Brad Watson - The Heaven of Mercury

She sat in an old paintless rocker, though not rocking, and her eyes though cataracted looked unmistakably at him. She was as knotted up as if she were actually a strip of cured leather someone had twisted into shapes resembling a head, shoulders, crooked arms and hands, and a pair of feet on shanks so thin they couldn’t possibly hold her up. She was barefoot, though her feet were a blackened color such that he’d had to look twice to determine they weren’t in some worn-thin pair of old leather soleless shoes. Her face like an old burnt knot of lighter pine from within which the two milky pools of hardened sap regarded him calmly.

— Afternoon, Finus said, standing there.

Her eyes cut momentarily to old Mike standing droop-headed at his side.

— Are you Miss Vish? Finus said.

She nodded again, continued to look his way without speaking.

— I’m Finus Bates, run a little newspaper in town. This is my old dog, Mike.

— I don’t much like dogs, she said, her voice phlegmatic but strong for that. Then she said, nodding toward Mike, — You seems pretty healthy, yourself, for an old gentleman, but your old dog is ailing.

— Yes, I expect he won’t be around much longer.

— I don’t know much about treating dogs, she said. -Sometimes I treated a cat or a horse or a cow, but never could do much to help a dog.

— That’s all right, I’ll just let him go when he’s ready.

She looked at him a moment, nodded.

— Yes, sir, what can I do for you?

Finus said Dr. Orin Heath had told him about her. She said nothing, working her mouth a little bit, then nodded.

— How he doing, then?

— All right, all things considered.

— Still drinking that whiskey?

— Yes.

— Well, she said after a moment, it ain’t killed him yet. Maybe it keeping him alive.

— May be, Finus said.

— Them cigarettes gon kill him, though.

— I expect they will, soon enough.

— Yes, sir, soon enough. Is there something I can do for Dr. Heath, then? Ain’t nothing I can give him make him stop that whiskey or smoking.

— No, I just wanted to ask you about a couple of things.

She nodded. -You knew Mr. Case, now, ain’t that so.

— Yes, I did know him. I always heard he left this land open for the folks that lived here in the ravine.

She nodded. -He left it so can’t nobody clear or build down here, so his children can’t let nobody do it, for some time.

— How long he make that for?

— He ask me how long did I think before everybody live down here be moved out into town. I said could be just ten year, could be twenty, thirty, or longer. Just depend on how much the younger folks likes it, or if they gets restless or not. He say, You think could be forty year, Vish? I said, May be, but I doubt it. Well, he say, just in case, and make it forty year. That was near about forty year ago, and now I’m the only one left down here. I figure any day the Case children gon get a judge to let them change the papers, tear it all down, if they remember to. She laughed. -With me goes the ravine, I speck. I speck they gon put another shopping center right here someday.

Finus looked at this old woman looking at him like she’d watch a snake.

— You ever help out Mrs. Birdie Urquhart, lives out on the Macon highway?

She considered that.

— No, sir, don’t believe I ever helped her out none.

— Did you ever know the woman worked for her, Creasie Anderson?

She didn’t answer for a minute, then, — Yes, sir, she from down here in the ravine. I raised her. But she ain’t lived here in a long time.

— How long she been gone?

— Moved out from here to the Urquharts’ when she was just a girl, many year ago.

— Did she keep a place back here?

— Yes, sir, had a place. Ain’t been back to it in a long time, though.

— When would you say was the last time she used her place here, then?

— Couldn’t say, I reckon. Ain’t seen her here in a long time.

Finus looked around at the other cabins.

— Which one was hers, then, you don’t mind my asking?

The old woman cut her eyes without moving her head to look at the other cabins.

— That old green one over there was hers.

Finus looked. One of the cabins was a flaked and faded dark green color.

— You reckon it’d be all right if I took a look around it?

After a moment the old woman nodded.

— I don’t reckon it make a whole lot of difference, she said. -She don’t never come back here no more.

— I appreciate your time, Finus said. -You take care, now.

— Yes, sir. Tell Dr. Heath I said good day.

— I will.

Mike following stiffly, Finus walked over to the green cabin and mounted its rickety porch. He pushed on the old plank door and it gave way to a cobwebbed and ratty single room that gave way itself to what looked like a tiny kitchen in the rear, where he could see the edge of an old wood stove there. In the main room there was just an old stuffed chair, torn about the arms and cushion and backrest and stained with water and whatever. A little table stood near it, bare. The walls were covered with what appeared to be faded Sunday comics pages, torn and stained and splotched with age and water damage. In the kitchen the stove was bare except for a rusted cast-iron pan sitting on one of the heating plates. There was an old metal sink with no faucets but with a drain that appeared to run out through the wall. Above the sink there was a single shelf on which sat a salt box folded in upon itself, shredded paper in a mound of something could have been once flour or cornmeal. A lard tin. A mason jar stood next to it, shrouded in cobwebs and dust. He leaned in close to it, something inside. A black and gnarled little knot of something, like a charred fist of an old monkey or something. Finus heard a huffing sound, Mike settling down on the floor beside him, old baleful eyes looking at nothing.

— Poor old Mike, Finus said, bending stiffly over himself to scratch the dog’s head. Mike’s eyes moved to him but otherwise he didn’t respond. Finus straightened up and looked at the jar again, took it off the shelf and wiped the cobwebs and dust away and peered closely at whatever it was inside there. Shriveled tendonish piece at either end, looked to have been severed away. He gently coaxed Mike up off the floor and led him outside. The old woman was still on her porch in her rocker. Seemed to be looking at nothing, just out through the woods. Finus stepped carefully down the steps of the porch and, Mike slowly and stiffly making his way beside him, walked back over and stood at the base of the porch steps.

— Sorry to trouble you again, Miss Vish, he said. -I just wanted to ask one more thing.

She nodded. Eyes cut just for a second to the jar he held in his hand.

— Yes, sir.

— I was asking Dr. Heath about poisons, ways folks might poison someone if they had a mind to do it.

She looked at him, even cocked her head just a fraction of an inch.

— Poisons? she said. Then an odd little movement ticked at the thin licorice twist of her mouth. The old lips opened a hair and something between an enervated laugh and a wheeze came out. -Naw, sir, she said then, don’t truck in no poisons.

— Say you don’t.

— No, sir, and her eyes went back to where they rested on something over his head across the tiny creek in the swampy woods. -No sir, she said again, managing an emphatic little movement of her head, the white straw and scarce hair there looking as if permanently blown and dried hard away from her face like a frost-driven shrub. -Poisons invented by the white folks. Black folks don’t need no poisons.

— Why’s that?

— Well, sir, she said, we got the white folks, poison enough. Then she bared her gums, gave that little wheezy laugh. -I reckon I can say that nowadays, cain’t I.