IGMS Issue 11 (12 page)

Her hands were icy, but steady. "I swear on my soul," she said, her voice hollow, bereft of emotion. "I swear that some day I will understand how to--"

"Stop," I said, giving her a good hard pinch. "I don't know what you're talking about. But we've got to get out of here. Karin, listen to me!"

Just then, Roberson fired his rifle over the heads of the women and children. The sleeping babies began to cry. And the children, who had been chattering, instantly fell silent. The women pulled them away from the slats, gathered them to the center of the truck bed, and crouched over them.

The farmers and the Mexicans standing near the foreman stood still as a photograph, like they'd be frozen that way forever. Not a leaf fluttered, not a bird flew, not a breath was taken for the longest moment in the history of the world.

Then, in one motion, Marshburn shot the foreman square in the chest, snatched up the money envelope and shoved it into the hands of the nearest Mexican. A couple of pickers scrambled forward, reaching out for the dead man. But Foust shooed them away with a wave of his knife. Marshburn stooped down, pulled the paper from the foreman's dead grasp, and crushed it in his fist.

"We gotta get out of --"

"Not yet," Karin said.

The trucks roared off, spinning a trail of dust all the way to Browther County.

Karin slumped against a wall of slick, moss-covered logs. I wanted to crawl under a pine nut and die.

Hot tears dropped off my nose. I sucked air as though I were about to be pulled irretrievably into the sea. I buried my head in my arms.

I didn't see them drag off the dead man. By the time I raised up and wiped my eyes enough to see straight, the body had vanished and Foust was sitting on a banged up cane-bottom chair in the shade of a chinaberry tree, calmly working his nails with his big knife.

Karin was not beside me. She had slipped out of our hiding place while I was having my fit. I thought she'd left to go pee or throw up -- which I was going to do as soon as we got outta there.

Marshburn strolled back from the woods, set his shovel down, then dragged another old chair out of one of the shacks.

"Hot work," he said. "You know, in a way, I'm sorry to see that bunch go. A couple of those tamales looked almost white." Marshburn's broad smile uncovered an unpleasant jumble of tiny yellow teeth. "And brother, they can't resist me. I caught me one of them young ones the other night, and she . . ."

I didn't want to hear or see any more. I curled up with my arms wrapped around my head, and stayed that way until I felt Karin snuggle in beside me.

Roberson was walking down from the house swinging a jug in one of his long arms.

"You boys do with a swig of this here?"

Foust and Marshburn applauded.

"I want to go
now
," I said.

"Not yet. I need you to see what will happen now. You are my witness. Wipe your eyes and watch. They are going to drink it any minute."

I balled up my hand and pounded Karin's arm. "Drink what? What did you put in that jug? What did you do?"

She pointed her finger at the men.

"Poison?" I said, still pounding on her. "You put poison --"

"No," she said. "Elena, stop hitting me and watch."

"I have to warn them!" I whispered.

"Please. There is no poison in the whiskey. You must know I would not do such a thing."

The men passed the bottle, taking swigs and howling with pleasure after each swallow. There was nothing about their behavior to suggest they'd ever done anything worse than share illegal moonshine in a dry county. They looked so ordinary. Drunk, but ordinary.

And then their good-natured whooping began to change. Their voices grew ragged, irritated, growl-like. They twitched. Foust hurled the empty jug against a concrete wall.

"Watch," Karin said.

Marshburn's little teeth seemed to swell up as they lengthened, extending sharply downward from the crack of his mouth, the canines surpassing until they reached his chest where they curled like tusks. Foust's teeth were growing as well.

"What the hell --" Roberson cried as he reached up and felt the thick crop of bony spikes erupting from his brow and temples. They spun round and round, their arms flailing wildly. They stomped the ground until their shoes burst from the pressure of their now elephantine feet. They tore off their trousers, letting loose newly born black leathery tails. Soon they had rent all their clothing as though the cloth itself were painful. Marshburn and Roberson picked furiously at the oozing pustules that covered their swelling flesh. Foust grabbed his knife and whittled on his lengthening claws; then madly and carelessly tried to slash them away.

"Judas priest!" Foust screamed.

"We going crazy or what?"

"You see this crud? It's all over me!"

"It ain't real! It's a hallucin --"

"Sure as hell hurts like real!"

"Shit's eating me alive. I can't stand --"

"The creek," Marshburn shouted as he pointed the bloated tentacle that had been his arm. "The water -- cool water'll sober us up. These stinkin' sores is burning like fire."

The men hobbled away into the woods on misshapen, bleeding legs, heading for the creek.

We crawled from our hutch in the ruins and took off running. The air was thick and hazy hot. Everything looked like it had been soaked in melted butter. And though I ran as hard as I could, I didn't feel I was getting any closer to home.

I wanted to believe that as soon as I was home, I'd be all right. That what I'd seen that day -- the details of which appeared in my mind with greater and greater clarity -- would start to fade. I needed to believe all of it would dissolve like a dream. As soon as I was home . . .

It was late when we finally slowed down. Long shadows reached for us as we walked. I didn't realize how far out of our way we had gone or how tired I was until my legs flat gave out.

"I have to stop," I said. "I don't have enough spit to swallow. You got any water in that basket?"

Suddenly, Karin was laughing. She set the basket down then doubled over, shaking her head, trying to speak, waving her hands, laughing hard enough to hurt. She pointed at the basket and collapsed on the ground where she rolled back in the dirt and kicked her legs up into the air.

Her going off like that gave me the shivers. But it also made me feel like the world could get normal again. I plopped down in the grass beside the basket. It was heavier than I expected -- Karin had carried it the whole time. There were fourteen little pill bottles inside. Around each one was a band of adhesive tape on which had been inscribed a name and a date -- Tony Reynolds, 2 July 50; Mildred Foust, 25 June 50 . . .

"What's in these things? Pee?"

Karin righted herself on the ground beside me. "It is only water," she said, still struggling to recover her wits.

"What else's in them?" I said. "What did you put in them!"

"I told you. It is only water." She grabbed the basket out of my lap.

"Is that the stuff you put in that jug of whiskey?"

She nodded.

"Then it isn't ordinary water. You put some kind of vodoo Argentine junk in there. Something to make them go crazy like that. Or else you put germs in there and gave them a disease."

"Have you ever heard of such a disease?"

"How do I know what kind of diseases they have in Argentina or any other place you've been to?"

Karin was relaxed now, her old self. She sat tall, her back straight as the barrel of a rifle.

She plucked out a bottle and read the inscription. "This one I collected last Sunday in Creedmoor. You remember they baptized three teenagers . . . and Tammy Milford. It did not take me long to discover that Tammy had an interesting past. The ladies of the church talk, and so do the men -- in separate groups of course. No one takes any notice of me standing close by because they think I do not understand them.

"They suspected Tammy of various crimes. Trivial things -- fornication, drinking in bars, selling herself. Many of the men said she was not a normal woman, that she was unnatural. But men often say that about women they want but cannot have. None of these things are so terrible. Sins, perhaps. But not evil.

"There was, however, one crime which was much whispered about. When they spoke of it, they did it behind a hand, covering their mouths like this. They said: 'No one ever figured out what started the fire,' and 'They never found the baby,' 'Her folks were still in their bed, burned to bones, but not the baby,' 'She probably killed it so she'd have all the insurance for herself.' But one can never be certain that there is any truth in gossip.

"It happened sixteen years ago. Mrs. Simpson helped me find the newspaper stories in the library. You know she is losing her memories, so she did not recall many details. She remembered the fire and that there were many suspicions that the daughter had set the fire because she was tired of caring for her sick parents. Mrs. Simmons also told me there was a lot of insurance money and a missing baby."

"Why are you telling me this? What's it got to do with what happened . . . back there."

"Elena, this is Tammy Milford's bottle, it's where I put the water that washed away her sins. That is what I poured into the whiskey. Nothing else."

For a time my head ached so that I couldn't get my mind to think about what Karin had done, or why. Or how, for that matter.

Finally, my mind settled on one thought -- Karin had fourteen bottles of evil in a basket on her lap. I'd seen what the stuff could do. But she'd touched it, labeled it, carried it, poured it -- and hadn't been afraid.

"You didn't know what would happen, did you?" I said.

"I believed . . . I had reasoned it out for myself. I did not know exactly what would happen. Perhaps nothing would happen. It was an idea I had. About evil. About God. But now I am sure that there is science in these things. If God made the world, He also made science. Biology, geology, physics, mathematics -- the whole world works by its laws. And therefore," she said with a sigh, "He made chemistry too. But I could not test my theory on innocent people."

"But the Mexican -- you might have saved his life."

She looked at me, tilting her head. "And just how might I have done that? Who might I have told who would believe me? The other farmers? They all have orchards -- even Reverend Harden." She shook her head then stared into the basket.

"It would have ended the same. And too, it might have been worse -- more killing, perhaps the children hurt. People only believe terrible things happen when they see them. And then, of course, it is too late."

She looked into my eyes and took my hand. "Believe me, please, Elena. I did not know they would kill. I only knew they intended to cheat and that they had badly used some of the women."

Karin put Tammy's bottle back into the basket and closed the lid.

In silence, we walked through fruit-bare orchards, across fields and pastureland. The sun blinked between the branches of trees. The eastern horizon grew dim. Only when we reached the summit of the blacktop road that wound down into town did we sit and rest again.

We gazed down at the houses clustered in the shallow valley below and watched their tiny lights cut on as a blanket of darkness was drawn slowly over the town.

"It looks like a doll town, doesn't it," I said.

Karin said nothing. She was far away, farther than LaGrange, farther than New York or Argentina, perhaps as far as Germany. She didn't notice the feasting mosquitoes or the suddenly chilling breeze.

"My parents were murdered, you see," she said finally.

"I didn't know that. I thought they died in the war."

"No. After the war. It was best to let people think they died in the war. That is what I was told."

"I'm sorry that your --"

"They were shot down in the street in front of our house. They died without having their sins washed away." Karin flicked away a tear and took a deep breath. "My father's soul was black with sins, you see. Black as any demon. And now he burns in hell. My mother knew what he did at the camp. She knew all of it, yet she comforted him, telling him it was his duty, this difficult work. She too is in hell. And there they shall remain . . . forever."

"But God forgives -- Jesus forgives everything," I said.

"No," she said, shaking her head, flinging tears on me.

"They
should
be in hell. It is right. There are some things that ought not be forgiven. Not ever. It is wrong that true evil is so easily washed away. Or so easily hidden. It is God's mistake."

"God doesn't make mistakes," I said. But she didn't hear me; she wasn't really talking to me anyway.

"Evil should look like what it is," she continued. "Like the men back there who will soon become themselves again and go on doing ordinary things every day with no sign of what they did this day.

"My parents were very beautiful and, of course, charming. But still, ordinary people. Had they been ugly or coarse or mean, had they beaten our servants or behaved like barbarians, or run through the streets like madmen, then everyone would have seen what they were. And my parents might have realized what they were doing . . . before it was too late."