The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Agnes

Nausea gripped me, but it wasn’t from the baby. Some would probably hate me, but I did what I could in my own way, in my own time. Sometimes that’s all we can do. I had always relied on my sister, for help, for guidance, but what happens when the person you’ve loved and trusted all your life changes? Beatrice was changing, and I couldn’t figure out why. She was harder. Edgier. Desperate. She seemed hell bent on keeping me under her wing our entire lives. And, truth be told, I would have been fine with that, if not for Tim. I wanted it to be him that kept me under his wing, him who protected me. But lately my husband had changed too.

I knew it was the drink. The devil’s drink. I swore it off after I seen what it did to him. My daddy was a drunk, but he had never hurt Beatrice nor I. Except, of course, when Beatrice nearly drowned. He was supposed to be looking after us, and he had fallen asleep. And she slipped under.

This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? A baby. They always said that when a baby comes along, it’s a joy, a blessing; now why didn’t I feel joyous nor blessed? All I felt was a mounting sense of panic, through my arms, in my throat. I couldn’t have a baby. Not with Tim like he was. Tim never meant to hurt me. I knew that.

Maybe I can get some herbs from that old black woman.

They said that she practiced black magic. Beatrice had gotten mixed up with her somehow, and she seemed rather fond of the negress, which I did not understand. Pastor Dixon was right. They had their place, and we had ours, and there wasn’t any sense for us to mix.

So when I crossed through the graveyard on the way to Beatrice and Frank’s house, I stopped right in my tracks. There she was. I blame a horrid impulse of fascination, as one might look on a beetle up close. Just who was this black woman that my sister cared for so? Why was she so special?

And why is she putting flowers on a grave?

When she lifted her head, her eyes were shiny. At first, I thought it was from the glare of the sun. But she wiped her cheeks in that gesture that every one of us do when we attempt to hide our liquid pain.

I could have walked right by. She needn’t speak to me unless I spoke to her first. That’s just the way things were. Natural order.

Wasn’t it?

Except…except…loneliness makes a person do strange things. And maybe it was female weakness or softness or plain ol’ sympathy, but I just had to say something. So I walked up to where she stood next to a tiny plaque. Opened my mouth.

And a stream of vomit came out.

The old black woman gazed at the plaque. “You just done throw up on my little girl. Sherry Lynn.”

I pulled out a handkerchief out of my dress pocket and wiped my mouth. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m—”  I placed a hand on my abdomen. “Indisposed.”

The woman huffed through her nostrils. “You seem to carry your own little girl now.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said quickly. “What?”

The woman peered at me downright queer. “Your face reminds me of someone. You ain’t kin to that Beatrice, are you?”

I nodded, not quite trusting my mouth or the actions of my stomach.

“Well now. I hope you know how much your sister loves you. She willing to sacrifice…a lot.”

Too much.

I twitched my hand to the plaque. “You had a daughter? Sherry Lynn?”

The woman gazed at the ground. “She woulda been sixty-eight. A whole life. When I held her, I learned then what love was. Real love. Unselfish. I had never loved anyone in my life the way I loved her. Before or since. When my next one would come along, she would stand over his crib, just watching him, smacking the mosquitos away. ‘Don’t you touch my baby,’ she said. Then when they both grew and Irving started walking, she would follow him around, and when Ray would play too rough, she would plant her two chubby legs, always saying, ‘Don’t you touch my baby.’”

I swallowed. Something in the woman’s voice made my throat clench. Sixty-eight years, and she still cried like no time had passed at all. Maybe it hadn’t. “How did she die?”

A mirthless laugh. “Depends on who you ask. The doctors found a hole in her heart. Just a tiny little hole. Said there weren’t nothing to be done. She woulda died no matter what. That’s what they say.”

“And what do you say?” I carefully wiped some of the vomit off the plaque with my shoe.

Her sigh was river long and ocean deep. “Sometimes I blame God. Sometimes I blame the Devil. Sometimes I blame myself for not being able to protect her.” And she did not elaborate.

“But what happens…what happens if you’re not ready for children? What then?” My hand moved to my stomach on its own. “I heard that there are…certain herbs you can eat. Or make into a tea. I heard that people will pay money to…acquire those herbs.”

The woman didn’t look at me for a long, long time. So long I wondered if she were half-deaf, being wrinkly as a bat in the oven. Bugs hummed in the distance, and grasshoppers jumped to and fro among the headstones. But finally, she spoke. “As many years as I have lived on this earth, I have learned that children are a gift. No matter how long they stay. They’ll hurt you, leave you, give you more pain than you can ever imagine. But I wouldn’t trade a single second without them.” She lifted her eyes to me. “Nor help someone throw that gift away. Even if I knew where to locate those herbs.”

A gift. What kind of gift can make a person cry after sixty-eight years? What kind of love was that strong? That was the kind of love that terrified me. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it. Wasn’t sure I could handle it. But I had to get out.

“Well. Then I’ll be on my way. Goodbye.”

She raised a hand, but I turned my back and walked back to the house, to call Beau. He came over, like he always does. We lay together, just like we did. I loved Tim. I really did. But Beau was strong in a way that Tim wasn’t. He cradled my face when we made love.

Who am I to justify such things? I knew there wasn’t any justification. None. But I told myself that I needed to. I needed Beau. I needed to leave Tim, but I couldn’t. I wanted to leave Tim, but I didn’t. I was his wife. I couldn’t divorce him. Some days I wanted to leave; some days, I wanted to stay. Most of the time, I was too tired from thinking about it to decide either way.

But God, I needed a little tenderness. And Beau, with all his callouses and foul breath, was tender. Gentle. He held me after. We didn’t speak of Tim. And as I lay in his arms, it was all I wanted.

Until a pounding at the door jerked me from my reverie. When I opened it, a sneeze of wind could have knocked me over, seeing a tall Negro man standing there as plain as you please on my front porch.

“What do you want?” I demanded. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

The man quickly took off his hat. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But I’m looking for someone by the name of Shirley Freeman I tried her house, but she ain’t there, nor at the store, and I need to find her. I—I come a real long way.” He swung an arm out, gesturing to the road as though it were a friend.

“Sorry,” I said. “Don’t know nobody by that name.”

“Agnes, what’s going on?” Beau walked up without a shirt on. He leaned one arm against the doorframe.

I swear, that boy lost some of his color, just seeped right into the ground.

“What do you want, reggin?” Beau placed an arm around me, and I felt better.

The man nearly jumped ten feet backward. “Nothing.” His eyes glanced from me to Beau. “Nothing at all. I’ll be going now. Right now.” He walked backward. Pulled open the door to his shiny, black automobile.

Before we went back inside, Beau said, “Car’s way too fine. Think he stole it?”

*

Tim

I couldn’t take it anymore.

They were looking at me—that little girl from the village and that soldier from Belleau Wood and my grandfather—all of them looking at me, taunting me. My throat was dry, dry as I couldn’t stand it, and I just needed to do something right for once, but I had failed.

Dixon ain’t ever gonna give me money. Not until I do something.

But what he didn’t know was that I had been skimming just a little bit off the top every month. It was all stupid—who the fuck gives a damn about masks and capes and swords, when the only thing that really talks is money? Sure, Negros and Mexicans were inferior, but like a cats were inferior to dogs. I had seen some honest reggins and some downright lying white trash. I had dealt with them sort plenty—broken toothed, hillbillies like Johnny who stank of piss and laziness. I didn’t give a fuck about God’s order just as long as Dixon kept lining my pocketbook. The only difference between Dixon and I was that Dixon believed all that bullshit he spouted. And it wasn’t like Dixon had any room in that little sanctimonious heart of his to talk—boy of his was half-Negro, and everyone in the goddamn town knew it, could see it in his big, bulbous nose, even if his hair was blonde and curly; it was a little too curly. Plus, goddamn me if the Negros didn’t have good music.

I just had to get that soldier to stop staring at me. And the little girl. Right now, there she is, just looking, sucking her finger and showing me her privates. Right there on the road.

“You’re not real!” I shouted.

She still didn’t go away. Just kept staring. I picked up a rock to throw at her. It sailed right through her.

My hands shook. The devil was fixing to split my head with a railroad spike.

Fine. I went to Charbonneau’s. I knew he had liquor. I would kill whoever had tipped him off. Just wrap my hands around his greasy throat. Something wasn’t natural about Charbonneau. Maybe he was one of those sissies who just got married so he could stick it in some boy.

Some boy like you, said the soldier.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I muttered.

I was goddamn tired of seeing those three. Grampa most of all. His dirty old face I hadn’t seen in years, and I loved him and hated him. Mostly hated. But also mostly loved.

I pushed open the door to the joint. Light was dim, dusty, like the bottle sitting on the counter. Some Negro sat on a stool, but it appeared as though he hadn’t been there too long. He still had on his coat and hat. Charbonneau stood behind the bar with a pencil behind his ear and a rag thrown over one shoulder.

The Negro stood up. “I can leave,” he said. “I need to leave anyway. I have to find her.”

Charbonneau held up a hand. “It’s alright, Angelo. How can I help you, Mr. Stevenson?”

I licked my lips. I could sense it, the way a rattler senses heat. I knew it was here.

“I know you got something ‘round here,” I replied.

Charbonneau feigned a shrug, and I nearly strangled him right there. “Maybe, maybe not. My fine establishment was raided just the other day, and I’m afraid we’re going through a bit of a dry spell. Can’t be too careful, these days.”

I sauntered up to the bar. Nodded to the Negro.

“Angelo, this is my dear brother-in-law, Tim. Tim, Angelo.”

At least the reggin had enough common sense to wait until I stuck out my hand for him to shake. Sense unlike fucking Charbonneau, who had introduced me second. I knew he had done it on purpose, the prick.

“Just pour the fucking whiskey.” I slapped a couple of dollars on the bar. I had plenty where that came from. What Dixon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “I don’t have to tell you it was just politics.”

Frank reached under the bar and placed a bottle—a full bottle—on the counter. I was tempted to snatch it and run, but that fucking little girl was looking at me over Frank’s shoulder, and I had to get rid of her. I scratched my arm, cuz ants were crawling all over me. They’d soon be gone, though. Frank took longer than an old man taking a shit to pour the damn drink, but he finally did. I didn’t even register that first gulp, but my body sure did.

You can fucking go away now, little girl.

The Negro cleared his throat. “Was that your regiment?” He lifted his chin to my shoulder.

I lifted up my sleeve for him to get a better look at the pelican. Dieu et moi. God had left me long ago, but the pelican had stayed. “Damn straight it was. Still is. You never stop being a soldier.”

“I would show you mine, but I don’t think you’d care to see me take off my shirt. I served in the 369th.”

“Infantry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No shit. Was you with them Black Rattlers?”

“The very same.”

“How bout that. Charbonneau, give this soldier a drink.” I put another dollar down. “I heard about what you boys did in France. Damn good fighting. I was out there, too.”

Charbonneau poured without a word. He gave Angelo more than he did me, but I didn’t even care.

“I can’t say I ever saw combat. But I laid down plenty’a railroad.”

“How’d you get out there to them frog-boys, then?”

“Well, the short answer is that I was with the regiment band. The long story, if you care to hear it…”

I waved him on.

“…is that I was in New York trying to find a music gig. Then the war came, and I figured I’d get three meals with the U.S. army, which was better than starving in some rat hole in New York. So I sign up, and I was going to go to Mons, but my superiors heard me playing one night. Sent me to France with the regimental band. Jazz music and Stars and Stripes, and those French women just loved us.”

I grinned. “Yeah, those women were the best. Stunk some, but hey.” I shrugged. “Better a little smell than the clap, going down to some hothouse.”

“Yes, sir. We mostly played for hospitals and rest stops and such like, and in between we were laying down railroad just as quick as the froggies could send us iron. Finally, we got the orders that we were going to fight alongside the French.” He hesitated. “Suppose I don’t have to tell you that Uncle Sam didn’t like to mix his forces. So after about three months of Uncle Sam scratching himself, we finally get the call that we were going to fight with the French 16th Division. Three weeks of combat training, then heading to the front.” Angelo chuckled. “Broke my damn ankle during the second week, jumping off a platform. Sent me home on medical discharge.”

“I’ll be damned. Still. Maybe a good thing you got sent home.”

The little girl was gone, but the German was still staring at me. I didn’t mind so much now.

“Yes, sir. I came back and started on the…well, we called it the Chitlin Circuit. Uncle Sam promised me money, but I never saw a dime.”

I clinked my glass to his. “I know just what you mean.” I stuck out my leg. “Nearly got this blown off, and I was supposed to get something for it. All I got was a damn purple heart. What am I supposed to do with that? Can’t pay the bills with it none.” I drained my third glass. I finally felt fucking normal again. “Well, I gotta get home to Agnes ‘fore she starts wondering where I am.”

Angelo didn’t react in any particular way that was out of the ordinary for any normal person. But being in trenches gets you familiar with the slightest changes in a man.

“What?” I demanded. “Why you looking at me like that?”

“Agnes?”

“You an echo? Yes. My wife.”

“There ain’t another gal named Agnes in this town, is there?”

I wiped my mouth. “Not that I’m aware of. Now you are the first non-shifty spook I ever met, but you are acting real shifty. Now either spit out what the cat done grabbed your tongue for or zip it up.”

Angelo glanced at Frank. I might have believed in a merciful God then because he hadn’t spoken a single damn word this whole time, and I was mighty thankful for that. “It’s just, it ain’t my place. But…” He motioned his glass to me. “Now I feel honor bound. To a fellow soldier.”

Suddenly, I knew. I knew what this reggin was going to tell me, but I wasn’t angry with him. Not at all.

“It’s just…it ain’t my place. And I don’t want any trouble. No trouble at all.”

“You won’t have none from me.”

“It’s just…I met someone by the name of Agnes. She was with a man. A man without a shirt, if you take my meaning. Man by the name of Beau.” He stared at his leather shoes. “Normally I wouldn’t get mixed up in private matters. Just thought you should know.”

I stood up. Fought not to sway. “You did the right thing.” I clapped him on the shoulder. The soldier was gone. The little girl was gone. All I saw was red. “You did the right thing.”

*

In the end, it wasn’t hard to find the hoodoo woman’s house. Everyone knew where she lived since just about everyone in town had gone to her for one reason or other. Wart cures. Sunburns. Infertility. You name it. Oh people said they didn’t, but they did. It was just some log cabin at the edge of the Negro part of town, on the west side of the train tracks. I passed a dump of houses. An old dog wandered between houses, ribs like icicles, sharp, protruding. Damn thing had eyes so lonely that I bent down and scratched it between the ears. I didn’t have nothing on me except a few strips of jerky, so I tossed those at it.

I banged on the old woman’s door and kicked at a chicken that came too close. It pecked at my shoes, and I lunged to wring its neck. Then the damn thing let out a low hiss that I coulda swore sounded like a cat, but that coulda been the blue devil blues. It’s astounding how comfortable you can get hearing things that ain’t there once you know they ain’t. But this moaning made me shiver.

When she opened the door, I said, “You the woman with the herbs and such?”

“Yes, sir.”

I stepped inside her house. Looked around. Didn’t look much like a hoodoo house. Bible in the corner. Black Mary statue was something unnatural. Peculiar Negroes and their bizarre beliefs.

“Well, you got something that’ll end a pregnancy?” I opened up a cabinet. Marked jars full of dark magic stuff—Valerian roots and other herbs. The Negroes knew all about this stuff. They might’a pretended to be Christian, but everyone knew that they clung to the old beliefs.

The Negress stared at me with those milky eyes. I hated that stare. Too brazen. “You do not look like you’re pregnant.”

“It ain’t for me you stupid cow. It’s for my—” Wife. But the word caught in my throat. Something about that word made me want to shrivel up and cry. But my tears had frozen long ago. I think I done used up all my tears as a boy, and now I had no need of them. “For a woman.” Whore.

“No, sir. I surely do not.”

“You are lying. I questioned men in the war, so I know what lying looks like. Just give me whatever it is you got.”

“That child of yours deserves to live.”

“If I wanted advice, I’d visit my pastor. Just give me the damn thing.”

Something about the woman seemed awful familiar. Something about the eyes. The wide cheekbones. But it didn’t matter. She ambled over to a cabinet, then took out jars marked Tansy, Pennyroyal, and Parsley. Then, taking a small satchel, she dumped a generous quantity of each, then mixed it up.

“Put these in water. Let it simmer for about thirty minutes or so. Drink it. Then pray to the good Lord to save your soul.”

I snatched up the satchel. “You worry about your soul, and I’ll worry about mine.” I turned to leave.

“There is still the matter of payment.”

I laughed. Guffawed. Threw my head back. The absolute bitter gall of this woman.

“Two dollars.”

Did she have any idea of who I was? Who I was going to be in this town? I was going to be the Mayor. I had faced bullets, bombs, blood, and all over again and again. Payment?

“You is crazy.” I put my hand on the door knob.

“You know,” she began. “It’s a funny thing about going to a witch for medicine. You never know what other magic she might have. What she is able to do.”

I opened the door. Took a step out. Smelled the sweet grass and summer heat building up in the clouds. Flashes of sores on my body. Going bald. Cock falling off. Goddamn her to the hottest hell.

I twisted around. I pulled out my wallet and slapped two bills on her table. “I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “You open your damn mouth about this to anyone—” I inhaled. “Anyone, I swear I’ll kill you, [the word] bitch.”