Eugene, Ike said.
Smonk winked and flipped the knife in his palm and presented the handle. Here.
The boy snatched it away.
Now git.
But—
Smonk took his cigar out of his mouth and touched its fire to the balloon.
Dad gum, the boy said when it popped. How bout the string, then?
Running west into the dying sun, the boy knew better than to go back to Old Texas. All the men were dead there, including William R. McKissick Junior’s daddy, the bailiff. First William R. McKissick Junior’s momma taking off after Mister E. O. Smonk and now his daddy the bailiff shot dead by Mister E. O. Smonk.
The boy ran, holding the knife Mister E. O. Smonk had given him. He pretended it was a birthday present from his momma.
His daddy—before he was a bailiff and before Mister E. O. Smonk had shot him dead in Old Texas—had been a paid employee for Mister E. O. Smonk. In Oklahoma or someplace. Whenever Mister E. O. Smonk used to come to see Daddy once or twice a year, it meant him and Daddy would get drunk on Mister E. O. Smonk’s licker. Mister E. O. Smonk’s giant head would loll and he would slide gold coins over the table at Daddy bribing Daddy to let him go on have a piece of Momma. Sometimes it took a hundred dollars or more but Smonk seemed to think everything had its price. Momma would of been acting peculiar all night anyway, how she bent over pretending to look for dustballs under the table where the dustballs had been growing like a beloved crop the entirety of William R. McKissick Junior’s life. And her with no drawers on. William R. McKissick Junior used to hide under the table trying to see her nethers, taking out his devil’s tool and disobeying the Bible. Then, as coins rasped across the table, Daddy would say Ah hell, go ahead to Mister E. O. Smonk and Mister E. O. Smonk would grunt up off the chair unbuttoning his britches with coins falling out of his pockets thumping like hail on the floor and his suspenders falling down one then the other. Momma always chose that moment to pretend not to want none and make a fuss of being dragged in, getting her dress all tore, thigh-leg for all to see and her bottom too. Daddy would grab up the coins and stalk outside in a fury and start kicking the dog across the yard, or William R. McKissick Junior if he caught him under the table. From behind the sheet hung to divide the shack in half, the only thing louder than the bed creaking was Momma squealing.
And ever dern time, after Mister E. O. Smonk come out from behind the sheet, pulling on his suspenders and smelling his fingers, Momma would follow him, all slinky like. Wearing nothing but a shred of undergarment. In a good mood. Tired-looking. All smiley, a certain sweat about her.
Not noticing the menfolk at the table talking about murder, she’d scoop William R. McKissick Junior in her lap and hug and kiss him and smell behind his ear. Her cheeks flushed. Her bosom too. You could see most of em. Just not the nipple parts. William R. McKissick Junior would try to peek down her collar to see the nipple parts and he’d get him a devil’s tool in his britches and Momma would feel it on her leg and pop the imprint of her hand into his bottom and say, You stop that. You bad boy! You stop that right this second!
He ran fast, now, the devil stirring in his pants at the memory. He waved his new knife, accelerating to a gallop, more of the air than earth, whooping and wheeling his arms.
For he was going at last to the woman who took in orphans! There were no other children in Old Texas and the boy wanted somebody to play with. Rumor claimed there were no rules in the orphanage ner chores neither and that you ate whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and went to bed when you chose and you could even screw the girls if you had a mind to. William R. McKissick Junior very much wanted to screw a girl. It was all he thought about. Screwing girls. Now here was his chance for some real cooter. He ran faster than he ever had before saying Cooter, cooter, cooter, cooter, cooter. Then he ran even faster than that, his new knife slicing the air like a curse on its course. If only he had the balloon.
4 THE CROW HUNTERS
EARLY THAT SAME SATURDAY, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE RIVER town of McIntosh and wild loamy climes north, Evavangeline happened upon a quartet of ancient horsemen in their tattered battle grays all these decades later and bearing long untidy beards the color of war. She’d lost her boots and guns to the Tombigbee’s currents and, because of her clothing and short hair, the foursome took her for a barefooted young whippersnapper as folk were wont to do in those simpler times and invited her along on a crow hunt up north ways. It was great fun, they promised, and they had whiskey.
You thank he’s too old? she heard one ask another under his breath.
Naw, he replied, then shushed his companion.
What the dickens yall shushing about? Evavangeline called.
Don’t be so testy, lad, said the man from his horse. You want a ride?
I’d ruther not. I can’t abide me a damn horse.
You a fool to run.
Best not say nothing like that to me when we tap into that whiskey.
Preciate the warning.
Within half a day the crow hunters and their new young compatriot had arrived at a blind made of corn shucks and cane stalks and positioned in the northwest corner of a dried-out cornfield. The men dismounted as Evavangeline leaned against a tree to catch her wind. One of the crow hunters led the horses out of sight and returned later and they all knelt together and entered the blind and lay waiting, their breath meaty and rank. They told jokes on one another and passed the bottle and belched and farted so densely her eyes stung.
You got a extry gun? Evavangeline asked the man nearest her. Faded chevron of a sergeant on his shoulder.
Naw, he said. I jest got my three ones here.
Well, if another one appears by holy miracle in ye waistband or coat pocket or asshole, will ye lend me it a spell?
I will, said the man. He popped her on the rump.
The bottle came her way again. She drank a snort. She could feel it travel the length of her body like a herd of iddy biddy horses. With little naked men mounted upon them. With every swig there were more little horses and more little men.
A hunter told one about his army buddy getting his legs chopped off by mistake and they all laughed and one man spewed whiskey out his nose.
Don’t be wastin that, the first hunter said.
It’s yer turn, they said to Evavangeline. To tell one.
I ain’t got nare.
Got a big ole red scar, one of the men said. On ye neck yonder.
Well, she said, there’s a story.
She told about the time she got in a fight with two Irish. She and the Irish were hiding in an alley together. Evavangeline twelve or thereabouts. The potato-eaters, grown men, made fun of her red spot and she told them to go screw they selves. They came at her and she kicked the front one in the balls and got a fist in the jaw from the other. But his follow-through took him off balance and she uppercut him with her knee and split his lip.
Then I slit both they thoats and rolled em, she said. Did ye like that story?
Damnation, the hunter cried. I’m a veteran. Ever white man of my generation’s been shot. If they ain’t ye can’t trust em. I meant no offense.
We all got scars, another man said.
In a huff, she climbed out the back to make water.
She was squatted there, her head cottony from the whiskey, when the veteran hooted. He’d stumbled out for a piss himself.
Hey fellers! he called. This here high-strung one’s a split-tail!
She tried to rise but he grabbed her ankles. He dragged her hollering and bare-assed and clawing at the turf around to the front of the blind and the others climbed out with the bottle.
This here’s a genuine piece of tail, boys, the veteran said. He unfastened his fly and leapt forward. He prized her knees apart and began to hum “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand” and poke his dong about her thighs.