Peter Matthiessen - Killing Mister Watson

Mister Watson seen straight off that he weren't welcome. He never got out of that boat, never tied up. The onshore wind held her snug against the dock, but with that chop she made a steady bump against the pilings. I ain't never forgot that hollow thumping, like a shit-quick's ghosty booming in the swamp.

"Good day, Mister Watson!" calls my mother. Her hands was dead white, that's how hard she clenched 'em, she was almost whimpering. But she was a long sight more upset about not offering him a bite to eat than she was about him killing us to get our money.

That man took off his hat but he did not answer. This was unusual, being his manners was so up-to-date. His clothes weren't soiled but they looked slept in, he was hollow-eyed and grizzle-chinned, and we smelled whiskey. But he never seemed bothered by the silence in that clearing, which any moment was going to explode. He studied all around awhile, just listening, trying to feel out what was in the air. He must of wondered where my dad was, and Henry Thompson, whose boat was tied up at our landing, and why Grandpap James Hamilton stayed back into the house, never called hello.

Mister Watson was careful not to stare, he covered that window out the corner of his eye. It's like when a bear ambles out of the brake much too close by. You load quick but you load real easy, and no extra motions. You don't startle him, and you don't look in a bear's eyes, cause a bear can't handle any kind of challenge, he might charge.

Mister Watson studied up on the whole clearing but he kept coming back to the cabin window. In them gray old weatherboards, that window looked black as a square hole, and crouched back of there was Grandpap Hamilton, muttering and agitating with his trigger.

Poor Mama had the twitches, she was swaying back and forth like some old woman with St. Vitus dance. Ain't it strange? Mama was a plain embarrassment to me and Dexter even though we was fighting a hard fight not to piss our pants. Mister Watson stayed calm, smiled kind of quizzical, like he hoped some little bird might tell him why these Hamilton kids was acting so scared stupid and their mother crazy. Later we knew Mister Watson's calm was his way of getting set, like a cottonmouth gathering its coils.

Mama moved a step too quick between Mister Watson and the window. He paid no mind, like he never knowed she done it, but he knowed, all right, cause he kept his hands out wide so's to be seen by whoever might of drawed a bead on him. "And a good day to you, Miss Blanche," he says at last, with a warm smile for us children. "Henry around?" It had been so long before he spoke that his quiet voice made Dexter squeak.

Mama says, "Why, yes, he is! Frank, too! And Jesse!" Aiming to show how well we was protected, she done just the opposite. Anyway, she regretted it right off, cause hearing our men was near might make him stay.

To get his mind off it, I squawked, "How's Betsey?" My voice was changing and my brother hooted, but Mister Watson shook his head, real serious. Betsey, he said, had ate her shoats and he had a good mind to eat her. Might teach her not to try that trick again, he said. And he give my mother a wink, and she busted out giggling, mostly from nerves. As she said later, A man could joke about his sow did not have killing on his mind, and Grandpap snapped, A female says such a fool thing as that don't know the first thing about killers!

A few years later it come out on his deathbed that Grandpap himself knew a thing or two along that line, which was why we lived at Lost Man's River with no neighbors-unless you would count them other Hamiltons, who were not our kind of people, Aunt Gert said. Well, maybe they had a nigger in the woodpile, maybe not. I always liked 'em. So far as we heard, they never had no killer in that family, and they had more claim to their family name than we did.

That day, Mister Watson told us he was calling in on his way back from Key West, just wanted to know if Henry Thompson could make a run for him to Tampa, cause he had four thousand gallons of last winter's syrup set to ship. If there was anything we needed in Fort Myers, why please say so, because he would be heading north in the next few days.

My mother thanked him kindly, said we lacked for nothing, meaning there wasn't a sack of beans that we could pay for. When she just stood twisting her hands, never invited him to eat, Mister Watson acted like he never noticed. Said that he'd like nothing better than to visit with us for a little, but he had to be getting back to his wife and children, and soon as he got his boat cranked up, he'd be on his way.

Her small moan told how shamed poor Mama was, it was all she could do not to bawl her head off over menfolk foolishness. Wasn't Mister Watson kinfolks, in a manner of speaking, with daughters by Aunt Netta Daniels, and Aunt Josie? But she bit her lip hard and said something polite, still shifting and swaying, still trying to keep herself in Grandpap's line of fire, in case Mister Watson went for his handkerchief to blow his nose and the old feller hauled back on the trigger.

Mister Watson noticed her peculiar movements and he watched our eyes. He did not know who was hid back in the house, but he sure knew somebody was there. At that range Frank Hamilton could drill him dead on the first shot without no trouble, and Grandpap, too, if he wasn't too worked up to put his mind to it.

The wind was out of the northeast, had held in that quarter for two days, with squalls and rain, and we was already wondering about a storm. Didn't have no radios in them days, we just had to go by signs we knew. Mister Watson looked at that dark sky and said he believed a hurricane was coming down on us.

That wind was gathering a little, sure enough, racketing the sea-grape and palmettas, yet all around, the world seemed deadly still. Later we learned there was a federal warning-this was around October the 13th-but where did Mister Watson hear about it? He knew, all right. Said he'd already taken his own family up to Chokoloskee, and he'd be proud to take us up there, too.

Our mama said she sure was much obliged, but if her men got worried, Henry Thompson could take everyone to Chokoloskee on the Gladiator. Course that old schooner still belonged to Mister Watson, Uncle Henry only kept her between cargo trips. Mister Watson had to smile a little, and our poor mama went red as a berry.

"I'll be on my way, then," Mister Watson said.

He stooped half out of sight to crank his flywheel, and my mother, skirts spread like a broody hen, rushed forward to cover him. There was just no way for Grandpap Hamilton to get a shot off. Us kids was crowded around him, too, hoping for a motor ride upriver. The May-Pop started fine, everyone smiled, there was nothing left to say. Mister Watson spread his hands out to the side before reaching up slowly for his hat and tipping it to my mother. He tipped it to that empty window, too.

"My respects to Mr. James," he said. "And Frank and Jesse, and the Thompsons, too."

My mother busts out, "I'm so sorry, Mister Watson! Sorry you can't set awhile, I mean!"

He understood just what she meant, and made that kind of little bow, mostly with the head, that us kids was imitating for years afterward. Mama gave a quick, queer bow like a bird, and never curtseyed. She was so mortified by her own gawkishness that she wept all over again during the hurricane, her tears fell right along with the wind and water. In this terrible forsaken place, she mourned, she had lost the last of the nice etiquette she had learned at Caxambas School, and now she might perish in this storm before she could go home to a civilized life on Fakahatchee.

Mister Watson went away downriver without waving. The shape of him looked hunched and black against that narrow band of light out to the west where the weather was moving in on us off of the Gulf.