Edward Lee - The Black Train

The mulatto girl’s eyes widened with something scary. “I heared they killed all the slaves when they was done. Near a hunnert of ’em. In Maxon.”

“That can’t be true,” you say.

“Hope it ain’t.”

“We hear things all the time that ain’t true. Like the Yankees gettin’ close. Our boys whup ’em anytime they get near Chattanooga. So don’t believe most’a what’cha hear, Teeta.”

The girl smiles a little, then walks away after taking down a jar of vinegar. But now that she’s gone you can see the calendar on the wall. You notice that it’s May 3, 1862.

“Aw, yeah, I done heard about you,” the voice seems to grind out of the air when you enter the sitting parlor. “‘S’bout time I had me a crack at’cha.”

You smile and bat your eyes, reeling in a sudden nausea. The man sits spread-legged in pants of tent canvas and wears a raggy hat. Several gold teeth interspersed with rotten ones sparkle.

“We’se finally back. Five years’a hard work’n for the last four I ain’t been back home but once a month. To top it off me’n some of the boys’ve been workin’ up the house past few days, diggin’ and such. I need me some relaxation.” He peers closer. “You ain’t even been workin’ fer Bella a year, have ya?”

“About that, sir.” You take his roughened hand and lead him through the crimson curtains to the hallway. You immediately notice that his hands are gritty with earth.

“And that’s a mighty fine ass on ya.”

You can’t think of any reply. One of his hands claws your bottom when you lead him into your room. A short, scruffy beard makes his face indescribable, but you notice…something—

Maybe it’s just the way the light is in the room, but his eyes look yellow, like a piss stain on a white bedsheet.

Even before the door closes, his hands are up your dress yanking down your linens. Fingers like file stones tweeze the tender folds between your legs.

“Yeah, that’s real nice, too…”

Finally you speak, as he’s bending you over the daybed: “Puh-pardon me, sir, you gotta—you gotta tell me what’cha want’n then pay me first—”

A ten-dollar gold piece hits the floor, spins like a top, and lands tails. Part of you could squeal with delight—you’ve never been paid that much for just one go with a man, but then your belly continues to sink because you know that this man Morris will make you earn it. You can’t help but notice the very long knife and scabbard on his hip.

“Sir, thank you—”

A knuckled fist hits you in the back of the head. “Shut up,” he says, and continues to fiddle with your sex like a baker working dough. His pants are already down…

You can’t even think about the thing he does to you. Oh, God, please, you beg over and over. Let him be done soon…

A half hour later, you fall back on the floor.

“There, that weren’t so bad, was it, sugar?”

You look up through misting eyes and see him sitting on the couch, his trousers still unfastened. The taste in your mouth combines with the smell coming off your lips. It’s so foul it seems evil, and just as bad is the malodor wafting off his exposed groin. On the couch arm lay a pretty cotton smock you’ve been sewing; it’s about half complete. You could howl when he picks it up and wipes himself off with it, then drops it to the floor. He winks at you, and lights a long, thin cigar that smells like burning garbage.

“Come on up here, pretty girl. I need my money’s worth.”

You remember the ten-dollar piece, and tell yourself that this will be worth it.

“I ain’t got much more time,” he says rather distantly now.

You reluctantly sit next to him. “Pardon me, sir?”

His yellow eyes stare into space, but then he smiles again. “Gotta get back to the house a right quick. One more thing I gotta do fer Mr. Gast. He’s already gone, but he trusts me’n a few others to do what he wants.”

“He’s left town again? I heard he just got back…”

“See, only important men are invited to do his bidding. Men like me.” His yellow gaze slowly turns to you. “Do you believe that? Do you believe that I am an important man?”

He sounds so strange now. You know you must ingratiate him. “Oh, yes, sir, I do, very much so. I understand that you are one of Mr. Gast’s most important foremen.”

“Yes…” He nods. “Yes, that is true.” Then his eyes focus. “Do you like me? What I mean is, do you enjoy my company?”

You shiver. “Oh, yes, sir. You’re a very handsome and rugged gentleman.”

“Now, I realize that I just put you through the wringer a mite hard. So you’ve probably had enough. Right?”

You’re not sure how to figure him. You don’t know what to say. You know he’s very, very violent. “Only if you feel you’ve had your money’s worth, sir…”

He blinks. “Hmm. Yes. And I suppose I have. But…you just said that you enjoy my company…”

It’s getting too strange. You don’t like it at all.

“So…I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave it up to you. If you’d like me to stay a bit longer, then I will. Or’n if you’d rather I leave now, then I’ll leave.”

He’s plotting something, you can feel it. You know that your next response is very, very important. If I ask him to leave, then I just know he’ll beat me’n take the ten-dollar piece with him…

“Well, sir, I would like it if you stayed…a bit longer…”

The man shrugs, then grins. “Whatever you say, honey.” And then—

smack!

—the web of his hand catches your throat and slams you off the couch to the floor. He moves in a blur and pins you down. He’s got one knee across your throat and the other on your belly.

“I’m always one to oblige the request of a lady,” he says, and then he laughs so hard and dark that you think it’s more like a caterwaul from hell. “Don’t’cha move, now,” he warns, “less’n I might have to break your windpipe.” So you lie perfectly still, breathing fiercely through your nose as the pressure of his knee on your throat increases. Then—

swish!

He slides that long knife out of the scabbard. “I skinned me a lotta women with this, and cut off a lotta ears’n tits. Mostly Injuns’n creek people. You work hard as me, you need some sport.” The tip of the blade tickles up your thigh. “Does this scare you?”

“Yes, it does, sir.” You choke out the words.

“I like a honest gal,” he says, then laughs and puts the knife back in the scabbard. “Don’t’cha worry none—you’re too pretty to cut. But I’ll be cuttin’ on someone else with it real soon. Now…Let’s see this apple-dumplin’ cart,” he says and jacks down the top of your ruffled blouse. The terror makes your breasts quiver. His hand plays with one; then his fingers begin to pinch the nipple. You look up through slits for eyes and see his cigar smoke ringing his head like an unholy aura.

“Let me put a little spark in your day, huh, pretty girl?” His forefinger and thumb begin to vise the tip of your nipple until it hurts. Then, “What we got here—ahh, perfect,” but you can’t see what he’s reaching for, and then, “Look it. Think this’ll liven ya up?”

With his other hand, you see now, he’d taken a long sewing needle out of the pincushion on the end table.