Shadow Country (54 page)

“That thing still around?”

“Twelve-gauge Remington ridge-barrel, twenty-eight or thirty-inch twin barrels? Short forearm with the old wood split, put back together pretty solid with squarehead screws? Safety busted, welded back, busted again—that sound familiar?” They nodded together. “Course the stock is all raggedy-lookin from bein shot up so bad and the barrels pitted from layin too long in the salt water. Some fool had went and flung her into the bilges of your daddy's boat, never stopped to think that one day that ol' gun might be worth good money. Sheriff Tippins fished her out, kept her for court evidence, but nobody thought to give her a wipe of oil or nothing, from the looks.”

“Who's got it now?”

“I reckon Speck still has it. Claims the sheriff give it to him but it wouldn't surprise me if that rascal misplaced it to where he could find it again after Tippins went over to Miami. Speck collects old Watson stuff, y'know.”

Lucius thought about the string of lead slugs hanging on Daniels's neck. “I know,” he said.

TANT AND PEARL

Walking down to the river, Lucius passed the old red Langford house between Bay and First streets where he had lived with his mother in his early school days. Mama! The thought of her made him sad: he had missed her more and more over the years. And how kind she had been to her difficult stepson—had Rob appreciated this? And how brave she'd been to reprove Papa for the cold way he treated him.

In the riverside park, a gaggle of pubescent girls in new white sneakers, shrilling and giggling, squirting life, were observed without savor by decrepit men fetched up in the corners of the benches like dry piles of wind-whirled leaves. In the river light, the noisy nymph troupe juxtaposed with those silent figures was unreal. One of these men could be Leslie Cox, drink-ravaged, syphilitic.

Queerly, one man removed his toothpick and pointed it straight at him. In the sun's reflection off the river, the wet pick glinted like a needle. “That you, Lucius? Where you been hidin, boy?” The man was not old, simply worn out. He shifted a little to make room on his bench.

Tant Jenkins, whose mustache had gone to seed, seemed unaware that they had not crossed paths for years. They talked at angles for a while, finding their way. When Lucius mentioned he'd just seen Tant's cousin Crockett, Jenkins said unhappily, “One them Cajun Danielses. We ain't hardly related.” He looked away over the water, where gulls planed down the wind between the river bridges. “Which is a lie. It's just I ain't so proud about it.” Tant tried to laugh. “One them Cajuns scratched his head, said, ‘I'll be doggoned if my own dad ain't my son-in-law!' ”

Lucius mustered a chuckle at this old joke to shield Tant's dignity. “Is he kin to me, too? He used to think so.”

“Well, I have heard that, which don't mean it's true. Speck weren't born a Watson, he were born a liar. Never had no first-hand experience of the God's truth—just flat don't care about it. Course Josie and Netta lived a while at Chatham Bend, had daughters there. . . .” Tant spoke cautiously, not certain how much Lucius might care to acknowledge.

“My half sisters, you mean.”

“I reckon that's right,” Tant said, relieved. “But back in the nineties, when your dad first showed up, he met a young Daniels girl one night that ran so wild they called her ‘Jenny Everybody.' Just the one time, far as I know, but she claimed her kid was his, never mind that Crockett was kind of dark, looked like a wild Injun. Course nobody never knew for sure just who the father was, not even Jenny.

“Netta's Minnie, now, she has her daddy's color, blue eyes, that dark rust hair. Lives in Key West, never signed up as a Watson, but Netta called her ‘E. Jack Watson's love child.' Netta liked to recall how E. Jack Watson ‘ravished' her, and when Josie was drinkin, she'd get that same idea: ‘That darned Jack took me by
storm
!' Them ladies weren't one bit ashamed about Jack Watson, they were proud about him.”

Tant reminded Lucius of Pearl Watson's visits in his Lost Man's days, how she'd hitch rides on the runboat that picked up the Hardens' fish just to go warn him about the Chokoloskee men, beg him to leave. “Young Pearl was out to mother you,” Tant said, “and here she was half your age.”

Sometimes she called herself Pearl Jenkins, sometimes Pearl Watson. She was a pretty girl and kind, but her life had always been a sad one, looking in the window. “I guess a real home was what that poor girl wanted most,” said Lucius.

“Well, she wound up in one. Her mind kind of let go on her so they put her in some kind of a home over in Georgia.”

“Oh Lord! I never knew what became of her!”

“Pearl was always so proud how you come and hugged her like a sister at your daddy's burial. Which was more than them others done, she said.”

Subdued, the old friends stared away across the broad brown reach of the Calusa Hatchee. Westward, toward Pine Island Sound, the lifting gulls caught glints of sun where the current mixed with wind in a riptide. “Mister Ed and me, we had some fun,” Tant mused. “Lots of comical times. I ain't never goin to forget my days at Chatham. Never seen so much food in all my life, that day to this.”

“Papa had known a lot of hunger so he enjoyed providing food.” Happy to share fond memories of his father, Lucius smiled.

“I reckon he was all right before that Tucker business,” Jenkins blurted. “That's when I quit. You ain't asked my opinion and likely you don't want it but I better say it anyways just so we're straight about it.” Tant cleared his throat again, frowning and worrying, torn between tact and integrity. “Some way your dad was crazy, Lucius, only he was the dangerous kind that never showed it. Act like everybody else, joke and talk and go about his business, and all the while there's a screw loose in his brain.”

“No,” Lucius said patiently. “No, I don't think he was crazy.” He shook his head. But Tant persisted, eyes wide behind round glasses; he wore the dogged look Lucius remembered. “You realize how near your daddy come to bein killed before they killed him? It's terrible to be so deathly scared day after day, folks just can't handle it. And finally they had enough.” Tant glanced at Lucius as they walked along, distressed by his friend's silence. “Naturally his own kids never knew that fear nor his friends neither. Captain Jim Daniels flat refused to believe all them bad stories. ‘That ain't the Ed Watson I know'—that was all he'd say.”

They paused at the foot of the Edison Bridge to gaze at the brick mansion on the corner opposite. Walter Langford had built that house in 1919 and died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1921, leaving Carrie with more debts than assets.

“Them years you lived down in the Islands, your sister had a dog's share of misfortune, but she had some spirit and she had some style. Liked to drink some, have a good time like her daddy. Never talked about the scandal”—Tant shot a glance at Lucius—“but would not act ashamed about him, neither. Nobody spoke bad about Ed Watson around Carrie Langford.

“In Prohibition, she run the Gulf Shore Inn, down Fort Myers Beach. Had a speakeasy in back but Tippins never bothered her. Course Carrie was well up in her thirties, she'd put on a little heft, but a fine-lookin widder woman all the same. And pretty quick, she got hooked up with a fish guide at the Beach, Cap'n Luke Gates on the
Black Flash.

“One night I was in there when Gates's wife come in—thin scratchy little blonde, she was just a
-stormin
! Run right over and tore into her husband where he was settin at the poker table. Picked up his glass and let his liquor fly into his face. Cap'n Luke never lifted his eyes up off the cards. Never blinked, never reached to wipe his face. Kept right on studyin them cards with the whiskey runnin off his cheeks. ‘See you, raise you five,' he told them men.

“Makin no headway at the poker table, the wife let loose an ugly speech about Carrie Langford's morals or the lack of 'em and how Carrie come by her bad character real natural, her daddy bein a cold-blooded killer. Well, darned if this banker's widow don't ring open the cash register, break out a revolver, and fire off a round into the ceilin. Ever hear gunfire in a small room? And in that silence Carrie said, real calm and ladylike, ‘Let me tell you something, honey. That kind of mean and lowdown talk is not permitted in my place just because some little fool can't hang on to her man.' And seein a weapon in the hands of Watson's daughter, that little blonde cooled off in a hurry. She run outside where it was dark and yelled some dirty stuff in through the window but nobody paid her no attention after that.”

EDDIE

Tant Jenkins peered across the street. “Methodist Church owns that brick house now but Eddie still calls it ‘the Langford Mansion,' comes over here most every day to tell the tourists all about it.” Shading his eyes, he said, “I reckon that's him back in the corner of the porch.”

At the porch steps, they awaited Eddie, who came forward, saying “Good morning!” much too loudly. Despite the heat, he was dressed formally in linen suit, white shirt, green tie, well flecked with souvenirs of repasts long forgotten. He peered nearsightedly at Lucius, looking uncertain, and for the first time Lucius could recall, he felt a start of pity for his brother.

Tant Jenkins smiled. “Mr. Watson? Care to make the acquaintance of Professor Collins? Famous historian?”

Eddie stepped back with a sweeping gesture of welcome. “I am honored, sir! E. E. Watson, at your service, sir!” Grandly he waved them up onto the porch. “My brother, too, is a historian, comes to consult me—”

“Eddie?”

“This was the Langford Mansion, sir. My sister's husband was the president of the First National Bank and Carrie and Walter entertained the Thomas Edisons and their friend Mr. Henry Ford. I believe that Mr. Samuel Clemens—”

“Eddie, wait—”

“What's that?” Eddie looked alarmed; he recoiled when Lucius touched his arm to calm him. “What do
you
want?”

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions. For a biography of Papa—”

“Oh no you don't!” His brother pushed past him down the steps into the sunlight, where he turned and pointed an unsteady finger. “Damn you, it's family business, will you
never
understand?
Family
business.” His arms waved wildly. “You never came to see your sister even after she was evicted from this house! You broke her heart!”

Lucius said he had never been notified; he would go see her right away. “I just wanted to ask about a list of names sent years ago to Rob by way of Nell Dyer—”

“Mrs. Summerlin to you!” Eddie yelled crazily. “Oh, I took care of
that
darned thing, don't worry!” Unable to meet his brother's eye, he glowered at Jenkins. “You people are trespassing! This is private property,
church
property! I'll call the law!” Stumbling, he hurried away and disappeared around the corner. The old river street stood gaunt and empty. They sat down on the steps.

“Eddie's always callin in complaints, kind of a hobby. Depitties don't pay no attention. Most days, he's friendly, maybe too friendly. Still tryin to keep up with the Langfords, I reckon.”

Lucius nodded, unhappy.

“I reckon he done the best he could,” Tant continued, “bein mulish as his daddy but not strong. Lately he begun to call himself Ed Watson Junior. Figured bein the son of a famous man made him somebody, too, and brung in customers.
Ed Watson, Insurance.
Buy a policy, get to shake the hand of Bloody Watson's son. ‘You
the
Ed Watson? You fixin to murder me if I don't pay up my premiums?'—teasin, you know. And Eddie come back with the same answer every time—‘Betcher life! So watcher step!'—and went right on fillin out the forms. Never occurred to 'em, I guess, that Watson's son might be a feller with real feelins. Said, ‘Why hell, if he can't take a joke, he should of left this town or changed his name.' Go back home and tell their friends that this Ed Watson is the spittin image of his daddy, which he sure ain't.

“Folks always thought of Eddie as pretty meek and mild behind his bluster, but lately he took to hinting how he's a chip off the old block, might have a violent streak. Figured your average American might take to an insurance man with a dangerous past and he weren't wrong. Even hauled out a copy of your list, let on as how he went down to the Islands took care of them ringleaders. ‘Didn't have no choice,' he told 'em. ‘Watson honor.' ”

Chortling, Tant wrote down the phone number of Pearl Watson's institution. “She'd be tickled to hear from you,” he said.

In parting, Tant clung a moment to his hand. “You could always count on your backdoor family, Lucius, and you still can, what's left of us.”

INSULTED PEAS

Pearl Watson had been nine or ten when their father was killed, a self-starved creature, a fugitive from the sun whose thin pale hair with its thin white ribbon let her scalp shine through. At Caxambas that black autumn, Tant had said, the child had been dumbstruck by her father's death and terrified by the outcry of her mother, who had lost her infant son and fled her agony for days with shrieks of woe.

Pearl's frail voice came over the wire after a long wait.

Who are you? Who is calling?

This is Lucius. Your brother Lucius.

Brother Who?

Pearl, this is Lucius. I just called to say hello, see how you were getting along.

Why are you hollering? Did you say Lucius? Oh Good Lord! Oh, Lucius honey, I was so worried, sweetheart! Lucius? Do you look awful, too? Where are you? Why are you calling?

Please, Pearl, don't upset yourself. I just wanted to hear your voice. Pearl honey? I'm so sorry I haven't called before. I never knew you'd gone away.

What's become of you, sweetheart? Why haven't you called?