A Cry of Angels (37 page)

Following Em's plan, we came in behind the Hutchinson farm from the Little Holland highway. We left the bike in the woods and approached from the south end, jumping the frozen drainage ditch and working our way along the fence. Crouching low and keeping a careful watch on the farmhouse, we dodged from building to building until we reached the equipment shed below the poultry house. "Might as well settle down here till he goes to bed," said Em. At the top of the hill the farmhouse sat in shaded darkness except for a light in the kitchen.

Em unscrewed the wine jar and took a long sip. He offered it to me. "I believe I've had enough," I said. I didn't know if it was the excitement or what, but I felt a little queasy from what I had drunk already.

"I'll take another sniff," volunteered Tio.

"You done 'bout sniffed yourself silly," said Em. "And for God's sake,
take off that beard
!"

"
Ssssh
! Both of you! You want to wake the whole place?'' It had started out a dark night, but a wind came up and the clabbery cloud cover started to drift; the new top of the dairy barn shone silvery in the moonlight. After a while I saw the kitchen light go out; a moment later a colored glow flooded the shrubbery under the living-room window. I swore under my breath and crawled back to where Em and Tio were swapping the jar. "Fine bunch of thieves we are. Boy, we sure can pick our nights."

"What's wrong?" said Em.

"It's Christmas Eve, remember? They'll be up half the night fixing Santa Claus!"

"No," Em said, shaking his head, "he's got no family.

How do you know that?"

"You can always see signs of kids around a place, if there is any kids, and the day he kept us waitin' out by the pumphouse I seen him in the kitchen fixin' his own dinner. Wouldn't have been fixin' his own dinner if he had a wife, would he?"

"You amaze me," Tio said.

"Well, then he's fixing Santa Claus for himself," I said. "I just saw Christmas tree lights come on."

"Yeah?" Em crawled forward and looked out. "That's queer, he ain't the type to do that."

"Did you know he thought Em was a gypsy?" I said.

Tio sniggered and Em shushed him. "We better go see," he said. "That don't fit at all."

"All three of us?" I asked. "Hadn't just one ought to go?"

"Yeah, we ought to stay together. If one goes, and it's clear, he's got to come all the way back past the poultry house to get the others, and then go back up there. No sense in spreadin' ourselves all over the farm carryin' messages, is it? Tio, damnit, stop suckin' on that jar!" He snatched it from him, finished it off in a few heavy swallows, and tossed it away.

"That'll remove the temptation," I said.

Tio started to snigger again, got caught in a protracted belch, and sat on the ground trying to unstrangle himself.

"I'll just swear," said Em, yanking off the cotton beard and pounding his back.

When Tio could breathe again we got on all fours and set off through the weeds, Em leading the way and me bringing up the rear, with Tio managing along in the middle in a listing, sideways crawl. I began to grow more and more uneasy.

There was no warning bark from the house, but we weren't really worried about that anyway. Hutchinson wasn't the type to feed scraps to a dog that could be fattening up his hogs. We reached the corner of the house and pulled Tio to his feet and moved cautiously along to the living-room window. Em removed his hat and edged out past the window until the tinted light slid over one eye.

That eye squinted to accustom itself to the light, flew open in surprise, blinked a couple of times, and then the other eye came out to join it. They both stood transfixed.

The thin-limbed cedar tree stood blinking in the corner casting its brilliant patterns over the room in electric celebration; on the ceiling, the walls, the room's drab, slipcovered furniture—and on the naked white figures writhing joyously on the floor. Their heads were toward us, Mr. Hutchinson's face buried in her shoulder and his bald spot waving like a tiny moon in the semidarkness. The woman's center ridged forehead and the waves of thick red hair spilled over the sateen pillow were unmistakable. It was Eva Flynn from Mae's Truck Stop.

Tio squinched his eyes and the cackle started to build in his throat. Em clamped a hand over his mouth and lifted him away by his britches. I raced behind them across the backyard and down the hill, Tio's feet kicking the air and his breath spluttering between the Indian's fingers. When we were safely below the barn the three of us collapsed in the weeds, holding our faces and kicking in helpless agony. It was one of those uncontrollable, side-aching times, when it really hurt and we couldn't stop. And no sooner would we begin to get control when one would snort and set the others off again.

"Well, boys," said Em, pulling himself weakly to his knees and speaking gruffly, "we better get them chickens. . ." he tried, and couldn't resist it, "while the rooster's occupied!"

"
Yaaaaaaagh
," gurgled Tio, and Em collapsed on his face again.

It seemed we were doomed to spend the rest of the night floundering in the weeds of Hutchinson's pasture.

When there was absolutely no breath left, not a kink in an internal organ, we dragged ourselves to our feet, not daring to even look at each other, and stumbled off toward the poultry house.

Tio and I watched through the slatted walls while Em lifted the latch and eased inside with the chicken catcher. He stood a moment to get his bearings, then carefully made his way along the rows of ghostly white chickens. A hen clucked and stood up and Em froze. After a while she settled back down.

Selecting a plump pullet on the bottom row, Em eased out the wire loop. Tio and I stopped breathing. The wire was invisible in the dark, all I could see was the hoe handle inching toward her head. Suddenly the noose snapped shut. Em jerked her to the ground and put a foot on her to stop the fluttering. That was all. It was so quick and quiet there was hardly a stir among her sleeping sisters. "
Ssssew
!" Tio shook his head in inebriated admiration.

Em loosened the snare and the chicken lay dead, her wings spreading slowly away from her body. He quickly caught two more the same way, and handed them through the door. I put them into the sack. "Better get one more," he said. He was starting back for it when Tio gave a "
Pssst
!" through the crack. He kept going "
pssst
" until Em came over.

"Let me get the last 'un," he said.

"You ain't in no shape," Em whispered.

"Aw man, ain't I been watchin' you do it? Come on, lemme get one. Ain't no use to you havin' all the fun."

Em sighed. "Come quiet, then."

Tio groped through the door and got a grip on the catcher, and Em steadied him up and pointed him toward the chickens. "Em, are you crazy?" I whispered. Em put his finger to his lips and grinned.

Tio weaved away toward the roosts. Two old hens on the bottom pole stood up, heads cocking, and watched his approach with interest. Tio drew up before them, readied himself, and, after considerable fumbling, the wire loop lifted out, wavered uncertainly over their heads, and slowly settled on the one on the right. The hen watched it descend toward her, then at the last moment flicked her head and the loop slid down her wing. Em covered his mouth and turned away.

Tio grinned sheepishly. He tugged at his hat and tried again. Out of patience, the hen hopped to the ground and trotted away under the roost. Tio stared after her. The action seemed completely to confuse him. He turned to Em for guidance. But Em was unable to offer it; he was clinging helplessly to a roof pole, his hat cocked in the air and shaking violently.

Tio propped himself drunkenly on the catcher and considered the situation. He bent down and looked under the roost, then back at Jojohn. Finally, he took the course of action that must have seemed most obvious to him at the time. He got down on his knees and crawled under the roost poles after her.

When I finally got Em's attention and frantically pointed out what was happening, Em quickly tiptoed to the end of the roost and bent down. "Tio!" he cried in a hoarse whisper. "You damn idiot, come outa there!"

At that moment I heard the noose squeak shut—on the infuriated chicken's leg, it turned out.

With the first screech from under the roost, the entire leghorn population lifted into the air in one thundering, fluttering, ear-splitting cloud, exposing Tio standing between the roost poles, gamely hanging onto his plunging prey. The air was full of chickens; they banged against the walls, the ceiling, the doors, perching momentarily on rafters, only to get bumped off by incoming flights; they surged between the roosts in foaming currents and leap-frogged each other high into the air, shooting off showers of feathers. Em had given up trying to reach Tio and was wildly flailing his way toward the door.

The back porch light came on. A bulb lit up by the pumphouse.

I ran to the door and jerked it open, unable to hear my own voice yelling, but the open door gave the boiling poultry a square of moonlight to aim for and out they came, spilling over me and pouring off down the hillside in a squawking, raging white flood.

The first shotgun blast clanged across the poultry house roof and sprayed against the milking barn.

At that point Em gave up trying for the door and came through the wall in a shower of splintering lath.

He found Tio and pulled him out, still clutching the catcher and the flouncing chicken. I had a good head start on them, but at the silo Jojohn passed me, hat in hand and a firm grip on Tio's collar, knees pumping high and grunting with pounding breaths as he ran.

"Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Uh-huh!"

The second shot rang out and I felt the sack jump in my hand, and realized for the first time I was still carrying the other chickens.

I jumped the ditch and dived into the cart with Tio as Em was turning out on the creek road. We followed the back roads for several miles before swinging back onto the highway, but even then we were sure every pair of headlights we saw was either Hutchinson or the sheriff, and stopped and pulled the bike into the bushes.

But eventually we grew confident and relaxed. Em peppered along toward home and I sat watching the pavement glide from under my feet. Tio was already asleep with his head on the sack.

As we crossed the river bridge at the lower end of the Ape Yard, Em cut his speed and yelled back over his shoulder, "You feel like dressin' these things?"

"What do you mean?''

Up the slope to the right glowed the lights of the Rainbow Supper Club. "Man, I'm just about whupped," he said.

"Me too," I said. It was well after midnight.

"I sure don't feel like dressin' these things."

"Well, somebody's got to, if you want your chicken dinner tomorrow." I might have known you'd put it off on me, I thought. But then as we drew nearer to the supper club, a smoky aroma cut the air, and I got the drift of his meaning.

"I can't wait for no tomorra, I'm 'bout to perish. What say we swap 'em off for some of old Bubba's barbecue!"

"After all that trouble for a chicken dinner?"

"Aw, them old birds are prob'bly tough anyhow." He was already turning off on the supper-club road. "How we gonna bake no chicken in the first place—ain't even got no oven! Talkin' 'bout fixin' chicken, and ain't even got no oven."

"You've got a point there."

"We don't even know nothing 'bout cookin' chicken."

"Right again, Em."

"But old Bubba sure knows how to cook barbecue."

That was true. Bubba White's Rainbow Supper Club, a barnlike structure converted from an old flour mill on the river, was almost as famous for its barbecue as for the murders that took place there. Bubba White was a stump of a man with the benevolent face of a black Santa Claus, and a violent temper. He had been brought up on a number of charges, and once in a while, when the public outcry became loud enough, his place was raided and padlocked. But within a few months the Rainbow was back in business, the cellar restocked with bootleg whiskey, and convicts from the county stockade waiting Bubba's tables.

Bubba White was Doc Bobo's brother-in-law.

Em coasted around the parked cars to the kitchen. He knocked, but the noise from the jukebox drowned him out. He knocked again, and this time the door bucked on its hinges. Bubba himself peered out of the smoking kitchen, his maroon tie tucked in his belt, sweat glistening on his bald head and curling his collar. He recognized Em and grinned. "Hey, what say, what say."

Em held up the chickens. The ragged wings flopped open. "Bubba, we got some nice pullets here. How 'bout a trade for some of that good barbecue?"

Bubba White sucked his teeth and leaned out and looked around the yard. He saw me trying to rouse Tio and glanced back suspiciously at Em. "It's all right," said Em, "just a couple boys I brought along to help me catch 'em."

Bubba looked at the chickens, hanging lifeless in Em's big fists.

"How long them chickens been dead, man?"

"Not more'n a hour. They're still warm, feel 'em."

Bubba felt the corpses carefully. "This 'un looks like it's been run over."

"That one got caught in a shotgun blast"—an explanation that lifted Bubba's eyebrows—"but these others ain't got a bruise on 'em."

When Bubba had finished his examination, he turned and held out the birds to a broad-hipped woman who was working a barbecue fork between the black iron doors. "Take these chickens, Etta, and fix these boys sump'n to eat." He picked up a bottle from the cabinet. "Want a little sump'n, Em?"

"Better not," said Em, "I had some wine awhile ago and it don't do me to mix it."

Bubba chuckled. "Still got that tejus stomach, huh?"

"Raw as a whore at camp meetin'," said Em, rubbing his middle. "Sometimes I think the linin' gone."

Bubba's head jerked in silent laughter. He opened the door to the main dining room and pointed up to the balcony. "You all go up and get a seat. Send your food right up." He beckoned to a waiter.

Em leaned over and tapped the cook on the shoulder. "Put lots'a hot sauce on mine, Etta."