Postmark Bayou Chene (34 page)

Something sharp poked her between the shoulders. Her surprised yelp broke through the feigned unconsciousness.

“Gonna have some gator chunks ready in a minnit,” her captor said, followed by more panting. “Might's well keep your strength up, since you gonna be here the rest of yo' natural life. My name's Pank, and I know you're Miz Loyce Snellgrove, blind girl from Bayou Chene. Blind girl that's gonna keep ol' Pank company for a good long time.”

He started wheezing and repeated, “A good long time.”

Loyce sat up on the side of the bed but said nothing. Listening seemed to be the better choice. First she had to calm her pounding heart so she could hear him.

“I figured it ought not make no never mind to you what a man looks like,” he huffed. “And it ain't like you was ever going to see the sights, so to speak, or even be missed very much. But for me you'll do jus' fine. I been needing me a pot washer and a ball licker, and you don't need to see to handle either one of them chores. Yo' daddy, he'll be jest as glad to be rid of you, probly, and Bayou Chene'll git along just fine with one less net maker. They won't even be looking for you long.”

He wheezed off into a laugh and then continued.

“You ain't even my first choice. I had my eye on that little yellerheaded gal with them shiny dresses. I like me a woman what can dress. Used to watch her all the time, especially after she had that young'un and used to pull that titty out for the world to admire. I thought I had her that day she and that runt rocked overboard. Would have been so easy for me to let him drown and then fish her out. See, everbody woulda thought they both drowned and never woulda even wondered about not finding her body. Well, she fooled me first by somehow getting back up to the deck. I was considering whether to just go on over there and pull her into my boat before she knew what was happening, but then that old busybody had to show up with her baby.”

More wheezing. Pondering his loss? Trying to catch his breath? Loyce couldn't tell.

“But you's better anyways since I'd had to keep an eye on that one all the time. She'd been more trouble than she's worth. Many's the time I heard that mouth going on and on whiles I was watching.”

The reference to C.B. gave Loyce an idea. How many times had she laughed at C.B.'s outrageous stories of encounters with unsavory circumstances? The bluff, the brash talk that had helped her skirt danger and turn events to her advantage. Loyce sucked in air to steady herself and project her voice with authority.

“I might not be able to see what a man looks like, but how he smells is mighty important to a woman, particularly a blind woman. If you treat me like a coonhound, you'll have to watch where you put your hands 'cause you just might get bit. But if you treat me like a lady, I could make life mighty sweet for you.”

She couldn't believe the words came out of her mouth! It sounded just like something C.B. would say.

“Whoohoo, look who's got a tongue in her head.” Pank slapped a hand on something, maybe his thigh, and a wave of stench floated through the cabin. “Don't expect me to be jawing with you alla time, Miss Priss. I ain't used to it and don't truck with it.”

“If you want some female company, you'll have to get used to it,” she replied with more spirit than she felt. “That's part of the bargain between a man and a woman.”

Bargain? Now that sounded more like Roseanne! She had even added a sniff, to accentuate her moral superiority over her listener.

“What bargain? I ain't making no bargain!” His retort dragged out on another wheeze. “You gonna do what I say, and no bargain into it.”

Despite the threat, Loyce thought she detected a hint of interest in his voice. He liked being referred to as part of a pair. A man and a woman, him and her. She pushed down the sour taste in her throat and forged ahead. If she could just keep him talking! Maybe she could convince him to bring her home. Perhaps she could persuade him she would never be able to identify him. He might believe the lie.

“As for the romance you have in mind, you can bet your rank underwear that taking the time to procure my full cooperation will be to our mutual benefit. That means you'll court me like a lady. You'll bathe and wear clean clothes.”

Now that sounded like something Roseanne would say in C.B.'s voice. The effect on Pank was not what she had hoped.

“Like hell I will!” he spluttered, and a crash that could have been a chair turning over drowned out the rest of the words.

He stumped across the room, and she counted the steps, four. The room was even smaller than she had estimated. She held her breath against the rotten tooth smell. He was either very short—not even as tall as she—or he was bending over. She couldn't say right then what difference it would make, but she wanted to find out.

As if to ward him off, her hand grasped the collar of her jacket, Roseanne's worsted one with the double row of military buttons. As she expected, he clamped a hand over her wrist. He was short, extraordinarily short. In fact, standing up, he seemed to be the same height as she was sitting on the side of the bed! He must be a dwarf? Or a midget? She had heard the words but had no frame of reference about the difference between them.

She could discern that he had the most powerful grip she had ever felt. Just like her senses of hearing, touch, and smell were highly developed, extraordinary muscle strength might compensate for his lack of stature. Was there a way this new information could work in her favor?

Loyce thrust out her chin. Despite the proximity of his reeking mouth, she sniffed once more for good measure and pushed on with Roseanne's haughtiness.

“I'm a young woman, and I can tell from your voice you are not an old man,” she spoke, as if she already held the high hand. “We could be together a long time. You might well be right that neither of us could reasonably expect better in life. So, we might as well make the most of our lot. If you will meet me halfway, I'll make every effort to be a good woman for you. Make a list of what you expect from me, and I'll do the same.”

Order. That's right—make order out of this chaos, she told herself. That's what Roseanne would do. If nothing else, it could buy her some time.

“What you mean, make a list? Even if I could write, who'd read my list? Not you for damn sure!” He broke off into laughter that turned into wheezing again.

Did he have a breathing problem that she could use to her advantage? She must keep him talking and moving around the cabin. It was the only way for her to learn anything.

“I guess you got me there, Mr. Pank,” she admitted. “Unless it's in braille, I can't read a thing.”

“What you mean by
braille
?”

“It's a way of writing using raised dots on paper. Just for blind people.”

“Well, maybe you'll just have to show me how to do that, in case I need to make you a list!” he said. “And I ain't Mr. Pank. Just Pank. Pank Neeley.”

“Neeley? O'Lamp Neeley's family?”

“She was my ma.” Pank's voice rose over the sound of the sizzling where he was turning the chunks of alligator meat.

“You must be the one who disappeared years ago. You shot a woman.”

“Wasn't my fault. I was aiming at that no-good man she was walking out with on a Sunday. They was just too far away, and I missed. There was talk about calling in the law for a trial and all, but I didn't stand for that. I just took off. Went to Texas for a while, but that place is too dry. Missed my swamp. Came back here a few years ago—can't rightly say how many. I keep up with the doings around the post office by peeking through the brush from the Indigo Island side. So swampy no one even
looks
that way—they so used to not seeing nothing there. I can keep up with pert near ever'thing. Like when you come back from that school. And when that pretty yeller-haired thing came along. I keep my eye out.”

“What about your mama?” Loyce forged ahead, willing the conversation forward. “Don't you know she grieved for you until she died? And that you have a fine little nephew named Wuf? Wouldn't it be better just to show yourself and see what happens? So much time has passed—maybe no one would ever say anything, or if they did, the law might rule it was an accident?”

“Not s'long as Lurleen's family is still around there. I s'pose they are, huh?”

“Yes, but no one ever talks about it. That was so long ago.” Loyce tried changing the subject from dead women, wishing now that she hadn't brought it up. She cast around for a cheerier topic.

“What about those alligator chunks you were bragging about? I was just fixing to eat when you yanked me out of my kitchen. Haven't had a bite since breakfast. What time is it, anyway?”

“Don't you worry about the time, Missy. Old Pank knows when it's time to eat and time to sleep, and I'll tell you when.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard all year. “Here's you some of the gator chunks. Ain't what you used to, I know, 'cause I smell your daddy's cooking drifting over the water. But it's good enough for old Pank, so it's good enough for Pank's woman, ain't that so, Missy?”

With that he shoved a tin plate against her chest. She raised her hands to take it, but it was no longer there. Pank fell into another wheezing bout of laughter.

“What's wrong with you, Miss Priss? Can't even catch a tin plate sitting in front of you? You gotta be quick to get ahead of old Pank.”

Loyce knew anger would get her nowhere she wanted to be.

“You are a quick one, that's for sure. Now help me to a chair and table where I can eat properly.”

“Ain't got no table, but this here chair'll give you somewhere to prop, and you can just eat in your lap like I do. Ain't missed a meal yet, table or no.”

Loyce stretched out a hand in his direction, and this time he pulled her to her feet and steered her two steps, where her leg bumped into the chair. She felt along its ladder back and frayed bottom of cane. She settled gingerly and held her hands out again for the plate. He thrust the pan within her reach.

“There's some fried dough in there, too, in case you want to sop up some of the dripping.”

Loyce felt around the lumps trying to distinguish dough from meat. Finally, deciding it didn't matter, she picked up one and brought it to her mouth. It was hot and greasy, too stringy to be the dough. The chunk of meat took a quantity of chewing before it was broken down enough to swallow, but it didn't taste as bad as she expected. Not so different from the breast of a worn-out old hen culled for dumplings. In fact, with proper seasoning and cooking, this plate of dough and meat could have been made into a decent pot of dumplings. She said as much.

“Gator dumplings! Who ever heard of such a thing?” Pank chortled. “I open me a can of tomatoes or beans now and then. That's as fancy as old Pank gets, so you might's well get used to it.”

He seemed eager to stretch everything into talk. That was in her favor. Maybe she could entice some information he wouldn't normally give away to a prisoner.

“How do you live?” she asked in what she hoped was a normal conversational tone. “Surely someone knows where you are?”

“No way no one knows where I am. I got me one main trail off the 'Chafalaya that no one ever notices. Just pull my boat up there behind some buttonwood bushes and walk through the woods to my camp. Got me more little trails off the other bayous running along this boggy island. Each one of them trails got a little dugout pirogue tucked up there, looking just like a log to anyone who would see it. Sometimes I can paddle almost to my cabin down one or the other of them trails. Other times I got to walk and tote.”

“But how do you live?” she persisted, lost in talk of trails she couldn't see, geography she couldn't imagine. That kind of information wouldn't help her.

“I kill me some gators, boil out the oil, and skin 'em out. Tan 'em, eat the meat. When I need other grub—like them tomatoes and beans—I take them hides and oil out to the river and tie up 'longside the next likely steamboat heading upstream. Go on board and find someone to trade with. Sometimes it's for money, sometimes for groceries and coal oil. No one ever asks who I am or where I come from.

“Most of 'em think I'm Injun under all this gator grease and soot. They say all kinds of things in front of me they wouldn't think of saying in front of a white man. Yessir. I'll just sit by their stove and make a cup of coffee last a hour or more on a cold night. You'd be surprised what all I hear from up and down the river. When I'm ready to go, it's all downstream to home.”

“What do you mean, you hear stuff?”

It was evident now that Pank, indeed, was yearning for an audience. He probably didn't run across many people in a week, or a year, who listened to him. While Loyce wasn't interested in his gossip, she needed to keep him talking. She settled in to nod and murmur as long as necessary, buying time to plan her way out.

Pank's wheezing voice droned on as night sounds of the deep woods settled around the cabin. Of all the scandals he passed along, Loyce filed away only two stories to tell again if she got back home. When she got back home.

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