he shot himself?”

“Sure was, Tee Ray. Dr. Cailleteau asked me what had happened, and when I showed him what I just showed y'all, well, I think that about says it all, don't it?”

“So, that's it, then? Another example of the curse? I guess Raifer figures his job is done.”

“I think it's done, Tee Ray, but Raifer don't. For some reason we got to go back in the morning and look for a bullet. Raifer keeps asking questions about a bullet and something about what hand the Colonel Judge wrote with. I don't understand it at all. It's the curse, plain and simple. Anyone can see that.”

Tee Ray was glad to keep Bucky talking. Bucky was right in saying that he didn't understand it at all. But Tee Ray understood it all too well.

It had better be the curse. In any case, there'd be hell to pay.

“Monsieur Jake,” Tante Odille chuckled as she pointed to the skinny boy next to Jeanne Marie, “for Étienne, what could he do once there was a
poudre de Perlainpainpain,
no?”

Étienne reddened and, embarrassed, turned his attention to the boiling lard, using the big wooden spoon to scoop up the now crispy fish that floated on the bubbling surface and place them on the large platter.

“Yes, Tante Odille,” Jeanne Marie said, giving Étienne a teasing poke in his side. “It was all due to the
poudre de Perlainpainpain.
Oh, I was careful, and it took so long! First, to catch the thistle seeds. Three perfect seeds caught one after another. One for me, one for Étienne, and one for the two of us. They could not be picked. No. I had to wait until they floated in the wind. They had to be caught in the morning air, before the dew dries on the grass. Do you know how hard that is? To catch three perfect ones in a row? I take the three perfect ones that took me oh-so-long to catch, and I remove the down from the seeds ever so gently, so as not to bruise the seeds. I do not want to cause a bruise to my Étienne, no?”

Étienne pretended not to hear and dropped some more fish into the pot, but he acted too quickly. The lard sputtered from the extra moisture, and bits of it flew out of the pot, singeing Étienne's arm.

“Oh, my poor Étienne, maybe I was not as careful with removing the down as I thought.” Jeanne Marie rubbed his arm where a little welt had formed.

“I take the three seeds, yes, and I dip them in honey, and then put them in a black thimble—the thimble, yes, she must be a black thimble—which I bury for three whole days under the house, under the floorboards where my bed is. It is so long, I think, but I do it, for it must be done right if I am to have my Étienne. After three days I take the seeds and mix them in the black thimble with three drops of bayou water that I have used to wash my face and three drops of honey. And Étienne, when you are not looking, I rub three drops of the
poudre de Perlainpainpain
on your shirt and on the trousers you had left on that tree when you were swimming in the bayou.”

Étienne, who was trying to avoid the stares of all the smiling faces around him enjoying the story of how he was snared, looked even more embarrassed now that Jeanne Marie was telling everyone she had spied on him while he was swimming naked in the bayou.

“I rub the
poudre de Perlainpainpain
on your clothes, and, see how it happens, you are mine! It is all because of the
poudre de Perlainpainpain
in the black thimble.”

Jeanne Marie paused and looked at Jake. “You have another black thimble in your cart, Monsieur Jake?”

Jake knew that tonight was going to be a grand night for business. “For you, Jeanne Marie, I have a special black thimble, and I shall give her to you as a wedding present.”

Jeanne Marie gave a little yelp of joy. “I shall have my own black thimble! I shall not have to borrow Tante Odille's again! Étienne, we shall be so happy!” She grabbed Étienne by the hand and started to dance.

Some of the men, who had been sitting by the porch, pulled out their fiddles and began playing. Another one grabbed a metal wash-board and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out two thimbles. Placing them on the thumbs of each hand and balancing the washboard between his knees, he provided the rhythm section.

Other couples joined Étienne and Jeanne Marie in dancing. They moved around the dusty ground barefoot, couple by couple in a large circle, two-stepping to the music.

“Come on, Trosclaire,” one of the men yelled, “we need you.”

Trosclaire went into the cabin and came out with a small accordion no bigger than a loaf of bread. The squeeze-box added depth to the music, and Trosclaire's fingers were a blur, for each button gave a different sound depending on whether the bellows were being pushed or pulled.

“A
fais-do-do!
We are going to dance all night, no?” Tante Odille took one of the seven-year-olds by the hand. The two of them enthusiastically joined the others, the old lady and the little boy moving gracefully with the music.

“Sometimes I don't think you got half the sense God gave a horsefly. Lord, the way you rattle on to them white folks.” Sally was sitting on the back steps with Marcus, the big door to the hallway closed behind them. The half-moon was hanging low, and the stars glistened in the clear October evening's sky.

“What was I to do? I had to answer Mr. Raifer's questions.”

“Oh, there's ways of answering that don't say nothin', and there's ways of answering that tells all too much. You got too much of the too much and not enough of the nothin'!”