Water Witch by Deborah LeBlanc Page B

gas. I couldn’t
blame her. For the past half hour, Poochie had been talking
non-stop about ghosts, the feux fo lais, and shoes that disappeared
from china ball trees. The only time she came up for air was when
she asked a question, and even then you had to answer quickly or
she’d fill in the blanks for you.
    “You see dat?” Poochie said, tapping a finger
against her window.
    “The church?” I asked.
    She nodded. “Dat’s where de little girl
lives.”
    I glanced at Angelle. “The girl who’s
missing?”
    “Yeah,” Angelle said. “The preacher there is
Sarah’s uncle, Rusty Woodard. They live in that old house, just
behind the church.”
    “Dat man’s cuckoo in de head, yeah,” Poochie
said. “He can’t hardly keep track of his ownself. No wonder dat
baby got los’.”
    “Where are her parents?” I asked.
    Angelle shrugged. “Sarah’s lived with Woodard
as long as I’ve been here. I’ve never met her parents.”
    “I don’t know about de daddy, but I know
about her mama,” Poochie said matter of factly.
    “How can you know?” Angelle said. “You’ve
only lived here a couple of weeks.”
    “Sook tol’ me, dat’s how I know. She said
when dat little girl was three, four years old, her mama just drop
her off in de church like a sack of dirty clothes and tol’ her
cuckoo brother she didn’t want her baby no more. Sook said de mama
was trash, all de time jumpin’ from boyfriend to boyfriend. I guess
she didn’t want no baby around when she did her jumpin’ so she
brung her here.”
    “Why do you keep talking about Woodard that
way?” Angelle asked. “I’ve met him a few times, and he didn’t seem
crazy to me. A little enthusiastic maybe . . .” She turned left
into a parking lot that fronted a run-down metal building with
glowing Budweiser and Miller Lite signs in the windows.
    “Meetin’ dat man on de street ain’t de same.
I’m tellin’ you, he don’t got all his marbles in de same sack, no.
When he’s in dat church, he gets all crazy, jumpin’ up and down,
wavin’ his arms in de air and talkin’ stuff dat don’t make no
sense.”
    “Maybe he’s a fundamentalist?” I offered.
“You know, speaking in tongues and all that.”
    Poochie tsked. “De good Lord gave you a
tongue, me a tongue, him a tongue. Just ‘cause we got one don’t
mean we s’pose to run around and talk stupid.”
    I turned away, hiding a grin. The woman had a
point.
    “Enough about him,” Angelle said, killing the
engine and opening her door. “Let’s get you inside, Pooch.”
    ”Where are we?” I asked, following her out of
the car.
    “This . . .” Angelle spread her arms out wide
in mock presentation of grandeur. “Is the Bloody Bucket.” She
rolled her eyes, then opened the back car door. After pulling out
the collapsible walker, she opened it, then helped Poochie slide
out of the backseat.
    Obviously happy to be mobile again, Poochie
clomped off with the walker like someone eager to lead a Mexican
standoff—pretty impressive for someone supposedly unsteady on her
feet. Angelle followed with less enthusiasm, and I trailed behind,
worried about what had my sister looking so bad, so exhausted. I
had to admit spending that much time in a car with Poochie
Blackledge prattling on nonstop was tiring. Although far
from boring, being confined in a small space with her was like
playing tennis in a closet—in the dark. You couldn’t tell where the
ball was coming from next or at what speed. Living with the woman
twenty-four-seven had to require the patience of a saint, and even
then it wasn’t hard for me to imagine Mother Teresa doing a few eye
rolls.
    The sound of arguing reached us before we
made it to the front door. A man and a woman from the sound of
their voices, and if volume had anything to do with surmising the
winner, the woman was way ahead.
    “ . . . and you know that doesn’t make a lick
of sense, Vernon Francis—”
    “— said put it on.”
    “It’s too deep,