Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

Mister Watson paid her no mind whatsoever. He washed his head at our new hand pump from the cistern-the only pump down in the Islands at that time, we was pretty proud about it. But when he straightened up to mop his face, them blue eyes sparking like flints over the towel, he caught me gawking at the dark place under his arm where the sweat outlined his weapon. He held the towel there under his eyes until Henrietta stopped her sputtering, started to whimper. Then he snapped it down, gleeful cause he’d scared her. He got out his private jug of our cane liquor and sat down to it at a table in the other room, keeping his back into the corner same as always.

For once, she was too scared to nag him for tilting chairs back and weakening the legs-her way of showing what good care she took. Home Is Where the Heart Is At was needlework hung on our parlor wall to make things cozy and hint what a good wife she would make a man of taste who could appreciate the fine points.

Mister Watson took him a long pull and sighed like that old manatee when Tant shot her baby calf for sea pork. Finally he whispered, “Mind that loose tongue, Netta. Even a red devil gets hurt feelings.”

She pulled me out onto the porch. “I ain’t leaving you alone with that man, Erskine!” She was whispering loud in case he might be deaf, and he made a funny bear growl for his answer; he was laughing at us. “You’re coming home with me, young man, and that is that !”-the very first time since I was born that Henrietta ever planned to take me anyplace. She never even brought me here, it was me brought her, and she didn’t have no home no more’n I did.

“Home,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Where’s home at? Where the heart is?” I felt meaner’n piss.

“That nice needlework come down in our own family!”

“ What family?”

“ Our family! Your grandma married Mr. Ludis Jenkins that pioneered on Chokoloskee twenty years ago! Jenkinses and Weekses and Santinis!”

Old Man Ludis never come to nothing, I knew that much, Jenkinses neither. Had enough of it one day and blew his brain out. I said, “Tant’s daddy weren’t no kin to me at all.”

Tears come to my young mother’s eyes, made me feel wishful. All the same I whispered, “I ain’t leavin, Netta.” And she said, “Don’t you dare to disobey, you are my child!” And I said, “Since when?” That hurt her feelings, too. Anyway-I am still whispering-“I ain’t no kid no more, I am the new captain of that schooner.” “Since when?” she said, rubbing the blood off my hair too rough, like she was scraping vegetables. “Look out!” I yell, “I ain’t no sweet potato!” “Since when ?” she said. We break out giggling like kids, our nerves, I guess. She hugs me then and cries some more, wondering where her and Little Min would go to starve to death.

I went all soft and lonesome then and hugged her, too. I missed somebody real bad but didn’t rightly know who it could be. I ain’t so sure I found out to this day but it sure ain’t Jesus. Mister Watson was the one cured me of that.

“Called her Minnie after his rotten old sister. I hate that name and Min will hate it, too.”

When Mister Watson is drinking, his silence comes right through the wall. That talk about his sister Minnie made me nervous and I hushed her.

“Get in here, Captain.” Mister Watson’s voice was so low and hard that Henrietta clapped her mouth, her big eyes round. Had that man heard us? As Tant says, Mister Ed J. Watson could hear a frog fart in a hurricane. That don’t come so much from hunting as from being hunted.

The train from Arcadia stayed overnight at the Punta Gorda deepo before hedding north again so the kind conducters let us sleep on the red fuzz seats after brushing off the goober shells and what not. Papa had wired that we were to rest up in the new hotel as soon as we arived but Mama said she has lernd her lesson not to count on any rest in life or anywheres else so we was not to spend good munny on hotels in case something went wrong as it usely did and Mr. E. J. Watson faled to appear and anyway this mite be the wrong Watson. Her husband was Mr. E. A. Watson when she knew him. Mama was in a funny mood and no mistake.

Last nite I was so tuckered out I was sleeping and sleeping. Had a dretful nitemare about Florida crocadiles but luckily waked up. At daybrake they shooed us off the train like chikens and left us in a little huddle on the sand. The train gave a grate whissle and hard bang and pulled away getting smaller and smaller down to a black smudge. We waved and waved and waved then the train was gone no rumble and no echo only two thin rails like silver arrows thru the sand and scrub. Where the rails came together their shine made a brite point against the sunrise.

The deepo is locked until next week and not one sole to be seen. Here in southern Florida the sky is white as if ashes was falling from the sun. In the hot breze the spiky palmetos stick up like black knifes and the fire in the east sharpens there edges. With the sun up the wind dies and the redbirds and mockers fall still and a parched heat settles in for the long day. Dry dry dry dry!

Well here we are at the end of the line in sunny southern Florida! said Mama as if all this hot sand and thorn and silence was what we had pined for all of our hole lives. She did her best to cheare us up but her smile is sad.

And still no sign of Mister Watson and no word.

I call him Mister Watson just like Mama who is strict about our maners. (Good maners is about all we have left she says when she is blue.) But in my heart I think of him as Papa because thats what we called him when we were small. Oh I remember him I do! Mostly he was so much fun that he even cheared up our dear Mama. Once he brought toy soljers from Fort Smith and sat right down on our dirt floor to play with us. I gave Eddie the dam Yankee bluecotes, him being too young to know the difrince. Lucius was only a baby then he cant remember Papa hardly just pretends. Rob was too old to play of corse he was out slopping the hogs. But Eddie and me have never forgot our dear dear Papa and shurely Rob being almost grown has never forgot him either.

Plenty of time for you today Dear Diary because poor Mama is nodding off Rob is serly and I am dog tired of trying to soshalize with little brothers. Papa gave me this fine idea of my Dear Diary long ago when I was little. He was riting in his lether book under the trees. It had Footnotes to my Life berned into the cowhide cover and a little lock. I asked him what his book was about and he took me in his lap and smiled and said Well honey its a daily jernal. He wouldnt never show it to a sole he said. I powted and intreated. Never? Perhaps one day Papa said. He warned that any diary that was not completely privet is no longer a diary because it is no longer honest and cannot be a trusted frend. Anyway he wouldnt show it on acount his riting and speling were no good because as a boy in Carolina he had to take care of his mother and sister with his father gone off to war and he hardly had no chance to go to school. Taught himself to read and rite and kept up his jernal from his youth. Mama said she was plain terified to touch Papas jernal let alone read it.

Rob was near twelve when Papa went away. That was back in the Indian Nations when Lucius was a baby. Rob stood up to those rough men that came galoping in. He told em they better look out cause they was trespissing on Papas propity and might get shot between the eyes. And one man said In the back more likely like Belle Starr. Rob went after him and it was terifying that big scared horse and that pale thin boy socking so fureous at that mans boot. Got his hand cut bad by spurs and got knocked sprawling.