Devil Storm Page 6

  “Oh, Jack,” Mary Agnes would interrupt, “such talk!”

  But Cousin Jack would only wink and go on. “It’s the truth, so help me! Richard Carroll was a well-known rapscallion, until the day he took one look at your mama’s pretty eyes, and that was that …”

  “How were all your relatives, Richard?” she asked now, her voice distant, almost formal. She had borne her husband’s coming-home kiss with a rigid face. Walter had seen it, though he hadn’t wanted to.

  “Oh, fine, just fine,” Papa answered, a little too heartily. “Jack and Mary Agnes are doing right well, and the twins are all still like as peas.… The youngest pair’s just beginning to talk, and they tell me K. K. and Bussy are reading already—isn’t that something? They’re not even in school yet, you know—just the same age as—” He broke off abruptly, his face suddenly stricken.

  “As William,” his wife finished for him. “Yes, I remember.”

  There was a moment’s painful silence, and then Papa said quietly, looking down at his fingernails, “I miss him too, Lillie. Don’t you know I miss him too?”

  “Looka here, Mama, you want to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa?” Alice asked anxiously.

  “Some other time, Sister.” Mama’s voice was strained.

  “But, Mama, it’s real pretty—”

  Their mother shook her head. “You children ought to have been in bed long ago. I don’t know what I was thinking of.… You go on now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They pecked her cheek and went, but sleep was a long time in coming.

  “Walter,” said Alice, after a while, “you awake?”

  Walter sighed. “Looks like it.”

  “Walter—”

  “What?”

  “Does Papa love Mama more’n she loves him?”

  Walter got up on his elbow and glared at his sister. “You hush your mouth, Alice. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” he whispered fiercely.

  “Well, it just seems like it sometimes. I was only askin’.” Alice’s voice trembled.

  “Well, don’t ask,” Walter growled. “It ain’t any of our business, anyhow. I swear, sometimes you got no more sense than a doodle bug.”

  There was a long, shuddering sigh from the next bed. Walter could see Alice’s shoulders shaking, her head buried in her pillow.

  “Aw, come on, Sister, don’t do that.…” He hated it when she cried; seemed like it was always his fault somehow every time she did.

  “I c-cain’t help it—you’re just so doggone m-mean!” She was sobbing now.

  “Hell’s bells …”

  “Don’t you c-cuss, Walter Carroll!”

  “Aw, for cryin’ out loud …” Walter climbed from his bed and sat down on the side of hers. “I’m sorry, Sister. Come on, please don’t cry any more.” He put his hand on her shoulder and patted it awkwardly. “I know what you mean about Mama and Papa.…”

  Alice turned over and looked at him. “You d-do?” she hiccupped.

  “Aw, heck, yes, but you just cain’t worry about it, is all. Why, our folks is nothin’ compared to some. You take Jimmy Jordan—everybody knows his mama hasn’t spoke one word to his papa in five years. And you heard about Mr. Wesley Sparks, acourse—”

  “Well, he died, didn’t he? Ain’t Miz Sparks a widder?”

  “Shoot, no—she’s nothin’ but a grass-widder. They say she pestered Mr. Sparks so much that one day he just couldn’t stand it any longer; he run off to California and grew a beard and became a Catholic.”

  “No!”

  “It’s the truth, I swear. So you see, Mama and Papa’s all right. They’re just goin’ through a bad time, is all.…”

  “’Cause of William?”

  “I guess.” Walter didn’t want to talk about that. It made his stomach hurt.

  They were quiet for a minute. Then Alice spoke again. “Walter—”

  “What?”

  “Would you cry if I died?”

  “Good Lord, Alice!”

  “Well, would you?” She was feeling better now. Walter could tell.

  “Nope,” he answered. “Not a drop.”

  “Not a single drop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “’Cause I’d tickle you, like this, and then you’d come alive again—”

  And then there commenced such a shrieking and giggling and tossing of pillows that Emily woke up and started to howl, and from somewhere under the house Crockett began to bark, and the next thing they knew Mama was shushing the baby and Papa was standing there fussing.

  “What’s going on in here? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, both of you—carrying on so and waking the baby! Now, you all hush up right this minute and go on to sleep—you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try to do something nice for you and this is how you behave. I ought to just smash that fool stereoscope with an axe, that’s what I ought to do.… I better not hear one more sound out of this room, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, all right then. Good night.”

  “’Night.”

  “’Night.”

  Papa and Mama carried the baby off to their room, and everything was quiet again. There was only the sound of the wind on the sea, the waves breaking on the beach.… Walter’s eyes closed. His whole being teetered on the brink of sleep.…

  “Walter?”

  Lord! “What?”

  “You s’pose we’ll ever see old Tom again?”

  “I don’t know, Sister.” Funny, Walter had forgotten all about Tom for—what? Four, five hours? Suddenly he was wide awake again. “You better go on to sleep,” he whispered. “Papa’ll be comin’ back in here, raisin’ Cain.”

  “All right,” said Alice. “’Night, Walter.”

  “’Night.”

  After a while Walter could hear her breath, slow and even, quivering only now and again with unspent sobs, and he knew she was asleep. But still he lay awake with wide-open eyes, watching the moonlight make shadows on the wall.

  Chapter 8

  It was raining pitchforks.

  “Well, that’s funny, Miz Long—how’d you get in here?” Walter ducked breathlessly into the barn, milk pail in hand. “I thought you’d be waitin’ outside.” He was feeling fine. For three weeks the sun had scorched the earth with an unrelenting heat, while he and Papa struggled to clear a new field for fall planting. But it looked as if there would be little work this morning.

  “Funny,” he said again, drawing up the milking stool beside the cow, “I coulda sworn I closed that door last night.”

  “You closed it all right,” said a voice from the shadows.

  Walter very nearly fell off the stool. “Hey, Tom,” he managed to croak, over the lurching of his heart.

  “Hey, boy,” said Tom. The gold tooth flashed. He was sitting Indian-style on the ground. Crockett lay contentedly beside him.

  “I thought—I thought maybe you’d gone away,” Walter stammered. It had been three whole weeks, after all; they were well into August now. The memory of Tom had already begun to fade and blur into unreality, to grow more comfortable, viewed from a safe distance.

  Tom shrugged. “Wind shifted.” There was certainly nothing safe or comfortable about him now. He was alarmingly real.

  “Oh,” said Walter.

  “You better see to your cow,” Tom said after a moment of silence.

  “Oh—oh yeah. I guess I better.”

  Jane Long was as calm as Crockett about Tom’s presence, paying him no more mind than she would have a fly—less, in fact; for a fly, she’d have switched her tail at least. But Walter was shaking so that the milk kept squirting in all directions, missing the pail nearly as often as not. His mind was racing. What should he do? What should he say? It was his own fault that old Tom was here; Walter knew that. He had invited the devil to dine, and, lo and behold, the de
vil had come! But what now? Lord have mercy—what now?

  “Would you—like somethin’ to eat?” Walter asked at last, when the pail was as full as he could get it.

  “If it ain’t no trouble—”

  “Oh, no trouble—no trouble atall!” Walter lied. “Let me just—just take this milk on in to my folks. My mama’s cookin’ breakfast right now. Soon as it’s ready, I’ll bring you out some, how’s that?”

  “Well, long as you got plenty.”

  “Oh sure, we got plenty. One thing we got, it’s plenty.” Hell’s bells, I’m babblin’ like a bubblehead, Walter told himself as he backed out of the barn door.

  Mama was frying eggs for breakfast. “Raining pretty hard out there?”

  “Yes’m, pretty hard,” said Walter, wishing his cheeks wouldn’t burn so. Lord, but his mother would just keel over and die if she knew who was sitting in her barn. Walter’s head felt heavy, as if his worries were rocks, weighing it down. “Where’s Alice?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual.

  “She’s mindin’ the baby,” Mama answered. “Will you run get her for me, son—tell her we’re about ready here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Walter fairly burst onto the sleeping porch. “Alice, Mama sent me to tell you to come eat now, but listen to me—you cain’t finish it all, you hear?”

  “Well, why not, for heaven’s sake? I’m hungry as a horse.”

  “’Cause you got to save some in your napkin, same as me, that’s why.” Walter’s voice squeaked like a rusty hinge. “Old Tom’s come back!”

  Alice’s eyes bugged out. “You don’t mean it!”

  “Yes, I do too. He’s sittin’ right out there in our barn this very minute, and I promised we’d feed him again, so we got to.”

  “Lord, Walter, what if Mama finds out he’s here? What if Papa goes out to the barn?”

  “Mama’s not gonna find out long as we don’t tell her,” he said, “and I don’t think Papa’ll have any reason to go out there with it rainin’ like this. We just got to keep our heads, that’s all.”

  “All right, Walter, I’ll keep my head. I sure will!” Alice’s eyes glittered with excitement.

  “Well, come on then, startin’ right now. You got to act natural, you hear me?”

  “I hear you—I hear you.”

  Alice was cool as silk during breakfast, but Walter was so nervous that he spilled his milk twice and knocked the butter dish on the floor and finally tipped over the salt.

  “Merciful heavens!” his mother cried. “Quick, son—stand up and throw some over your left shoulder and turn around twice!”

  “Oh, Mama—”

  “Just do it, Walter. No sense taking chances.”

  “Yes’m.” Walter sighed. But when he stood up, he forgot about the food in his lap, and it went tumbling to the floor, and everybody saw.

  “Why, Walter Carroll, what do you mean by hiding your breakfast in your napkin? Are you sick?”

  Walter was covered with confusion. “No, ma’am, I’m not sick. I’m just—just not hungry, is all.…”

  “He was prob’ly just savin’ some for Crockett, weren’t you, Walter?” Alice said, turning to him with a smile.

  Finally he stammered, “Yes, ma’am, that’s it. I saw him out in the barn when I was milkin’ the cow, and I—I remembered that I had forgot to feed him last night.” This was Walter’s second lie of the morning. Crockett had eaten a prodigious dinner the night before. But Walter couldn’t help that. He shot Alice a marveling look.

  “Lord, son, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” his father asked. “There’s no need for you to go without for old Crockett’s sake. We’ve plenty for all of us and him too.”

  “Well, certainly,” said Mama, shaking her head and heaping Walter’s plate with more eggs and grits. “The idea! Now, you eat this good breakfast, Walter. I’ll fix a nice plate of scraps for Crockett. Goodness, carrying on so over that old dog.”

  “How’d you ever think so quick, Sister?” Walter whispered as they dodged raindrops out to the barn.

  “Somebody had to,” she said. “Lord, I thought you were gonna give the whole thing away—and you told me to act natural.”

  Tom was still sitting right where Walter had left him. He grinned his gold-toothed grin and tipped his hat to Alice as the children came in the door. “Mornin’, Missy.” He looked at Walter. “Thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Walter handed him the plate of food. “It’s a little messy,” he apologized, “but it’s good.”

  “Aw, it’s fine, real fine. Your mama must be a mighty good cook.”

  “Well, I should say,” Alice said proudly. “My papa says her biscuits are light as a feather, and one time she won first prize at the fair for her fig preserves.”

  “Is that so?” said Tom, his mouth full. “Don’t surprise me one bit.” Crockett sat up and begged as pretty as you please. “Just like a little old show dog!” Tom grinned, giving him a nibble. Once again, he took his time over the meal.

  “Mmm-mmm, that was fit for a king,” he said when he was finished. “Now”—he peered at the children with his sharp old eyes—“what you all want to talk ’bout today?”

  Walter was tempted to ask again about Lafitte and his treasure, but he remembered how touchy Tom had seemed about that before. “Oh, I don’t know,” he began. “Any old thing …”

  “You got your secrets with you?” Alice asked.

  Tom reached behind his back and pulled out his gunnysack. “Never go anyplace ’thout ’em. Lessee, now, Missy chose last time; your turn today, boy.” He held the sack out to Walter. Without giving himself a chance to think of all the horrible things he might discover, Walter thrust his hand in.… His fingers touched something that felt rough, then something mushy—he shied away from that—and then they closed on something small and cold.…

  It was a tarnished silver chain, with a little heart-shaped locket attached.

  “Ohhh,” breathed Alice, as Walter held it up to the faint light coming through the cracked door, “it’s beautiful!”

  “That it is.” Tom sighed faintly. “That it is.”

  Walter turned it over gently in his hand. It must have been an elegant little heart once. On one side there was set in the silver a tiny butterfly, just alighting on a wide-open silver blossom. On the other side a slender vase held five silver roses.

  “Does it open?” asked Walter.

  The old man inclined his head, and sure enough, Walter found a tiny catch. He pressed it, and the heart opened up. Inside was a miniature of a man’s face, much faded and spotted, so that it was hard to tell anything about him except that his hair had been black.

  Jean Lafitte had had black hair. Everybody knew that.

  Walter shuddered.

  “Somebody walkin’ over your grave,” said Tom. “Let your sister see, boy.”

  Walter handed the heart to Alice. She touched the butterfly wonderingly. “Beautiful,” she murmured, “so beautiful …”

  “Tell us the story, please,” said Walter.

  Old Tom leaned back against the barn wall and closed his eyes. For a time there was no sound but the rain on the roof—not even the sound of breathing, as far as Walter could tell. A terrible thought stole across his mind. What if this old man dies right here, right now? He’s awful old—older’n God, like Alice said.… Oh, Lord, don’t let him die. What in Sam Hill would we do with him?

  But just then Tom stirred and began to speak quietly.

  “Long time ago, way ’cross the ocean—not just this here old Gulf but the big ocean, the one they calls Atlantic—they’s a girl not much older’n you, boy—fourteen, maybe fifteen year old. She so pretty it hurt your eyes to look on her, and she dress so fine—red color and yellow color and blue like a peacock feather, all scrambled up ever’ which way in her clothes. And she pretty on the inside too—kindest heart you ever see and god-fearin’. Not just one-god-fearin’, neither—sh
e ain’t so stingy; she fear the sun-god and moon-god and god of ever’ river and tree, and she done right by all of ’em. But her people—they at war, you see, brother ’gainst brother—and one night when she sleepin’, enemy come to her village, kill all the old and sickly, carry off the young and strong, in chains. And the girl, she holler and try to fight, but it ain’t no use. They sells her to the white man, all the same, right along with t’others.”

  Tom paused and shook his head thoughtfully, then continued. “Next thing she know, she on a ship, big like a beast, with her in its belly. And she sick—they all sick, moanin’ and cryin’—she cain’t never remember how long. But she don’t die—she too proud to die. And then one day different white men come on the ship—t’others calls ’em pirates—and they’s hollerin’ and fightin’ till the first ones all dead. And these pirates, they takes the girl and all her brothers and sisters to a camp they calls Campeachy, what was on Galveston Island, and they sells ’em off, one by one. But the girl, she still so pretty that one of the pirates, he say, ‘Don’t sell her.’ He want her. So she his woman now, and he kind to her, dress her in fancy clothes and give her this here silver heart, with his picture inside. And after a while, she be carryin’ his child. Then the old herrycane come, blow down the pirate camp, kill off white and black, just alike—kill ’em like flies. But the girl, she live, and her child what’s born that same night, he live too.…”

  Tom paused again. Walter and Alice looked at each other with burning eyes.

  “Now the pirates what’s left alive looks around ’em and say, ‘How we gonna feed us? Look like they ain’t ’nough food and water to go ’round.’ And the boss pirate, the one they calls Lafitte, he say, ‘Too many niggers, that what’s wrong. We got to sell off the ones what’s left.’ So he take ’em all—girl and her child, too—and he load ’em in the belly of another boat, send ’em off to New Orleans. Next day they all sold, ever’ last one. White man from up the river, he buy the girl and her child. He ain’t much of a man, but his wife a Christian woman—teach the girl ’bout cookin’ and cleanin’ and mindin’ white babies, teach her pretty stories ’bout Jesus too. Take away the fancy dress the pirate give her, make her wear clothes white lady call decent. Woulda took away the silver heart, too, but the girl, she smart, she hide it. And when her child get big, she show it to him, tell him the story. She say they’s plenty more where that come from. His daddy done buried it, but it’s rightly his. He got to find it someday. She say, ‘You listen real good now ’cause I’s sick, gonna die, so you got to remember.’ Child, he say, ‘You cain’t die, Mama.’ But she say, ‘Look like I cain’t help it.’ And then, sure ’nough, she die.…”