Wicked Temper Part 2

"Nor his hired hands neither."

"There ye go."

"Hard to find a good whippin boy who farts when he's told. That's why he keeps a-runnin em off--"

"Don't he though. Heard young Tom won't drive fer him no more."

"Not no more."

"His own sonof.a.gun--"

"Daddy says folks was borned to pester Mr. Lych."

"Well--Buddy Doe Cutler was the last. You know, Tip Cutler's sprout. Worked fer him all Monday afternoon then took off fer the house. Doubt if he serviced more than Ewe Springs, reckon he never even got to yer place--"

J.Pea went cross-eyed and primped his spit curl. "Naw sir, reckon he lit out before then. And I ain't the one to blame him."

"It's ridiculous, really."

"What good's it to be the richest staggerb.u.m in these mountains, pert near, if ye cain't git n.o.body to work fer ya?"

"At least he's only half a haint," w.i.l.l.y said. n.o.body trusted a Lych, when they could catch one.

J.Pea took candy corn from a shelf, for big sisters Valjean and Gig to gamble with--parched peanuts from the water pan on the stove, for himself. Then the slender boy strode over to lean on the counter. He drew on the dark tobacco and sorghum warmth of the store. It was nice. You could feel the belly of the stove from here. w.i.l.l.y stepped on a stool and finished hanging some hametugs and tack above the canned goods. A grand thunderclap brought him back down. J.Pea sank onto the flour barrel, cracking goobers in his mouth.

"Yeah, Pap says if Sumner was a-hunert percent Lych he wouldn't need no money at all. Wouldn't bother to read nor write his own name an you'd nary see him fer more'n the time it takes fer him to disappear. Mr. Lych would jist live off that air up on ole Riddle Top. That's what Jake says."

"Sounds about right to me." w.i.l.l.y had wedged a yoke betwixt the hard candy canisters and the register; his rag was busy working in saddle soap. "What brings ye down this mornin?"

"Aw, Mama's outa chaw." He sat blankly, mincing nuts, staring out at the rain slas.h.i.+ng the pump and a road-river of mud. It was too bad; he'd sincerely wanted to coo with Lizzie. There'd been another caintrip in his sleep.

"Go fis.h.i.+n with yer sis last night?" w.i.l.l.y asked.

"Nope."

These spells, caintrips Granmammer called them, these departures took J.Pea more and more often, swept him farther afield with the seasons, the riper he grew. He was a three year old nip in burlap britches when he touched Lizzie's halter and she first whispered to him.

It was an icy Thanksgiving dawn. Mama tapping maples in Wier's Wood. Brilliant and clear, not like today, the memory was so strong it sent sudden mules.h.i.+vers through the manchild. w.i.l.l.y detected the tremor and paused his rag.

"Hear about lil Veda Talbot?" whispered Willie.

"Nuh-uh."

"Went missin from her crib evenin last. Mama Lou's hopin her ex done stole the babe."

"Oooh, mebbe so."

"Me thinks o'Tizzy..."

"Unnh, yeah...Tizzy..."

Something queer rumbled then, outside in the bleary gloom, they both looked--out into rain gusts, and J.Pea beheld such as he'd never seen. A sleek touring car, all black with quicksilver sliding long and low out of the pines, rising round the bend past the Livery. Slipping through a rainsquall, it veered from deep sloshy ruts, over to the gas pump. Behind the wheel, a jowly fellow in a Panama sat protected by the canvas cowl. The dude pulled his brake then looked in their direction: a face made milky by two layers of gla.s.s with much weeping in betwixt. J.Pea didn't know if they were visible to the man or not. w.i.l.l.y Bird nudged him.

Then the milky face moved, took the plunge. The man scampered out into the wet, wearing a creamy linen summer suit. He came running with a candyman grin, barging through the grey pellets. The door jangled, he shook his swagbelly and stomped on arrival. Larger somehow, once inside the store, this jack-a-dandy replanted the rosebud in his lapel. The muddy wingtips kept stomping, midget feet in two-tone cordovan and white.

"Hail the local gentry--" he said, one jowl was pocked in the gaslight. The other was not.

"Hidy doo," droned Will.

J.Pea began to nod and reflect the stranger's smile.

"Could eye-ther of you stallions direct me to downtown Cayuga Ridge?"

J.Pea held the man's gaze.

"Mister, yer a-standin in downtown Cayuga Ridge," he was heard to say.

"Do tell."

"It must be quite a shock."

"Oh no, son, not at all. Not at all. It's a pleasure to acquaint with such enlightened souls. A couple of young Lochinvars who know precisely where they persist."

J.Pea was almost sixteen. But w.i.l.l.y had a girl in middleschool; he was fresh-faced and young at heart--but no, this was not the point. The stranger wasn't looking at either when he addressed them. His eyes were roving the place, clipping over the murky stacks of cottonhull and high dark shelves.

"You lost beau? Need us to scratch ye a map?" asked a wary w.i.l.l.y.

"w.i.l.l.y, he cain't be lost. He says he was lookin fer us. I mean, fer the Ridge..."

"So precise, so very true..." the man turned back to them, finally, probing his watchpocket.

"Kin we help ya...somewheres...?" w.i.l.l.y insisted, his gape never swerving off the wet nelly.

"No. I find this place nouris.h.i.+ng, very safe, very hospitable. I ask fer a few minutes refuge from the element. Yes. These roads are treacherous. Yes, this will do. Nouris.h.i.+ng. Is it possible, perchance, I could negotiate a pickled egg from you, sir?"

"A pickled egg?" w.i.l.l.y blinked.

"You betcha--and a dime's worth of crackers."

This tickled J.Pea. He slid off the barrel and cleared the stranger's way. w.i.l.l.y unscrewed the lid.

"What stripe is that buggy mister?"

"Buggy--?"

"Yer cha.s.sis out h'yere, ain't never seen the like."

"That, young man, is a Strand Excelsior cou-pee. I inherited it from my maiden aunt. She raised me, not far from here, she fostered me from the tender age of three. Auntie always believed that if something was giving you a problem in life, try depriving it of food for forty-eight hours. Got any pepper?"

A nervous snort ripped from J.Pea's nose. Eyes agog, w.i.l.l.y shuffled for a word.

"No matter." From the linen breast pocket came a silver-pheasant pepper shaker.

Crash. The anvil thundered outside, the door blew open, J.Pea hurried over to latch it back. "Well it's a pure beauty," he said, over his shoulder, "yer buggy, I mean. I'm J.Pea Shea. Live up Coffin Holler."

Pus.h.i.+ng his hat back, the man peppered his egg and took J.Pea's place on the barrel.

"Gabin Bane. I do confess, I'm daunted by your keen perception," he chomped the egg, twice, then it was gone. Extending forth a pinkish paw, dainty fingerstubs, he shook J.Pea's hand on return. Mr. Bane let his thick tongue swab the eggy recesses for a moment, then popped a cracker. He gave w.i.l.l.y a challenging glance. This stranger wasn't moving.

A twist of ap.r.o.n string, and w.i.l.l.y flushed red.

"Well...sure...nothin wrong with you settin a spell. The rain'll let up." Something faltered in strawheaded w.i.l.l.y's good cheer. J.Pea couldn't figure it. This wasn't like his cousin at all. Meanwhile, Bane's mushy hand kept milking J.Pea's like a heifer's t.i.t.

"And you, my fair patron--are you the infamous Wilfred Gottswinger Birdnell?"

w.i.l.l.y scratched, blinked, just a hiccup in his eversweet nature. Nothing more. "I am, heh, that I am."

At this, w.i.l.l.y began to cackle.

And that's what unnerved J.Pea. He took back his hand.

"Have you any lager?"

"Lager," w.i.l.l.y pondered. "You want lager."

Mr. Bane rose and made a wide sweep of the room, forcing J.Pea to seek a chair by the stove.

"No, your bill of fare is more frivolous, how dim of me. Why not a sarsaparilla, a seltzer with lime possibly...?"

"We got soft cider."

"...or a fountain drink with maraschino cherry?"

"We got Big Red. An Co-Coler."

"Sell me a bottle of this Big Red."

While w.i.l.l.y uncapped a strawberry soda, J.Pea danced his doc maertins on the kettle-black surface of the woodstove. He felt sleepy. You could hear bootsoles a-sizzling as he leaned back on the chair's hindlegs and surveyed Mr. Bane with a dopey sneer.

"Not many Banes left in these parts. And all them er still poorfolk." He watched the stout man tip his Big Red. "Use to be more."

A nod, another swill of strawberry and another cracker down the sluice.

"More Banes, I mean. Still a couple up the County. Reckon they kin to ya." He yawned.

"Hmmm, that could be. True to tell..."

True to tell.

True to tell.

True to tell.

But true to tell fell down the well.

J.Pea saw the leeside of a hominy can, a dark file of #2 hominy cans, light coming through their cracks. Beyond he could see the c.o.c.ked heels of w.i.l.l.y Bird's shoes. Giant golashes. Sniffing around, he left tiny cobwebbed prints as he skittered along the dusty shadow and slipped through a c.h.i.n.k in the baseboard. There were voices m.u.f.fling, the scent of men. And another.

"Diddy, I don't wan no gumbaw--"

It was Lucrice Jackson. In the arms of her pa, Newburn. Here they came through the door, soaking wet, and J.Pea was back. Newburn was town constable and he coached Intramural Sports for the school during sessions. Lucrice was his youngest, about four this year.

J.Pea swung his head.

"Hey there, Newburn. Lucy--"

"J.Pea. Hey, Will." Wielding a collapsed umbrella, he tossed it by the pop bottle cases. "d.a.m.n ole umbreller of Mammaw's weren't never good fer nothin..."

Mr. Bane seemed put out by their intrusion; he s.h.i.+ed over to the stove with his last cracker. They had evidently made the dash from Miss Rebekah's house. Lucrice's mama was Miss Rebekah's niece and they all lived fitfully with her.

"My goodness Newburn, we got to dry y'all out." w.i.l.l.y came around the counter, took the little girl from those sinewy arms and set her by the till, right where the yoke had been. She was small for her age with black bangs.

"Lucy, do you want a licorice?" asked w.i.l.l.y.

"Nome."

"Do you want ye a all-day sucker, then?"

"Nome."

"Lucrice, honey..." sparked Newburn, shaking out his slicker. "How bout a gumball? That's what I promised her. Need a box of 30-30's fer myself..."

"Nome. Ain't good gumbaw."

"...if ya would, Will." Newburn left the coatpeg. "That's naw sir, honey, not no ma'am."

Smelling some insult, w.i.l.l.y Bird began to frown, handing over a blanket to rub her down.

"What's she mean--my gumb.a.l.l.s ain't good--?"

"Aw, Will--" Newburn toweled off the nubbin of a girl, special attention to the ears. "She ate two dozen yesterdy. I believe you peddled em to my in-laws."

"Oh," w.i.l.l.y said. "I seem to recollect somethin of that woof."

"I figured ye might."

"Gee, Newburn, they'll rot the teeth from her head."

"I jist bet they will. Made my mornin vows fer one, one gumball, only one," he slit his eyes at w.i.l.l.y. "And now she don't want that. You git the picture, Will."