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The bull brahma glanced up as if surprised to see Pickett again. He blinked, the eyes glazed and fanatic.
“That there's Li-Po. Fucker's crazier'n a coot.”
Delano Trapani's pick-up napped before the open door of the largest of the outbuildings. Trap emerged from the darkness and, with a grunt, tossed a bale of hay up onto the half full bed.
He pulled a large red handkerchief from his chinos and dropped to the running-board of his truck. “Think he's found the Promised Land, Li-Po does. Grazes that there spot till it's bald, then won't go no wheres else. So I toss him a bale so he won't starve. And, y'know, that sucker just stans there grinning at the moon. Praise the Lord, he says. Manna from Heaven, he says.” Trap chuckled, the sound like an old two cycle engine. “That sucker's convinced hisself he found the land of milk an' honey.”
Pickett shrugged. “Maybe he has,” and Pickett rested his backside against the hot steel of his Nova.
“Maybe has at that.” Trap wiped his shiny black brow, then launched himself back into the barn. He reappeared with another bale of hay. He paused, tossed his head toward the house and winked a sorrowful brown eye. “Been confrencing with Our Lovely Wife?”
Pickett blew a short, silent whistle.
Trapp dropped the bale of hay and erupted into laughter so intense that he had to hold on to the side of the truck just to stay on his feet. Looking furtively toward the house, he clamped his hands over his mouth and sank onto the running board, shaking with mirth. “Jee-sus—” Trap wiped his eyes. “She's sure as hell something else.”
“Yep,” said Pickett sagely.
“Know what her problem is, don't ya? I mean what her real problem is?”
“Damned if I do.”
“She got Yin-Yang problems. She got'em bad.”
“Aint we all,” said Pickett.
“Aint it the truth,” said Delano Trapani.
“Mu-wah—” said crazy Li-Po.
Trap rose, picked up the bale and threw it past the Nova to the waiting bull. Suddenly, he turned to Pickett. “Whataya doing out here, anyway.”
“Wasting my time mostly.”
“Lady looking for Mark, huh?”
“Yeah, among other things.”
“You know it.”
They both stared at Li-Po in silence.
Finally, Pickett said: “You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?”
“Me? Why we colut folks don know much bout—”
“Jesus, will you cut that out? You sound like Al Jolsen.”
Trap looked up, jaw set, eyes narrowed. Both quickly settled into a smile. “Yeah, guess I do sometimes.” He kicked at the dust with the heal of his boot. “Learnt that up at A and M. The profs figured me for uncle Tom, then, when I gets back home, my Ma calls me a comnist. Hell, caint much win like that, can I?” He made an expansive gesture with his arms. “So, I goes either way. Both ways. Depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“Don't rightly know. How it come out, I guess.”
Pickett shook his head, then put a hand to his forehead as if to still it. “You never answered my question.”
“No? Well, now, which question you talking bout? You axe a whole heap a questions, m'man.”
“About Mark—you know where he is?”
“Well, like I told the snake lady in there, I aint seen the boy.”
“But do you know where he is?”
“Why'd I know where he is?”
“You're worried about him. It must be for some reason.”
“Mark don't need no reason to be worrisome.” Trap nodded back to the house. “Tween those two and being seventeen, he don't need no more problems.”
“Looks like he's got them, though.”
“Yeah?” Trap thrust his hands deep into his chinos, turned his back to Pickett, and watched Li-Po crunching hay. “Maybe has at that.”
“Why do you think he ran off?”
“Don't know he has.” Trap turned. “Do you?”
“His mother does.”
“Know why?”
“I might. Funny things going on over in Belle Haven. Funnier than usual anyway. Mark's mixed up in them some way or other.”
“It's that girl,” blurted Trap.
Li-Po stopped chewing. He looked up, straw bristling from each side of his mouth like uncooked spaghetti.
Pickett straightened. “Which girl?”
“The black-haired girl. Mark found out she been coming here.” Trap looked back at Pickett, pained. “With his papa, for Chrissake.”
“Mark? You are talking about the woman in the photograph, right?” Pickett fumbled in the breast pocket of his work shirt and pulled out the torn photo. He held it up to Trap, but Trap stared past it at Pickett's face.
“Knew her? Christ, man, he like to marry her.”
“Marry her? Hell, she was old enough to be his mother.”
Trap wasn't listening. “I didn't know, I mean, really. I didn't know it was his girl. I mean, hell, the kid talked about her, sure, but how's I to know she's the same one? I sure as hell wouldn't a mentioned it to him if I had. Jesus fucking christ!” Trap smashed his fist against the Nova's fender, and glared at the dull white enamel. “I aint got Li-Po's sense half the time.”
Pickett's face flashed white; he grabbed Trap's arm and swung the black man around facing him. “What did she look like? I mean, you said that she was like the girl in the picture. Isn't that what you said?”
“Hey, hold on now, man.” Trap's face distorted in anger. He froze; then, through force of will, softened.
Pickett released Trap's arm; but his eyes ranged nervously, he licked at his swollen lower lip. “Look—” Pickett's breath was short and shallow. “I'm sorry, but this is important. Real important. Was it the woman in the picture or not?”
“I said it could a been—I don't know. Looked like her anyway. That same long hair. She could a been younger, though. I don't know. But Mark—Mark like to go through the ceiling when I mentioned her name.”
“Christ! You know her name?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well what is it, man?”
“Amy. Her name's Amy. That's what Brother Ed called her anyways.”
“Damn.” Pickett rolled his eyes skyward. “When did you tell Mark? About Amy and his father, I mean?”
Trap's eyes narrowed, and he stepped back.
“Look,” Pickett pressed, “it's important.”
“To who and for what? Man, I don't know you from Malcolm X.”
“For Chrissake, when did you tell him?”
“What's it matter to you? There's a whole lot a white folk leaning on Mark right now. He don't need it—none of it. You the fuzz?”
“Jeez—”
“What's your interest in this?”
“The girl. Her father asked me to look after her.”
“Well,” Trap laughed without humor, “you sure as hell been sleeping on the job.”
“Come. On.”
“I got my own looking-after to do. Now you get outta here.” Trap stepped to Pickett and thumped the back of his hand against Pickett's chest. “And don't be fuckin' none with Mark. I aint a violent man, but I'll tell you something. That Mark, he got half a chance if you white bread fascists leave him alone. And I aim to see he gets that half chance. Now… You get in your Dee-troit motor there and go back to wherever you comes from.”
The two glared at each other above Li-Po's mastication.
Finally, Pickett turned. He got into his Detroit motor and went back where he'd come from.
21
Amy was dressed as she had been that morning, but her features had altered under the weight of recent experience. Her house coat hung open to the lavender negligee‚ beneath, bruising her face with cool blue from the reflected glare of the sun.
“Amy…”
Amy neither moved nor changed her expression.
Bodie Pickett exhaled slowly. “May I speak with you for a mo
ment, Amy?”
“Roger's at work.”
“Your father?”
Amy looked at Pickett, the calm of resignation leveling her eyes. “No, Mister Pickett, not my father. You know that. I'm not deaf, you know.”
“It's you I want to talk to, anyway. It'll just take a minute. It's probably better that your father—that Roger not be here.”
Amy's eyes played on Pickett's face for a moment, then without a word Amy turned, leaving the door open, and walked into the still dark living room. Pickett shut the door, walked to the sofa, and sat down.
“Amy, I want to know what your mother really told you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
Amy dropped to a straight back chair, staring straight ahead, past Pickett, to the window. Closed venetian blinds barred it with thin bands of light.
“I wanted to be good. I… Can you understand that, Mister Pickett?”
Pickett looked into her eyes for a long moment. “Yes, I think I can.”
Amy closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “No. No, I can't…”
“Amy—”
“For I know that in me”—Amy struck her nearly bare breast—”in my flesh—dwelleth no good thing.” She paused to let the remark sink in. “The Apostle Paul said that. He was a good man.” Amy struck her chest again. “He was talking about me.”
Pickett smiled gently. “He was talking about himself, Amy. Just a man—troubled maybe, but still just a man… a man who tried to figure out his life as best he could.”
Amy was shaking her head even before Pickett had finished. “For the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do.” Amy looked to Pickett, a need in her eyes. Their cold blues melted, and translucent greys streaked her cheeks. She raised her chin toward the tall man's face, and the grey, wet tracks glistened in the narrow light. “Do you understand now?”
“I don't know, Amy. You have to help me.”
Amy paused, then looked up. “You know.”
“Wha--”
“Did my mother tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Pickett's eyes were suddenly alive, his attitude wary.
“That…” Amy closed her eyes. She exhaled slowly, and as slowly opened her eyes once again. They focused on the floor at her feet, then rose, slowly, to the hazel eyes of Bodie Pickett. “Find out about… Edmund. Who told you?”
“No one, really. But I suspected. Did your mother tell you?”
“Tell me?” Amy started at the question. “Tell me what? I had to tell her.”
“Wait—” Pickett paused, licking his lower lip, his brow furrowed. “Your mother… well, you learned from her didn't you?”
He paused and studied Amy's face; she returned the gaze, astounded. Hysteria lay behind her quick eyes; between Pickett's arched brows appeared a deep cleft. He tried again:
“About your father, your real father—she told you, didn't she? Your mother, I mean?”
Astonishment became expectation. Amy's mouth fell. She rose slowly to her feet. “You know who my father is, don't you? Please, you must tell me!” She rose.
“You don't know? I thought your mother—”
“What? What did you think?” Amy threw herself to the sofa beside Pickett and gripped his arm with both her hands. “She didn't—wouldn't tell me. Please, you've got to tell me. What—”
Amy suddenly loosed Pickett's arm.
“Who did you think I was talking about?” Slowly, Amy rose, her face slack. “You thought that I was talking about my father, didn't you?” Amy leaned forward and caught the thin man's shoulder in a claw-like grip. “Didn't you!”
Pickett appeared lost.
“Oh, God…” she whispered, eyes wide and wild. “Oh—my—god. Help me!”
Pickett extended open hands to the girl. “I…”
Suddenly, Amy looked up and away from him, opening her mouth in a silent scream, some self-induced terror masking her features. Just as suddenly she clamped both hands to her open mouth, as if to trap the terror inside, to keep it from the world for fear that it might become part of it.
Pickett reached for her. “Amy, please—”
“Don't touch me!” Amy stepped back. “Can't you see?” She held her hands open before her staring eyes. “God help me… Unclean… else were your children unclean.”
“Stop it.” Pickett took Amy by her shoulders. But Amy was somewhere else.
“Their throat is an open sepulcher. With their tongues they have used deceit.”
The front door opened. Rage spread across Roger Mooring's face like a rash. “You—what are you doing?”
“Let me go!” Amy pushed Pickett off balance. Throwing a desperate glance to the man once her father, she rushed from the room into the hall.
Roger Mooring and Pickett followed Amy with their eyes. She disappeared; a door slammed in the darkness. Roger Mooring advanced on the taller man who moved to meet him.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?”
“Roger—”
“Get out of here! How dare you? What kind of man are you to come by when I'm gone and—and attack my daughter?”
“For Chrissake, Rog, I didn't attack her. I was trying to—”
“Just who do you think you are? You've treated me—everybody—like dirt all your life and now you think that you can just walk in here—”
Amy dashed in, dressed and in a hurry. Frantically, she searched the room, all the while tucking a yellow t-shirt into her jeans.
“What are you—where are you going?” demanded Roger Mooring.
Amy pushed past him. She pulled a small shoulder bag from beneath the red jacket that still lay on the easy chair.
“Amy!” Roger cried, but Amy was already out the door.
Pickett took two steps after her before Roger caught his arm. He spun around from his own momentum and Roger threw a fist in his face, catching Pickett below his left eye.
“God damn you!” screamed Roger Mooring, moving in as Pickett fell backwards against the kitchen partition. Pickett rolled to the side as he hit the wall, and Roger smashed into it, pinned against the rough plaster by Pickett who rolled back on top of him.
“God damn you—” Roger screamed into the wall. “Who do you think you are? Coming in here—”
“Stop it!” hollered Pickett into Roger Mooring's ear.
The yelling stopped. Roger began to sob. Pickett pulled away. Roger's legs folded under the weight of his body. He slid to the floor and curled up with his knees to his chin. Through his sobs, Roger Mooring spoke. But he spoke to himself, and in tones indecipherable save for one word. Amy.
As Pickett came down the steps of the Mooring house for the second time that day, Amy's VW turned east on Main. By the time he had his Nova on the road, the blue VW was nowhere to be seen. Pickett hesitated for a moment at the corner of Main, then headed east; he drove as if sure of his destination.