The Murderer Vine (15 page)

“What evil spirits?”

His hands slid over the ends of the rocking chair arms. His palms began rubbing them in a slow, circular movement.

“Spirits in de swamp.”

“Do people believe in that?”

“Oh, yes. People goin’ in de swamp fo’ deer or alligator they come to me fust. Ah lets ’em rub it. It keeps ’em from gettin’ snakebit. Ah charges fifty cents an’ it works. Ah knows it works ’cause Ah has no complaints. But de othuh conjure men, they gets complaints. Theah’s Melvin Robinson, ovah to Gaines Creek. Theah’s Dorothy Baker, she’s only eighty-fo’, she sells love simples. An’ down to Okalusa, back of Morgan’s Fun’ral Parlor, theah is Preacher Eugene. He blesses with the prayers of the Lord Jesus, but Ah don’t hold with that atall.”

“Why not?”

“ž’Cause mah simples got African power, an’ that am de best. Theah’s plenty othuh conjure people ’sides those three, but Ah am de best. Mr. Morgan, he used to play ‘round heah when he was a baby an’ his daddy was a good friend to me, but he went to France in ‘fo’ty-fo’ an’ when he come back wid de Bronze Star he got too uppity an’ one night he was lynched. Mr. Morgan promised me a real good fun’ral, better’n mah burial society, an’ he say, regardless what the preacher might say, he bury mah conjure things wid me.”

“What does the jug mean?”

He rubbed the rocking chair for a few seconds. He looked at me with a mocking smile. “That’s nothin’. That’s jus’ pretty to look at.”

The tape ran on. Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

“You wastin’ your tape, mister.”

“Your pay goes on.”

I stood up and fingered the swamp charm. I tapped the hanging snail shells. They banged against the wall.

“You interested in de swamp, looks lahk.”

I said nothing. I fingered the jawbone.

“That from a cottonmouth. He bigges’ one Ah ever saw.”

“Did you get all these yourself?”

He didn’t respond. “You plannin’ on goin’ in de swamp?”

“I might have to.”

“Nobody to talk to in theah.”

I shrugged.

“You want good luck?”

I dug out half a dollar.

“Put it on de table, boss.”

I put it on the table. He put it in his pocket.

“Now, you jus’ run yo’ finger ovah ever’thin’ in that charm, an’ don’t miss none, ’cause that spile the charm.”

I did what he said. I put my heart in it. “Yessuh, that’ll do it, that’ll do it!” He laughed that rich, dark, phony black laughter they use only for white men.

“Mr. Gardiner.”

The laughter still went on. “You won’t be et by an alligator, or bitten by a cottonmouth, or — ”

“You’re too old to Uncle Tom it, Mr. Gardiner.”

The laughter stopped short.

“Turn that thing off,” he said. I switched it off.

“Yo’re damn right Ah’m too old. Ah’m ninety-two or ninety-three, I fergit when Ah was born. You heavy, son, you press me inside.” He put his hand over his chest. “Ah gives you de ol’ darky talk ’cause ’at’s safe. But Ah don’t have to do that no more.”

“That’s right, Mr. Gardiner.”

“You come into my house an’ you done took off yo’ hat. You de fust white man evah to do that. You calls me mistuh an’ not uncle. An’ Ah c’n tell you means it an’ you ain’t aimin’ to sell me nothin’. What you after?”

“I want to know who killed those three boys.”

“You know they was heah?”

I nodded.

“You know they was heah an’ de sheriff heard ’bout it an’ drove up an’ came into mah house an’ tole ’em to leave Milliken County by sundown?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“An’ Thomas, one of de black boys, he from Syracuse, he tole de sheriff to git off mah property because they had done no crime an’ Ah hadn’t invited him in. An’ when he say that, Ah was as much surprised as you would be if Ah was to pick up this lamp here on de table an’ throw it at your head. An’ that ole sheriff, he turned red like a turkey cock an’ he drove off. A black boy tole him to git! He made me so proud! Ah ain’t a shoutin’ man, but he make me so proud Ah could jus’ shout way ovah de highest hill you c’n see.”

“And then?”

“An’ then de white boy — he calls me Mr. Gardiner too — and de two black ones, they laugh an’ laugh. An’ they decide to go down to de river an’ cotch a passel o’ catfish an’ cook ’em later. They drove away to de river an’ that’s de last I seen on ’em, to this day.”

I let out my breath.

“You’re sure they’re dead?”

“Ah’m sure. You fixin’ to do somethin’ ’bout it?”

“Mr. Gardiner, as you know, I’m only a speech expert.”

He sailed ahead like the
Queen Elizabeth
riding over a rowboat.

“Now, there’s Mr. Isaiah Thomas, he lives mebbe a quahtah mile down de road from Ryerson. Ryerson, he pretty old to be ridin’ ’round Milliken County in a bed-sheet. But thutty, fo’ty years ago he used to be pretty spry. Now, Mr. Thomas, he heahs three, fo’ cars turnin’ in to Ryerson’s place ’bout three in de mawnin’. Ryerson ain’t sociable. He don’t lahk no one. Mr. Thomas, he go out and walk down de road. After a while they all come out of de house an’ go to de melon patch with a flashlight an’ then they all go back to de house an’ then drive away. Now that ain’t much, you say. People like melons, they go git some. ’Specially when they gits ’em de same night de boys went fishin’. ’Pears to me effen Ah was you, Ah might feel a hankerin’ fo’ a big juicy slice of melon. Ah jus’ might.”

I said nothing.

“Do you know when I can visit Mr. Thomas?”

A strange look came over him. I realized that he now was seriously regretting being so open. It was the easy money, the courtesy, and the feeling that I was a white who wanted to do something. He had temporarily forgotten that whites were not to be trusted; and that, even if I were an exception, I might start something official in which he would be swept up helplessly.

“Mr. Thomas?”

He was playing for time while he planned how to get out of it. I’ve often seen the same look on stool pigeons who were willing to talk some but not too much.

“Mr. Thomas,” I said patiently.

“Mebbe you bettah not see him.”

“I could say I’ve talked with you.”

Yes, he was probably thinking, your big ofay mouth could get both of us into serious trouble; you’re down here for a few days and we have to spend our lives here.

“Mr. Thomas would be ’fraid Mr. Ryerson would see you, an’ Mr. Ryerson owns Mr. Thomas’ land. ’Sides, de white folks would git to talkin’ ’bout you seein’ me an’ seein’ him.”

I didn’t want to push him anymore. It was clear that he had gone as far in that direction as he would go.

I nodded and stood up.

“You goin’ to see Mr. Thomas?”

“No, I don’t think I need to.”

A wave of relief swept over his face. I gave him five dollars. As I was packing up the Kim, he felt apologetic.

“You wants to know ’bout de brown jug?”

“Yes.”

“That is a shrine of Oya.”

“Oya?”

“Oya is de Goddess of Death. Ah’ll git her a new necklace in town. She might want to look nice befo’ she steps out.”

I got in the car and drove away. I felt as if I were trying to run across a field covered with two feet of molasses.

I was getting mad at the slow approach I had to make to everything. I’d never had to look for murderers when I left the police. It was always adulterers or swindlers or con men or missing persons. Sort of safe. I wanted to get all this over with, and here I was, taking careful little dance steps in front of Old Man Mose, as if we were some kind of birds in a mating ritual. He had not felt much like joining me. He was interested, that was all. No, that wasn’t it. He was very much interested, but not enough to get up and waltz around the dance floor with me.

But I would have to be careful. There would have to be a lot more careful spinning of fine wires all over the county. To each wire I would tie a little wooden float. And then I would wait to see which one bobbed down. I would have to go around setting my lines and making sure I would have an easily handled fish under the float that was bobbing. Not an alligator. The country was full of alligators. You could get killed with alligators. I preferred it the other way round.

I parked at the curb and dragged out the recorder. I climbed the stairs up to the porch slowly. I went down the hall and then began to go up the staircase. I liked the smell of cooking that hung over the stairs. I suppose the old carpet covering the stairs had been absorbing all the food smells that had ever come out of the kitchen. There was fried chicken and ham hocks and black-eyed peas and pork roasts and catfish and corn sticks woven into that carpet. I took a deep breath just as Mrs. Garrison came out of the kitchen and looked upwards at me.

“Good smells, Mrs. Garrison.”

She beamed.

“My, my,” she said, “doesn’t that machine get awful heavy?”

“It sure does.”

“Now you set that thing right down there on the landin’ an’ come down for coffee, y’ hear?”

She went back into the kitchen. I set it down and went downstairs, flexing my fingers. I was going to play the serious scholar.

A tall glass of iced coffee waited for me on the kitchen table. I sat down and sipped it. She had a big old electric fan mounted on a wide windowsill. It swung slowly back and forth and made a sleepy hum that I liked. It was very relaxing just to sit there after the heat of the back roads, listening to the fan and her amiable gossip.

“You what?” I asked.

“I said, I never heard a tape recorder, Mr. Wilson.” I went upstairs and brought it down. I started it at Old Man Mose. I might get an interesting reaction from her. Old Man Mose began to tell the story of the man who died and went to heaven.

Her mouth turned sour.

“That’ll be Ol’ Man Mose,” she said. Her hand made a wiggling motion of distaste. I kept the tape running a little while longer, but when I saw she was not interested, I shut it off.

“He’s a
bad
man,” she said.

“Him?” I faked all the incredulity I could muster. I was the wide-eyed innocent, believing all people were basically good. “That nice old man?”

Mr. Garrison came in with a surprised expression. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I could’ve sworn I heard Ol’ Man Mose in here — ”

“Mr. Wilson has him talkin’ heah on his machine.”

He let out a breath.

“You talked to that ole devil?”

“Sure,” I said. “A very nice, amusing old man, I thought.”

“ž‘Ole man’ is all I’ll go along with you with, Mr. Wilson. He’s a hard man, an’ I’ve seen the niggers shake hands with the minister after church on Sundays an’ then head straight for his house an’ come out with love potions an’ worse. They’re all a mite scared of him. Once in a while people who offend him, they jus’ take to their beds an’ lose weight an’ stop eatin’. When the doctor can’t help them, they send to Ol’ Man Mose an’ maybe he’ll take off the curse an’ maybe he won’t. It gen’rally costs plenty. But when he gets money, people get better. Sometimes I think it’s poison he gives ’em, ’an sometimes I think he really puts on a curse. He must have a lot of money buried somewhere under the floor of his house. He don’t use the bank at all.”

“You seem to know him well.”

“He an’ my dad grew up together. They were born practically the same month. They ate together in the kitchen. Ol’ Man Mose’s mother was our cook. The boys swam together an’ stole watermelons an’ pecans together an’ went fishin’ together. An’ my father told me somethin’; it’s true for me an’ if you live here long enough, you’ll find it’s true for you. It’s like this: Equality isn’t safe. Now you take Ol’ Man Mose. He loved my father an’ my father loved him. My father remembered him in his will. But if my father had taken him into his family and raised him like a white man, he’d a murdered my father in three days. They always do just that when you get to favorin’ ’em.”

“Al!” Mrs. Garrison said suddenly. “The card!”

“What card?”

She pulled out the kitchen drawer. It was filled with pens, old bottles of dried ink, bills, bank statements, and old greeting cards. She rummaged through it and tossed something on the table. He read it aloud.

The Chickasaw River Country Club requests the pleasure of your company for a dance, to be held Saturday, August
27. 8:30
p.m. R.S.V.P.

“Now, Al,” she said, “that jus’ came in the mail this mornin’. We never go, but that nice Mrs. Wilson, I thought she’d love to go. We’d get you in ’stead of us as our guests. Now that would give me much pleasure, Mr. Wilson.”

It would give me a lot of pleasure, too. What we had been lacking was circulation among the upper classes. Acceptance by them would gain me some more respect — maybe some resentment — among the poorer people. But any suspicion about me would be deflected when they’d hear about me at the country club. So I said I’d be delighted. I called Kirby and she came downstairs with her eyes sparkling at the news.

“Now you wait right here. I’ll call Rich Cravens. He’s the club secretary.” She dialed while Kirby played the thrilled young housewife.

“Richard? We’re fine, thanks. Yes, we got the invitation, but we’re not goin’. Now, Richie, you know we’re gettin’ too old, but we’d like to give our invitation to a nice young couple stayin’ with us. He’s a professor an’ Mrs. Wilson’s a nice girl from Georgia.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “He says he heard about you... Why, thank you, Richie!”

She hung up and beamed. “He says he’ll be delighted!” Kirby hugged her. I excused myself and went upstairs to take a shower.

Things were moving well in that direction. I put on my pajamas, spread the sheets on the couch, and picked up a fifteen-dollar book on regional English dialect transformation. I was too tense to sleep. I never took sleeping pills or tranquilizers. I was finding out that books on obscure dialects had the same effect. After a few minutes I dropped the book on the rug and turned out the lamp on the end table.

In a few minutes Kirby came in quietly and tiptoed across the room. I heard the shower running. I tried to make my mind a blank, but I could just see the water running over her breasts and down her flat stomach. Her skin would have a golden light full of high spots because of the soap and water.