William Gay - Provinces of Night

It wasn’t so far back I’d go check on that hog, Albright said. Roust that old woman out of bed. I’m thinkin she probably sleeps with that shoat, I’d get em both together.

Fleming leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes. He’d about decided they’d just drive in circles until daylight then go home. There were no wild women, no Mrs. Halfacre in whom he had invested twenty dollars. Certainly there was no Raven Lee Halfacre, prettiest girl in a three-county area. Likely there was no Clifton, all he’d seen so far was the Tennessee River.

I ought to hex her, Albright said. But I done got one workin, and I don’t know how many they allow to a customer.

Slow down a minute, Fleming said. Are you tellin me that you actually hired Brady to put a hex on Woodall?

I damn sure did. She’s simmerin on the back burner now, waitin to come to a boil.

You paid him.

Yeah. It must of been the top of the line hex, too. It cost fifty dollars.

Where on earth did you come up with fifty dollars?

I borrowed it at the bank.

You what?

I borrowed it at the First National Bank.

You mean you just waltzed in there and told them you needed fifty dollars to put a curse on a man and they counted it out?

Hell no, what do you think I am, crazy? I told them it was for house repairs. He took a mortgage on my car. It don’t matter anyway, unless this thing pays off pretty quick Woodall’s goin to be drivin it anyway. What do you think about that?

I think you’ve just about cornered the market on craziness, Fleming said.

The broken cliffs had fallen away now and they were descending toward the lights of a little town strewn between the hills. On his right hand the river lay shimmering as far as the eye could see. Fleming watching could see the lights of a ferry working its way across, a searchlight arcing through the fog like an acetylene torch. They drove down the main drag of town, a few stores and cafes. Albright turned down a steep incline to a sidestreet and they were following the river again. Fleming saw a marina where boats rocked at their lines, a lighted barge so long it seemed to pass forever, a huge monolith nighshapeless in the starblown dark, like a city slipped its moorings and was drifting toward parts unknown.

Albright parked the car before a small steep-roofed pink house. The windows were ablaze with light and when Albright cut off the engine Fleming could hear the low gutbucket thump of guitar music.

Let me have just a sip of that bottle, Fleming said. When Albright reached it to him Fleming unscrewed the cap.

Don’t smell of it, Albright cautioned. Just get you a good horn of it and when you swallow kind of clamp down on it. Get you a good hold.

Fleming did but he had to swallow a time or two to ensure that it would stay where he put it. He shook his head. His eyes were watering. Hellfire, he said.

Every bit of it, Albright agreed. Now listen, Fleming. Just talk up to them and you’ll be all right. Don’t start talkin about books or quotin poems at them. These is good folks but they ain’t real crazy about readin books. Just do what I do and you’ll be all right.

Fleming was irritated. I do what you do and I’ll wind up in the penitentiary or the crazyhouse one, he said. Don’t worry about it. I’ll try not to slobber or wet myself.

Albright slapped his shoulder. That’s all that a man can expect, Youngblood. Now let’s check em out.

Out amongst em, Fleming said.

The outside light was turned off but coming onto the porch Fleming saw a swing that seemed to be drowning in ivy or honeysuckle suspended from the ceiling on the shadowed end of the porch. A slim dark presence was lying in it but that was the sum of what he could see. Albright turned to face the swing and tipped an imaginary hat. Miss Raven, he said. Is your mama in the house?

The girl if girl was what she was did not reply and Albright rapped the screen door smartly against the sash. Apparently he was recognized from within for a woman’s voice cried out, Junior, Sweetie, and Albright entered with Fleming practically stepping on his heels.

Fleming stood for a moment blinking in the harsh light. He was in a small front room, low-ceiled, the room papered with wallpaper so loud the walls seemed to be shimmering with a constant vibratory motion. A vinyl couch shoved against one wall, a tall console radio tuned to the Grand Ole Opry. A ratty green armchair set facing out of the corner in which sat a shirtless man clutching a guitar. His eyes were focused with a fierce dark intensity on these newcomers as if he’d immediately know their business here but the woman had embraced Albright with her left arm and was running her right hand through his wild stand of curls and she wasn’t paying the man in the chair any mind.

A woman would kill for a head of hair like that, she said, stepping back to look. Albright was standing directly beneath the hot white glare of the ceiling bulb and with his hair uplifted from the ministrations of the woman’s fingers he looked as if his head was afire.

Wouldn’t they? she turned and demanded of the man in the corner chair. The man was drinking from a snuff glass a dark liquid so opaque it might have been India ink. He appeared to be thinking this over. Wouldn’t they? she demanded again but the man would not go on record as to whether they would or wouldn’t. There was a five-gallon jug of clear scalloped glass set before the chair halffull of the same dark liquid he was drinking and he had his feet propped atop it possessively as if it was something he was charged with guarding with his life.

Fleming figured the woman had been pretty in her youth but by the impartial glare of the light there was scarcely any of it left. He judged her not yet forty-five but the flesh of her upper arms sagged and her face looked curiously as if it was formed of melting wax and gravity itself was undoing her a little at a time. She seemed a little drunk. She hung onto Albright and swayed as if they were dancing though no feet were moving.

Abruptly the man in the chair got up and leant the guitar against the wall. He went out the screen door. It fell to behind him. Something’s goin to tote you off settin here by yourself, Fleming heard him say. Nobody answered him and his footsteps receded down the doorstep and faded out in the yard.

For lack of anything better to do Fleming crossed the room and sat on the couch beside the radio. Now folks I’ve got a little lady here I really want you to put your hands together for, Ernest Tubb said. The woman had turned to study Fleming. He’s a finelookin thing, she said to Albright. Are there any more like him at home except bigger and closer to my age?

If there was you wouldn’t hear it from me, Albright said. That’s Fleming. We out amongst em tonight.

Get you a glass of that wine, the woman told Fleming. It’s blackberry, it’s good. What’s went with Albert?

If that was him in the chair he left, Fleming said. He crossed to the jug and unscrewed the lid. The wine had the fruity smell of summer to it, a curious hot undercurrent of alcohol. There seemed to be nothing to drink it from.

Guitar music’s nice but money’s something a person has an actual use for, she said obscurely. There’s glasses in the kitchen yonder.

They were upended on a clean towel on the counter beside the sink. Fleming couldn’t seem to get rid of the smell of the drink of bootleg whiskey he’d taken. It seemed to have soaked into his clothing, his hair. Between his teeth. He filled a glass from the tap and stood drinking it, facing his reflection in the window behind the sink. He could hear affectionate noises from the front room. He’d scarcely walked through the doorway and already they were groping each other. Squeals, giggles, throaty little growls ensued. All this just from Albright. He couldn’t fathom why he’d gotten talked into this. I’d sooner be in hell with my back broke, he told his disgusted reflection in the windowglass. He emptied the remaining water into the sink and went through the doorway with the glass and halffilled it from the enormous jug. He sipped from it. It was sweet, almost treacly, with a sour burning aftertaste.