"You stay outside. Don't even come in this house," she said.
"I have to go to the bathroom," Weldon said.
"Then you can just do it in the dirt like a darky," she said, and went inside the house and latched the screen behind her.
The next afternoon Verise was still unaccounted for. Mattie had an argument on the phone with somebody, perhaps the man in zoot pants and two-tone shoes; she told him he owed her money and she wouldn't come back and work at Broussard's Bar again until he paid her. After she hung up she breathed hard at the kitchen sink, smoking her cigarette and staring out into the yard. She snapped the cap off a bottle of Jax and drank it half empty, her throat working in one long wet swallow, one eye cocked at Lyle.
"Come here," she said.
"You tracked up the kitchen. You didn't flush the toilet after you used it, either."
"I did."
"You did what?"
"I flushed the toilet."
"Then one of the others didn't flush it. Every one of you come out here. Now!"
"What is it, Mattie? We didn't do anything," he said.
"I changed my mind. Every one of you outside. All of you outside. Weldon, you too, you get out there right now. Where's Drew?"
"She's playing in the yard. What's wrong, Mattie?" Lyle said.
Outside, the wind was blowing through the trees in the yard, flattening the purple clumps of wisteria that grew against the barn wall.
"Each of you go to the hedge and cut the switch you want me to use on you," she said.
It was her favorite form of punishment. If they broke off a large switch, she hit them fewer times with it. If they came back with a thin or small switch, they would get whipped until she felt she had struck some kind of balance between size and number.
They remained motionless. Drew had been playing with her cat. She had tied a piece of twine around the cat's neck, and she held the twine in her hand like a leash, her knees and white socks dusty from play.
"I told you not to tie that around the kitten's neck again," Mattie said.
"It doesn't hurt anything. It's not your cat, anyway," Weldon said.
"Don't sass me," she said. "You will not sass me. None of you will sass me."
"I ain't cutting no switch," Weldon said. "You're crazy. My mama said so. You ought to be in the crazy house."
She looked hard into Weldon's eyes, and there was a moment of recognition in her colorless face, as though she had seen a growing meanness of spirit in Weldon that was the equal of her own. Then she wet her lips, crimped them together, and rubbed her hands on her thighs.
"We shall see who does what around here," she said. She broke off a big switch from the myrtle hedge and raked it free of flowers and leaves except for one green sprig on the tip.
Drew looked up into Mattie's shadow, and dropped the piece of twine from her palm.
Mattie jerked her by the wrist and whipped her a halfdozen times across her bare legs. Drew twisted impotently from Mattie's fist, her feet dancing with each blow. The switch raised welts on her skin as thick and red as centipedes.
Then suddenly Weldon ran with all his weight into Matties back, stiff-arming her between the shoulder blades, and sent her tripping sideways over a bucket of chicken slops. She righted herself and stared at him open-mouthed, the switch loose in her hand. Then her eyes grew hot and bright with a painful intention, and her jawbone flexed like a roll of dimes.
Weldon burst out the back gate and ran down the dirt road between the sugarcane fields, the soles of his dirty tennis shoes powdering dust in the air.
She waited for him a long time, watching through the screen as the mauve-colored dusk gathered in the trees and the sun's afterglow lit with flame the clouds on the western horizon. Then she took a bottle of apricot brandy into the bathroom and sat in the tub for almost an hour, turning the hot-water tap on and off until the tank was empty. When the children needed to go to the bathroom, she told them to take their problem outside. Finally she emerged in the hall, wearing only her panties and bra, her hair wrapped in a towel, the dark outline of her pubic hair plainly visible.
"I'm going to dress now and go into town with a gentleman friend," she said. "Tomorrow we're going to start a new regime around here. Believe me, there will never be a recurrence of what happened here today. You can pass that on to young Mr. Weldon for me."
But she didn't go into town. Instead, she put on her blue suit, a flower-print blouse, her nylon stockings, and walked up and down on the gallery, her cigarette poised in the air like a movie actress.
"Why not just drive your car, Mattie?" Lyle said quietly through the screen.
"It has no gas. Besides, a gentleman caller will be passing for me anytime now," she answered.
"Oh."
She blew smoke at an upward angle, her face aloof and flat-sided in the shadows.
"Mattie?"
"Yes?"
"Weldon's out back. Can he come in the house?"
"Little mice always return where the cheese is," she said.
At that moment Lyle wanted something terrible to happen to her.
She turned on one high heel, her palm supporting one elbow, her cigarette an inch from her mouth, her hair wreathed in smoke.
"Do you have a reason for staring through the screen at me?" she asked.
"No," he said.
"When you're bigger, you'll get to do what's on your mind. In the meantime, don't let your thoughts show on your face. You're a lewd little boy."
Her suggestion repelled him and made water well up in his eyes. He backed away from the screen, then turned and ran through the rear of the house and out into the backyard, where Weldon and Drew sat against the barn wall, fireflies lighting in the wisteria over their heads, No one came for Mattie that evening. She sat in the stuffed chair in her room, putting on layers of lipstick until her mouth had the crooked bright-red shape of a clown's.
She smoked a whole package of Chesterfields, constantly wiping the ashes off her dark-blue skirt with a hand towel soaked in dry-cleaning fluid; then she drank herself unconscious.
It was hot that night, and dry lightning leaped from the horizon to the top of the blue-black vault of sky over the Gulf. Weldon sat on the side of his bed in the dark, his shoulders hunched, his fists between his white thighs. His chopped haircut looked like feathers on his head in the flicker of lightning through the window. When Lyle was almost asleep Weldon shook him awake and said, "We got to get rid of her. You know we got to do it."
Lyle put his pillow over his head and rolled away from him, as though he could drop away into sleep and rise in the morning into a sun-spangled and different world.
But in the false dawn he woke to Weldon's face close to his. Weldon's eyes were hollow, his breath rank with funk.
The mist was heavy and wet in the pecan trees outside the window.
"She's not gonna hurt Drew again. Are you gonna help or not?" he said.
Lyle followed him into the hallway, his heart sinking at the realization of what he was willing to participate in.
Mattie slept in the stuffed chair, her hose rolled down over her knees, an overturned jelly glass on the rug next to the can of spot cleaner.
Weldon walked quietly across the rug, unscrewed the cap on the can, laid the can on its side in front of Mattie's feet, then backed away from her. The cleaning fluid spread in a dark circle around her chair, the odor as bright and sharp as white gas.
Weldon slid open a box of kitchen matches, and they each took one, raked it across the striker, and, with the sense that their lives at that moment had changed forever, threw them at Mattie's feet. But the burning matches fell outside the wet area. Lyle jerked the box from Weldon's, clutched a half dozen matches in his fist, dragged across the striker, and flung them right on Mattie's feet.
The chair was enveloped in a cone of flame, and she burst out of it with her arms extended, as though she were pushing blindly through a curtain, her mouth and eyes wide with terror. They could smell her hair
burning as she raced past them and crashed through the screen door out onto the gallery and into the yard. She beat at her flaming clothes and raked at her hair as though it was swarming with yellow jackets.
Lyle and Weldon stood transfixed in mortal dread at what they had done.
A Negro man walking to work came out of the mist on the road and knocked her to the ground, slapping the fire out of her dress, pinning her under his spread knees as though he were assaulting her. Smoke rose from her scorched clothes and hair as in a depiction of a damned figure on a holy card.
The Negro got to his feet and walked toward the gallery, a solitary line of blood running down his black cheek where Mattie had scratched him.
"Yo' mama ain't hurt bad. Go get some butter or some bacon grease. It gonna be fine, you gonna see," he said.
"Don't be shakin' like that. Where yo' daddy at? It gonna be just fine. You little white children ain't got to worry about nothing."
He smiled to assure them that everything would be all right.
"They put her in the crazy house at Mandeville," Lyle said, his face turned into the warm breeze off the bayou. "She died there about ten years later, I heard."
"And you've felt guilt about it all this time?" I asked.
"Not really."
"No?"
"We were kids. Nobody would help us. It was her or us. Besides, I think my sins are forgiven."
"I don't know what to tell you, Lyle. I just don't believe that your father has reappeared after all these years to do y'all harm. People just don't come back after that long for revenge."
He sipped from his bottle and shook his head sadly.
"The son of a buck was evil. If ever Satan took a human form, it was my old man," he said.
"Well, I'll have a talk with Drew about the intruder. But I want to ask you something else while we're out here."
"Go ahead. I got no secrets."
"If you really did get religion, was it because of something that happened in Vietnam that I don't know about?"
The oil wells clanked up and down in the unplowed field, which was now pink in the sun's afterglow.
"You think maybe you had something to do with it?" he asked. "Don't give yourself too much credit, Dave."
He snuffed dryly and touched at his nostrils with one knuckle.
"I killed a nun," he said.
"You did what?"
"I never told you about it. I climbed down into what I thought was a spider hole, but one tunnel went off into a room that they must have used as an aid station because there were bloody field dressings all over the floor. I saw something go across the door, and I opened up. It was a nun, a white woman. There were two of them in there. The other one was huddled up against the wall, trembling all over. They must have been from the school in the ville. You remember there were some French nuns in that one ville?"
I nodded silently.
"When I climbed back up, Charlie started firing from the ville and the captain called in the arty," he said. "Then we were all hauling butt. You remember? It was short. That's when Martinez got it. So I just never said anything about it.
The next day we got into that minefield. I couldn't keep it all straight in my head anymore."
"It wasn't your fault, Lyle. You were a good soldier."
"No, I told you before, I dug it down there. The ragin' Cajun, sliding down the tunnel to give Charlie a red-hot enema. What a hand job."
"I'll give you some advice someone once gave me. Get Vietnam out of your life. We already fought our war. Let the people who made it grieve on it."
"I don't grieve. I believe I've been reborn. I don't care if you accept that or not. I give those people out there something they ain't found anyplace else. And I couldn't give it to them unless God gave it to me first. And if He gave it to me, that means I've been forgiven."
"What is it you give them?"
"Power. A chance to be what they're not. They wake up scared every morning of their lives. I show them it doesn't have to be that way anymore. I grew up uneducated, in foster homes, hustled drugs on the street, spent time in a couple of jails, washed dishes for a living with this crippled hand. But the man on high got my attention, and, son, I ain't did bad.... Sorry, that word's just one I can't seem to get away from."
"That sounds a little bit vain, Lyle."
"I never said I was perfect. Look, make me one promise. Watch out for my sister. I suspect you've got personal feelings toward her anyway, don't you?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"She said you poked her when y'all were in college."
I looked at the side of his face, the scars that leaked from one eye, then I gazed at the bayou and a black man fishing in a pirogue and drummed my fingers on the leather seat.
"I'd better get home now," I said. "The next time you have information for me, I'd appreciate your bringing it to me at my office."
"Don't get bent out of shape. Drew made it with a lot of guys. So you were one of them. Why pretend you were born fifty years old?"
"I changed my mind. I really don't need a ride all the way home, Lyle. Just drop me at the four-corners. I'm going to ask Bootsie to come in town for some crawfish."
"Whatever you want, Loot." He screwed the cap on his whiskey bottle, dropped it on the seat, and started the engine. "You might think I have a head full of spiders, but if I do, I don't try to hide them from anybody. You get my meaning?"
"I want you to take this in the right spirit, Lyle. You don't have the franchise on guilt about Vietnam, and you're not the only guy who had his life set back on track by some power outside himself. I think the problem here is peddling it to other people for money."
"You ever see a bishop drive a Volkswagen?"
"I'll get off right there at the corner. Thanks very much for the evening."
I stepped out onto the gravel road, closed the car door, and walked toward a clapboard bar that vibrated with the noise from inside. Lyle's fire-engine-red convertible grew small in the distance, then disappeared in the purple shadows between the sugarcane fields.
I had to wait to use the pay phone in the bar, and I drank a 7 Up at a table in the corner and watched a drunk blackhaired girl in blue jeans dance by herself in front of the bandstand. Her undulating, slim body was haloed in cigarette smoke.
I hadn't meant to be self-righteous with Lyle. I truly felt for him and his family and what they had endured at the hands of the father and the prostitute named Mattie, but Lyle also made me angry in a way that I couldn't quite describe to myself. It wasn't simply that he pandered to an audience of ignorant and fearful people or that he misused the money they gave him; it went even deeper than that. Maybe it was the fact that Lyle had truly been inside the fire storm, had seen human behavior at its worst and best, had made a mistake down in a tunnel that perhaps beset his conscience with a level of pain that could only be compared to having one's skin ripped off in strips with a pair of pliers. And he sold it all as cheaply as you might market the plastic flowers that adorned the stage of his live TV show.
Yes, that was it, I thought. He had made a meretricious enterprise out of an experience that you share with no one except those who've been there, too. I don't believe that's an elitist attitude, either. There are events you witness, or in which you participate, that forever remain sacrosanct and inviolate in memory, no matter how painful that memory is, because of the cost that you or others paid in order to be there in that moment when the camera lens clicked shut.
How do you tell someone that a drunk blue-collar girl dancing in a low-rent Louisiana bar, her black hair curled around her neck like a rope, makes you remember a dead Vietnamese girl on a trail three klicks from her village? She wore sandals, floppy black shorts, a white blouse, and she lay on her back, with one leg folded under her, her eyes closed as though in sleep, the only disfiguration in her appearance a dried stream of blood that curled from the corner of her mouth like a red snake. Why was she there? I don't know. Was she killed by American or enemy
fire? I don't know that either. I only remember that at the time I wanted to see a weapon near her person, to believe that she was one of them But there was no weapon, and in all probability she was simply a schoolgirl returning from visiting someone in another village when she was killed.
That was my third day in-country. That was twenty-six years ago. I had news for Lyle. He might be honest about the spiders crawling around in his head, but he wouldn't get rid of them by trying to sell them through a television tube.
You offer them the real thing, Brother Lyle, you tell them the real story about what happened over there, and they'll put you in a cage and take out your brains with an ice cream scoop.