Nancy A. Collins, page 4
A black man in a frayed frock coat stepped forward, a dog-eared Bible tucked in the crook of his right arm, as Junius climbed down from the buckboard.
“Afternoon, Mr. Junius.”
“Afternoon, Deacon Pike.”
“He been asking for you.”
Junius reached to lift Eunice from her seat. “That a fact?”
“He won’t let me bring in th’ preacher.” This came from a short, squat woman the color of teak. Her heavy arms were locked under her sagging bosom. The thin, frightened pickaninny who had approached her grandfather in the grocery peeped out at Eunice from behind her faded gingham skirts. “Every time I try sneakin’ him in, he gets to squawkin’ like a mad hen and cussin’-! Lord, you wouldn’t believe the nastiness that comes out of that ol’ devil’s mouth!”
“Then I guess I ought to go see what he wants, Cordelia.”
The crowd moved aside to let them pass as he moved toward the front porch. Eunice could feel their silent gaze sliding over him like water drawn from the well. She tightened her grip on her grandfather’s hand. She’d never been around so many black people before at one time in one place. Eunice was familiar with Ash and Jericho, the coloreds that helped her daddy during planting, and Queen Esther, the woman that helped her mama with the heavy lifting, but these broad, dark faces were alien to her.
The front room of the shotgun was close and incredibly hot. A pot belly stove squatted in the corner like an ancient god from warmer climes. The odor of wood smoke, black-eyed peas, and fatback was thick in the air. A double mattress and two smaller sleeping pallets filled what was left of the floor, leaving only a narrow pathway to the second of the two rooms.
The back room was dark, the light shuttered by curtains made from flour sacks and burlap bags. An iron bedstead dominated the room, which was littered with empty patent-medicine bottles. The smell was foul and Eunice felt her grandfather hesitate. Something moved in the bed.
“You bring him? You got him like I told you?”
“I’m here, Ash.” Her grandfather let go of her hand and moved closer to the bed. Unnoticed, Eunice ghosted closer for a better look. Ash looked like a tiny doll with the face of a dried apple swaddled in threadbare quilts and blankets, his head and shoulders supported by a mound of pillows. His long, knotted hands lay atop the covers, fingers plucking blindly at the pattern of the quilt.
“Cordelia says you won’t let her bring in a preacher,” Junius gently chided. “Don’t need no preacher-man tell me I’ve sinned;” Ash rasped. “I know that. Lord knows that, too. I know I’m dying. Been long time comin’. Mebbe too long, for some.” He shot his yellowed eyes toward his great-grandchild, standing in the doorway.
“Lissen to that trash, Mister Junius! Lord, you’d think I ain’t lifted a hand t’feed and clothe his black heinie!”
“Clear off, woman. I got things that must be said.”
Even though his voice was so weak it was little more than a whisper, Eunice could hear the echo of the man Ash must have been when he was young. Cordelia opened her mouth then snapped it shut with an audible click. She gave the old man a glare that was both angry and fearful, then turned and left the two whites alone with her great-grandfather.
“You shouldn’t talk to Cordelia like that, Ash.”
A weak smile wrinkled the dying man’s seamed face even further. “I know that. But that woman’s so bull-headed-! Just like her great-granny!” The smile disappeared amongst the creases in his face. “What you know about ‘fessin’, Mister Junius?”
“You mean confessing? Like to a priest?” Her grandfather looked lost for a moment. “I was raised Presbyterian, Ash…”
“It don’t make no never mind,” the old black man gasped. “I heard once that ‘fessin’ be good for the soul-lettin’ out the bad things you dune so’s they can be aired. Mebbe if you ‘fess up to what you done, long time ago, you don’t have to go to Hell for doing it. Mebbe that’s true. Mebbe not. I never had me the education to know them things. But, I know what I know. And that’s I can’t go to my grave carryin’ what I got locked up ‘side me.” He tapped his ribcage weakly with one broad, spatulate finger.
Junius eased himself onto the edge of the bed, his attention focused on its occupant. “Ash-what is it that’s botherin’ you? I’ve known you almost as long as I have my wife. You’re no sinner; no more than any man born.”
Ash’s eyes clouded and tears leaked onto his cheeks. “I should have told it sooner, but I was always scared. Scared of that man. Old Man Stackpole. When he died I thought I could come forward and say my piece. But the boy-lord, the boy’s worse than his daddy! If I’d knowed back then I’d live to be so old-mebbe I’d have kilt the old bastard and his whelp then and there, even if it got me lynched!
“It was Stackpole’s idea. Not mine. I didn’t want no part of it, but he threatened t’shoot me if I didn’t help him. But I reckon I was used to crazy white folks tellin’ me to do things I didn’t want to do. Me and him and that boy of his went out after them folk…”
“Wait a minute, Ash…” Her grandfather’s voice had become so hard it was alien to her. “What folks?”
“Them folks that left all them years back. Mister and Miz Newburg, the Rialls, and the Haldemans…”
Junius McQuistion’s face paled and a muscle in his jaw jumped. “We set out after ‘em after Mister Stackpole thought everyone was asleep. It didn’t take us long to find them, either. They hadn’t got too far, what with them young’uns… They had pitched camp near Bayou Beelzebub. They was asleep when we came up on ‘em. Old Man Stackpole, he said we should surround ‘em, in case any of ‘em trys to escape. Then they commenced firin’ into the camp! They didn’t have no chance! No chance at all!
“I was too sacred to do nothin’ but fire up in the trees. The young’uns-I could hear them cryin’ after the shootin’ stopped. Old Man Stackpole and that boy of his were walkin’ through what was left of the camp, an’ I seen Old Man Stackpole bend over like he was tyin’ his shoe, then I seen the knife in his hand. He washe was killin’ the young’uns, just like some injun! Then he comes up to me and hands me this shovel and says ‘Git to work, nigger!’
“I ended up diggin’ those poor folks graves. And he had me bury ‘em deep, on account that he didn’t want no animals scatterin’ their bones where anyone might find ‘em. After I finished buryin’ them, Old Man Stackpole looks me straight in the eye and he says, `If you ever tell anyone about this, nigger, I’m gonna kill you and that flock of pickaninnies you got’. So I kept what I’d seen and done to myself. I was scared that if I did say anything, folks would think I was just some crazy nigger and I’d still end up dead.
“But I couldn’t die with all that horrible truth trussed up in me. All that blood and sin-I couldn’t tell that to no preacher-man-not one young enough to be my grandson, leastwise. You know what Old Man Stackpole was like. You know I’m tellin’ you God’s own truth.”
Junius stared at the low ceiling of the sick room as if trying to decipher a message written in the rafters. Eunice noticed her grandfather’s hands were trembling. Somehow that frightened her far more than Ash’s talk of blood and sin. Junius drew in a deep breath and lowered his gaze. Ash’s brittle frame lay silent and unmoving, his yellowed eyes already glazing.
Eunice was suddenly aware of her grandfather watching her. She stood rigid in his gaze, the sweat soaking through her cotton dress. Their eyes locked and Eunice took her first step into the secret world of grown-ups.
“This never happened, you understand?” His voice was so hard. He didn’t sound like her grandfather anymore. “You didn’t hear a word.”
She nodded vigorously, her voice stolen by an unexpected rush of tears. For the first and only time in her life Eunice was frightened by the tall old man with the sharp blue eyes.
“Good lass.” Her grandfather rose from the deathbed and went into the front room, leaving her alone with Ash. Eunice watched as a fly landed on the dead man’s withered cheek and sipped the tears and sweat trapped in the folds of his skin. She was vaguely aware of Cordelia’s braying sobs, signaling that the official mourning could now begin. Was this what it was like to be grown-up? Knowing things others shouldn’t? Everything seemed so different now, viewed through the veil of secrets drawn about her.
They went home without the groceries that evening. Although Granny Lucille blessed him out three ways to Sunday, Grandpa Junius never explained what had happened that afternoon.
Later that night Ash’s shack caught fire and burned to the ground. Cordelia and her seven children, including the tiny little black boy who had summoned them to his great-great-grandfather’s deathbed, died in the blaze. Grandpa Junius commented that it was odd that Cordelia’s shanty could catch fire during the dead of summer, but said nothing else about the matter.
Two weeks later, Eunice’s mother went into labor. Unfortunately, the baby-a boy-became tangled in the umbilical cord and strangled. The doctor tried to remove the stillborn boy-child trapped inside her. Towards the end they were forced to dismember the unborn infant and remove it, piecemeal, from her womb. Three days after her second child’s aborted delivery, Eunice’s mother died of childbed fever.
Eunice’s father was distraught, and it was decided that Eunice would remain with her grandparents until he was capable of handling her. So summer lengthened, became Indian summer, turned into autumn, and Eunice was still living in Seven Devils.
000
The McQuistion’s land abutted that of the Stackpole’s. The massive white pillars of the Stackpole’s ancestral antebellum mansion-Sugar House-could be glimpsed through the grove of trees that separated their respective lots. One of the first things Eunice had been told never to do was wander onto the Stackpole’s property. Both Grandpa Junius and Granny Lucille had been adamant on the subject.
“You must never climb the fence in the north pasture, is that understood? The woods on the other side belong to Mr. Stackpole. And the Stackpole’s don’t take kindly to trespassers. I know for a fact he’s got traps set out there…”
“Junius! There’s no need to frighten the child!” Granny Lucille whispered. “There’s no need in the child losin’ a hand or a foot in one of Asa’s cursed man-traps, either!” he returned sharply. “Those woods are dangerous; understand, young lady?”
She understood. But simple understanding soon turned into curiosity, and it wasn’t long before she was sneaking over the fence into the Stackpole’s land. It was on one of these forbidden ventures into the neighboring property that she met Asa Stackpole’s firstborn son and heir, Enos.
In was early September and Eunice was wandering through the woods when she came upon a dead rabbit caught in a snare. The rabbit lay twisted and stiff in the grass, a thin loop of silver wire pulled so tight about its neck it had sliced through its fur. There was dried blood crusted about it mouth and nostrils. Both fascinated and repulsed, Eunice knelt to study the dead rabbit.
“Don’t touch that!”
Eunice gasped and turned around, surprised to find herself being watched by a boy dressed in brown wool knickerbockers and a matching vest and cap. He was twelve or so, with a spotty complexion, bad teeth, and nervous, watery eyes. Even though he was taller and heavier and a good six years older than her, Eunice couldn’t find it in her to be scared of the strange boy.
“Why not?”
“Because its ours.”
“Why do you want a dead bunny?”
The boy blinked, looking confused. Obviously no one had ever asked him such a question before. “Because its ours,” he repeated. “So don’t you go touchin’ it!”
Eunice stood up, hands on her hips. “Why would I want to touch your ol’ dead bunny, anyways?” she asked indignantly. “So who are you anyway, tellin’ me what to touch and what not to touch?”
“I’m a Stackpole! Enos Stackpole! Asa Stackpole’s my daddy! And you’re not supposed to be here! You’re trespassin’!”
“I’m not tres-tres-that word you said! I’m just walking through the woods!”
“Are not! You’re trespassin’! And trespassers ain’t supposed to touch nothin’ that belongs to us-which means the trees, flowers, rocks, animals and everything!”
“If that’s how you feel about it, you can just keep your stupid ol’ dead bunny!”
Before Enos could generate a reply, there was a bellowing sound from the direction of the Stackpole residence.
“Enos! Where the hell are you, boy?”
A look of pure terror crossed the boy’s face, helping Eunice decide that now was a good time to go home. As she ran towards the split rail fence that marked the division line of McQuistion and Stackpole territory, she looked over her shoulder in time to see Enos’ father emerge from the surrounding bramble, his face even redder than before, a leather strap clutched tightly in one hand.
“I told you to see to them chores, boy! When I tell you to do something, by damn, I expect it to be done!”
Enos turned his head and lifted one hand to fend away the blow he knew was soon to follow. The sight of his son cringing in front of him seemed to enrage Stackpole even more.
“Flinch away from me, will you? Well, by damn! I’ll sure as hell give you something to flinch about!”
“No, daddy! No! I’ll be good!”
“Who are you to be tellin’ me ‘no’, boy?”
Eunice grimaced in sympathy as the strap fell across the hapless boy’s shoulders, shaking her from her temporary paralysis. She was already over the fence and running as fast as she could in the direction of her grandparents’ house before Mr. Stackpole could land another blow.
Later that night, as her Grandpa Junius was tucking her into bed, Eunice brought up the subject of the Stackpoles for the first time since that hot summer afternoon in Ash’s shack.
“Grandpa-?”
“What is it, sweetness?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“I reckon so.”
“Why is Mr. Stackpole mean to his son?”
Grandpa Junius stopped smiling and gave her a funny look. “What do you mean, Eunie?”
“Why does he whup on him?”
“You saw Mr. Stackpole beat Enos?”
Eunice nodded, her manner very serious. “With a big ol’ leather strap, like the one my daddy uses to sharpen his razor!”
Grandpa Junius winced slightly and shook his head. “You saw this?”
“I saw them out in the woods. Mr. Stackpole was whippin’ Enos and yellin’ and cussin’ him out.”
“Eunice, you know you ain’t supposed to go near those woods…”
“I wasn’t,” she lied slightly. “I was on our side of the fence! But why is Mr. Stackpole mean like that?”
“Honey, I know this might be hard to understand, seein’ you’re so young. But some folks-well, some folks just seem to be born with a mean streak in ‘em. Asa Stackpole’s one of those kind of people. So was his daddy, who you’ve never met and never will, thank the Lord.”
“Was he always mean, Grandpa? Like he is now? Even as a baby?”
“I never knew Asa when he was a baby, but I’m willing to say he didn’t start off that way. When I first met him, he was eleven years old. Your granny and me, we’d come down from Memphis so’s I could work for Old Man Stackpole-Asa’s pappy.
“Old Man Stackpole was ornery as a bag full of rattlers. He wasn’t used to having white help-he got his start with slaves and he sure resented having to pay out wages. At first he treated me and the others he hired to help get Sugar House back on its feet like white niggers. He even took a buggy whip to one of the foremen who talked back to him! Although, as bad as we got it, I know his family must have got a whole lot worse.
“Although he paid us good, some of the workers had enough of Old Man Stackpole as they could stand and struck out on their own, taking their families and belongings with ‘em. They were going to head towards Ashley County and land jobs in the sawmill.” Grandpa Junius shook his head, smiling grimly. “Lord, was Old Man Stackpole mad when he found out! You’d think they were slaves turned rabbit!”
“Is that when he killed those people?”
The smile disappeared from his face and he fixed Eunice with a hard stare. “Child, don’t you ever tell anyone about that! Never ever, do you understand? Some things ain’t safe to know; leastwise, not in a town as small as Seven Devils.”
“But what about those people? The ones he and his daddy killed back then?”
“Sometimes its better to just let things lie, Eunice. I don’t expect you to understand all what I’m sayin’ to you. Ezra Stackpole died thirty years ago, but his son is still very much alive. And Asa Stackpole is a dangerous, bad man. Old men and little girls don’t mean a thing to him.”
000
Two weeks after Eunice saw Asa Stackpole beat his son, Granny Lucille decided it was time to start putting up preserves for the winter.
So Grandpa Junius took Eunice out to pick blackberries.
According to her grandfather, the best blackberries in all of Choctaw County could be found in the marshy brambles of the surrounding bayous. On the map, the names of the seven streams sounded arcane, even foreboding: Bayou Asmodeus, Bayou Astaroth, Bayou Baphomet, Bayou Beelzebub, Bayou Leviathan, Bayou Lucifer, and Bayou Mammon suggested dark, evil trees dripping Spanish moss, infested with owls and bats. In reality, they were simply seven interconnecting creeks that emptied into the nearby Mississippi River and, during the rainy season, contributed to the town’s continued isolation from the surrounding communities.
Eunice and her grandfather left the house that mild September afternoon, dressed in old clothes, wearing canvas gloves and rubber galoshes, carrying tin pails. It was such a nice day, Grandpa Junius decided to leave the mule in the barn, so they set out for the blackberry patch near Bayou Beelzebub on foot.
