Joe Lansdale: The Bottoms

“Heaven forbid. No, I don’t.”

“He’s in the Klan,” Tom said.

“Was,” Grandma said. “Me and him talked, and he brought up the little incident here on his own. He said he dropped out. And he is Jewish. Said he joined up with them boys without really thinkin’. He thought they was out for right doin’. He saw a movie once called Birth of a Nation, and in that the Klansmen were good fellows. But after the other night, out here with your Daddy, and Mose gettin’ hung and all, he got to figurin’ that for the grace of God should they figure on the fact he’s a Jew, he could have been on the end of that rope. He got out of the Klan. Burned his robes.”

“Grandma?” Tom asked. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Hardly… Well, not yet. It could happen that way.”

Tom giggled. “Grandma. You’re too old.”

“Just by your standards, young lady. What y’all say we look at this shack of Mose’s tomorrow, and that cave and that briar tunnel too.”

Next morning, when Mama and Daddy left for work, me, Grandma, Tom, and Toby climbed in Grandma’s car with her shotgun, and she drove us over to Mose’s shack. About halfway there, I remembered that I forgotten the Bible.

I had a hunch about Mose’s old shack, and I wanted to check it out. But my hunch was wrong. There was nothing new hung from the nails, or leaned against the wall outside. But there was something curious. The boat we had left on the bank was back in its place atop the rocks with the paddle inside.

We told Grandma about that.

“Well, I’ll swan,” she said.

We looked around the shack for a while. It was the same as yesterday, except the water-meshed photograph in the frame had been set up on the table, and the faded Sears and Roebuck cutout of a little boy colored in pencil was nowhere to be found.

When I told Grandma that, she said, “Someone visits here, that’s for sure. Question is, why? Tell you what, let’s take the boat and see this place of yours,” Grandma said.

Grandma got in the boat, me and Tom pushed it into the water, and with me paddling, Tom sitting in the front of the boat playing guide, we made our way to the briar tunnel. It was a pleasant trip. The day was warm, the river was running swift, and the water was dappled with the shadows of overhanging trees.

On the shore I saw a huge water moccasin basking on the twisted root of a big willow tree. Frogs plopped off the bank and into the water. Little black bugs darted about on the surface of the river as if they were Northern ice skaters. Twice I saw turtle heads poke out of the water to see if we were edible, then bob out of view.

When we docked the boat and got up there in the tunnel, it was dark in spots, but there were streamers of light shining in and the edges of the lights were like the sharp blades of archangels’ swords, and the light showed the bits of cloth and the paper cut from the catalogues. Grandma looked around, touching the bits of cloth and paper.

She said, “I don’t judge this to be any kind of killer’s nest. Some kids, boys most likely, have made them a playhouse. They got them some colored cloth and some pictures to spice up the place.”

“But some of them pictures are of women in their underwear,” I said.

“You don’t look at them same pictures while you’re out there in the outhouse, Harry? You just use that catalogue to wipe on?” Grandma asked.

I blushed.

Tom gave me a look that told me I hadn’t heard the end of this.

“You can see where he built him a fire,” I said.

“Kids or hoboes could have built a fire,” Grandma said. “And if you think about it, why would the killer want a fire? I don’t think he stays down here. I think he lives among us, or near us.”

“He built it so he could see at night,” Tom said.

“I guess that’s possible,” Grandma said. I could tell she had already made up her mind.

“But he could come here,” Tom said. “He could use this place.”

“You could be right,” Grandma said. “But I think you’ll find kids are makin’ ’em a playhouse here. Hoboes might be usin’ it to hide out.”

“Ain’t it far in the woods for hoboes?”

“Who’s to say?” Grandma said. “Let’s see we can get this boat back, and be back home when your Mama and Daddy get off work.”

“Aw,” Tom said. “We got plenty of time.”

“Yeah,” Grandma said. “But we’re goin’ anyway.”

We went back to the boat, ready to carry it upriver, but when it came down to brass tacks, Grandma decided not to bother.

“Mose is dead,” she said. “And we ain’t gonna have good luck paddling against the current. Carryin’ it will wear us down. We’ll just leave it. Besides, whoever brung it back last time might do the same.”

We started walking. All the way to where we could cross over in the shallows, and all the way back to the car, I had a feeling that someone was moving silently between the trees, looking at us through the leaves, peeking out from the shadows. But every time I looked, I didn’t see anything but the woods and the leaves and river.

That night I lay in bed and tried to think on things, and I kept coming back to this. Grandma was a grown-up, and a smart one, but she wasn’t no better detective than Daddy, and he wasn’t worth a hoot, and he’d tell you so. Me and Tom wasn’t so good either, but both of us had come to one decision. The murderer was the Goat Man, or what Miss Maggie called a Travelin’ Man.

Thinking on Miss Maggie I felt sad again. There wouldn’t be any more of her fine cooking, or her wonderful stories. She was gone. Murdered in the very home where I sat with her many a time and she had laughed and called me Little Man.

And Mrs. Canerton. She might have died because she was bringing me books. She might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but a feeling of guilt passed through me just the same.

Poor Mrs. Canerton had always been so nice. All those books. The Halloween parties. The way she smiled. Her breasts in that dress last Halloween night. White and pure, with a collar touched with little red roses.

As I drifted off to sleep I thought of telling Daddy about the Sears catalogue pictures and the cloth and such in the briar tunnel, but I had made Grandma a promise not to tell. I wasn’t sure I should have made that promise. I was thinking about going back on it, or begging off of it, when sleep overtook me.

When I awoke the next morning, none of it seemed so all fired important, and in time Grandma seemed to forget all about it. She had found something new to occupy her. Mr. Groon. She even took to doing what a lot of folks thought was unladylike; she stayed around his store, visiting with him, helping him stock shelves and such, and for no pay at all.

From time to time, me and Tom slipped off and went down to Mose’s old cabin. Now and then there would be a fish on the nail, or some odd thing from the river.

I reasoned that someone was bringing Mose gifts, perhaps unaware he was dead. Or maybe they had been left there for some other reason.

We dutifully took down what was there and returned it to the river, wondering if maybe it was the Goat Man leaving the goods, and if so, why would he do it? Could a monster like that have liked Mose? Could they have been an offering to the devil, like in Miss Maggie’s story about the Travelin’ Man? It wasn’t peed-in whiskey, but who was to say if the devil liked fish and junk from the river?

When we looked around for sign of the Goat Man, all we could find were prints from someone wearing large-sized shoes. No hoofprints.

Sometimes we both sensed someone watching us. I always brought the shotgun with me, hoping that old Goat Man would show himself, give me just one shot. All the detective work in the world couldn’t do what one shotgun blast could.