shoes on.
Roach bent over Pearl’s bed to check on her. He wouldn’t touch her, though. The day before she’d wheezed like her throat was squoze nearly shut, fightin’ for ever breath. Right at that minute, she musta been doin’ better because she wasn’t wheezin’. He thought about rousin’ her up to let her know they were leavin’ but that woulda meant touchin’ her. He justified passin’ on it, convincing hisself she needed the sleep. It didn’t take much convincing. He’d even gone to sleepin’ on a makeshift palette on the floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of wakin’ up to find she’d passed in the night while layin’ next to him. The physical discomfort of the floor wasn’t nearly as great as the thought of layin’ next to a flat-eyed, slack-jawed corpse all night. He stirred up the near-dead embers in the pot-bellied stove and put on a couple more little sticks. He closed the stove door and saw Lootie was dressed, her chin resting on her chest.
“Hey!” he whispered harshly.
“Huh?” Her head snapped up.
“You ready?”
“For what?” she said through a yawn. Then, “I’m hongry.”
“Quiet down. We ain’t got th’time now. We’ll eat later on.”
Scratching her head, she looked at the stove and noticed the pan he’d fixed his eggs. “You et. How come I can’t?”
“I thought I’s bein’ good lettin’ ya sleep ‘n then ya try t’make me feel bad for it. I’m sorry, maybe I shoulda woke y’up, but we ain’t got the time now. You’ll eat later at th’nice lady’s house. She’s fixin’ somethin’ good. Come on now, let’s go!” He pushed her to get up and then out the door into the dew-dripping morning.
All Lootie had on was her thin little dress, underpants, holey socks, and worn-out shoes. She noticed Roach was all bundled up tight in a coat buttoned nearly to his neck with the collar turned up and his hands in the pockets. “I’m cold,” she said, crossing her stick-thin arms to her chest and scrunchin’ up.
“Walk faster. That’ll getcha goin’.”
Cob had also been up since before daybreak, making preparations for the big doin’s. For one thing, she had some baking to do. It was gonna be a busy day, and she’d brewed a cup of strong, dark tea to help get her sluggish blood pushin’ through her veins. She was sittin’ on a three-legged stool lookin’ out the shack’s one greasy, wiggly-paned window, one leg over the other, nervously wagglin’ her ugly foot.
There were shelves on the walls with various sized bottles and jars. Some of ’em had seeds, and others, beans. Gnarled, rooty lookin’ stuff. Critter innards. One had a two-headed terrapin. It looked spooky. That was the intent. She even had a cracked crystal ball stuck in a box somers. It was all foofoo, circus sideshow stuff, meant to impress the easily impressed. Of all her possessions, though, her favorites were the well-worn books stacked up in the corner; thirty-five, maybe forty of ’em, and when business was slow, which was mostly what it was, they helped pass the time.
She took a sip from the chipped china cup and looked over her shoulder. She already had one visitor layin’ in bed and was expectin’ six more before long. Two of ’em bein’ the jittery fella who’d come sneakin’ around, tail-tucked and ears down, and the little girl he’d promised to bring with him. All her thoughts had been on that little girl. Cob wasn’t motherly. In fact, she didn’t like children a’tall—too noisy and too needy—but she was lookin’ for’ard to seein’ this’n. She took another sip and looked out the dirty window, thinkin’ the nubbly-faced fool claimin’ t’ be her father was far too simpleminded to make up the stories he’d told. Other than the one about the child belonging to a brother goin’ through hard times. She saw through that one as easy as the sun through a lace curtain.
But the one about the child bein’ cut from the fresh-dead womb of a
Roach bent over Pearl’s bed to check on her. He wouldn’t touch her, though. The day before she’d wheezed like her throat was squoze nearly shut, fightin’ for ever breath. Right at that minute, she musta been doin’ better because she wasn’t wheezin’. He thought about rousin’ her up to let her know they were leavin’ but that woulda meant touchin’ her. He justified passin’ on it, convincing hisself she needed the sleep. It didn’t take much convincing. He’d even gone to sleepin’ on a makeshift palette on the floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of wakin’ up to find she’d passed in the night while layin’ next to him. The physical discomfort of the floor wasn’t nearly as great as the thought of layin’ next to a flat-eyed, slack-jawed corpse all night. He stirred up the near-dead embers in the pot-bellied stove and put on a couple more little sticks. He closed the stove door and saw Lootie was dressed, her chin resting on her chest.
“Hey!” he whispered harshly.
“Huh?” Her head snapped up.
“You ready?”
“For what?” she said through a yawn. Then, “I’m hongry.”
“Quiet down. We ain’t got th’time now. We’ll eat later on.”
Scratching her head, she looked at the stove and noticed the pan he’d fixed his eggs. “You et. How come I can’t?”
“I thought I’s bein’ good lettin’ ya sleep ‘n then ya try t’make me feel bad for it. I’m sorry, maybe I shoulda woke y’up, but we ain’t got the time now. You’ll eat later at th’nice lady’s house. She’s fixin’ somethin’ good. Come on now, let’s go!” He pushed her to get up and then out the door into the dew-dripping morning.
All Lootie had on was her thin little dress, underpants, holey socks, and worn-out shoes. She noticed Roach was all bundled up tight in a coat buttoned nearly to his neck with the collar turned up and his hands in the pockets. “I’m cold,” she said, crossing her stick-thin arms to her chest and scrunchin’ up.
“Walk faster. That’ll getcha goin’.”
Cob had also been up since before daybreak, making preparations for the big doin’s. For one thing, she had some baking to do. It was gonna be a busy day, and she’d brewed a cup of strong, dark tea to help get her sluggish blood pushin’ through her veins. She was sittin’ on a three-legged stool lookin’ out the shack’s one greasy, wiggly-paned window, one leg over the other, nervously wagglin’ her ugly foot.
There were shelves on the walls with various sized bottles and jars. Some of ’em had seeds, and others, beans. Gnarled, rooty lookin’ stuff. Critter innards. One had a two-headed terrapin. It looked spooky. That was the intent. She even had a cracked crystal ball stuck in a box somers. It was all foofoo, circus sideshow stuff, meant to impress the easily impressed. Of all her possessions, though, her favorites were the well-worn books stacked up in the corner; thirty-five, maybe forty of ’em, and when business was slow, which was mostly what it was, they helped pass the time.
She took a sip from the chipped china cup and looked over her shoulder. She already had one visitor layin’ in bed and was expectin’ six more before long. Two of ’em bein’ the jittery fella who’d come sneakin’ around, tail-tucked and ears down, and the little girl he’d promised to bring with him. All her thoughts had been on that little girl. Cob wasn’t motherly. In fact, she didn’t like children a’tall—too noisy and too needy—but she was lookin’ for’ard to seein’ this’n. She took another sip and looked out the dirty window, thinkin’ the nubbly-faced fool claimin’ t’ be her father was far too simpleminded to make up the stories he’d told. Other than the one about the child belonging to a brother goin’ through hard times. She saw through that one as easy as the sun through a lace curtain.
But the one about the child bein’ cut from the fresh-dead womb of a
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