Long Black Curl (27 page)

“I think I want to get on down the mountain, too,” he said quietly, as if worried he might disturb some delicate balance. “My daughter Rosa's likely to be worried about me.”

“Your daughter comes with you?” Byron asked.

John nodded. “She calls herself Moonshine Kate.”

Byron smiled. “Well, I'll be. I figured that was your wife or girlfriend or something.”

“Nope, that's my baby girl.”

Byron picked up his guitar and put it across his lap again. He started strumming, “My Man's a Jolly Railroad Man,” which he knew by heart from one of those old scratchy 78s his father used to play. John smiled, too, and began to play along. Eli pulled out his Jew's harp and picked an occasional note, but he mainly watched the darkness in the direction the woman had disappeared.

He would lead Fiddlin' John Carson back down the mountain in the morning, because he knew that the man had years of life left to him. But he also knew Stella Kizer would not emerge from the forest for another twenty years, although mere hours would have passed to her. And as for Byron …

What the hell
was
he doing here? And where was he supposed to go?

 

19

Dinner at the Wisby household was tense as only family gatherings can be. Nigel grew up as one of two children, in a small row house with his mostly unemployed dad and bitter housewife mom, so he knew a thing or two about the dynamics at work. But nothing in his family compared to the animosity Bo-Kate brought out in everyone.

Memaw and Paw-paw regarded their only daughter with the same sideways suspicion you'd show a snake that slithered into your house. Is it poisonous? Should I chase it back out, or just kill it outright? Paw-paw slopped gravy with bits of crumbling biscuit, his actions loud and wet, while his wife daintily cut corn from the cob before eating no more than three kernels at a time with her fork.

Tain, once again dressed in skimpy summer attire despite the snow and wind outside, sipped her iced tea and kept trying to catch Nigel's eye. He understood that she wasn't interested in him particularly, just in “the new guy,” who happened to be an exotic black man from a strange background. Despite her beauty, it creeped him out a little, counteracting most of—but not all—the desire her blatant carnality inspired.

Bo-Kate's other brother, Snad, slouched in his chair half-awake, scooping up mashed potatoes and slowly raising them to his mouth. He hadn't said a word, and Nigel was unsure whether the passivity was his natural state, or if he was stoned out of his mind.

“You hear about that country singer, Raylon Dupree?” Bo-Kate's father said between bites.

“What about him?” his wife asked.

“They say he ran off with a policeman's horse in New York. He was all drunk, and somebody in some bar said he wasn't a real cowboy, so he had to show 'em.” The old man shook his head. “That'd been you or me, we'd be sitting' in jail right now. He just got a slap on the wrist and a pat on the back.”

“That's always the way,” his wife agreed.

“Them big shots in Nashville, they think they eat roses and shit sunshine,” the old man added.

Tain turned to Bo-Kate. “Hey,” she said, drawing out the syllable. “Doesn't your old boyfriend manage Raylon Dupree?”

Bo-Kate looked up sharply. “Shut up, Tain.”

She leaned her elbows on the table and blew a loose strand of black hair from her face. She grinned, taunting. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure he does, I read that on the CMT website. You ever hear from him?”

“Shut … up … Tain,” Bo-Kate said warningly.

“She never did tell you about Jeff, did she?” Tain said to Nigel. “They were Romeo and Juliet, or Roseanna McCoy and Jonce Hatfield. Nothing could keep them apart.”

“I mean it, Tain,” Bo-Kate said.

“
You
shut up, Bo-Kate,” Tain said with sudden ferocity. “Who the fuck are you to come barging back in here, fucking everything up again?” Nobody wants you here. Whatever song you've managed to steal, it ain't yours and never fucking will be.”

“Language, young lady,” the old man snapped.

“Come on,” Tain taunted Bo-Kate, “tell your colored boyfriend here all about Jeff. How handsome he was, how much you loved the way he fucked you in the bed of his truck, how when he killed that Spicer boy because you told him to, you fucked him right there beside the body. Ain't that true, Bo-Kate?”

Bo-Kate leaped to her feet and snatched up the big fork used to serve the pork roast. “How about I kill
you,
Tain, and do every man in three counties a favor?”

Tain jumped up as well. “Bring it, bitch.”

“Language!”
the old man roared, and slapped the table so hard, the silverware jumped. “If you two can't be civil, you can just get the hell out of my house!”

“It's my house, Daddy,” Bo-Kate said, still glaring at Tain. “It's
all
going to be mine before I'm done, so enjoy it while you can.” She rammed the fork into the wooden surface hard enough that the tines stuck in the wood, then turned and stalked from the room. Nigel rose to follow, but she said, “No, Nigel. You just stay here and be ready to go when I get back. It's time to bring on the headliner.” She snatched her coat from the chair by the heater and went outside.

She glared at Tain from the doorway. “And you, Little Miss No-Panties. I'm going to sing you to a place where no man will ever touch you again. You'll be all alone, for the rest of your miserable slutty existence. You think about that.”

When she was gone, Nigel let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and said, “I apologize. She's not herself today.”

“I don't know who you think she is, then, because that's my damn daughter, all right,” Paw-Paw said. He took another biscuit from the bowl.

Nigel glanced at Tain, then did a double take. Tears poured down the girl's cheeks. When she realized everyone was staring at her, she jumped up and ran upstairs.

“Goodness,” Nigel said. He felt ridiculously uncomfortable now, alone with the elder Wisbys and the mute, dissolute brother. “I hope we didn't hurt her feelings too badly.”

“It's not her feelings,” Mewmaw said. “She's part
glaistig.
She can't stand the thought of never having men around.”

“Now, you don't say that,” her husband said.

“What's a ‘glaistig'?” Nigel asked.

“Nothing,” Mrs. Wisby said. “I spoke outta turn. She's just a girl who likes men a lot, ain't nothing wrong with that no matter what them Christians say.”

Nigel sat quietly after that. The two old people continued to eat, eyes downcast, not speaking. The noise of their chewing and swallowing was almost deafening. Snad finished his mashed potatoes and stared at the residue on his plate. Nigel wondered where Bo-Kate had gone, and how long he was expected to sit here, trapped by politeness.

*   *   *

Junior Damo walked into the Fast Grab convenience store with the forced saunter of someone trying to appear casual. Behind the counter, Lassa Gwinn looked up from the tabloid she was reading and said, “Evening.”

“Evening,” he said back. He slapped the counter harder than he meant to—so hard, it made Lassa jump. “Keepin' you busy?”

“I'm only busy close to closing,” she said, “when everybody comes in to get beer.”

He nervously tapped the counter until she added, “Can I help you?”

“What? No.” He leaned on one elbow. “What's going on over at the Catamount Corner? Looks like everybody and their mother is there tonight.”

“Beats me. Nobody came in here for anything.”

“Did you happen to see if Mandalay Harris was there?”

Lassa gave him a look. “No idea, Junior. Why are you so interested?”

“I just don't like things going on that I don't know nothing about. With Rockhouse being dead and all, whatever they're talking about is likely to be important.”

“If it is, they'll tell us.” She resumed reading her magazine.

“Really?” Junior said in disbelief. “You think so? We got nobody in there to advocate for us, Lassa. They could be deciding we were all more trouble than we're worth.”

“You're paranoid,” she said without looking up.

“Well, I think we need somebody to stand up for us now that Rockhouse is gone. Somebody that gives a shit.”

This got her attention. “You?”

“Yeah … maybe. Why not?”

“Junior, you ain't never done a damn thing for anyone but yourself. You know, though, maybe you would be a good follow-up to ol' Rockhouse, after all.”

“Maybe the reason I ain't been no great philly-anthropist is because I ain't never had the chance, I been working too hard just trying to make it. You ever notice how Mandalay's folks all help each other out, and we just bitch and snipe? Slash each other's tires, shoot holes in each other's roofs, shit like that? It ain't no good no more, Lassa.”

She thought this over. “You might have a point.”

“Damn right, I got a point.”

Then she scowled. “Luckily that Peterbilt cap covers it.”

“Fuck you, then,” Junior said. “I'll remember this, Lassa Gwinn. It might come back to bite you.”

He stomped out of the Fast Grab. He didn't look back and see that Lassa was still thoughtful.

*   *   *

The caf
é
at the Catamount Corner Motel was packed. Women, young and old, sat at all the tables while the men stood with their backs to the wall. Some sipped coffee while others held beers or spit tobacco into old Coke cans. And all of them, with the exception of those whose hair had turned white, had the same jet-black hair, olive skin, and enigmatic expressions. To an outsider, it would've looked like the gathering of an extended family; to those familiar with the Tufa, though, it was clearly a conclave of the two most powerful groups in the community, the First Daughters and the Silent Sons.

The two organizations were meeting to discuss their common fate, and what should be done about Bo-Kate Wisby. Without Rockhouse to speak, all eyes fell on Mandalay. She was the smallest person in the room, and physically the youngest, but there was no contempt or doubt in the faces watching her. Everyone accepted her wisdom as genuine, and as a gift from the night winds.

“We have a real problem,” Mandalay said. “For those who haven't heard, Bo-Kate Wisby is back. We don't know how yet, but however she managed it, it shows that she's got access to things we don't know about. She's also determined to do as much damage as possible. She killed Rockhouse, burned down Bliss Overbay's house, and took a shot at me earlier.”

“Then let's just go kill her,” suggested an older man with a beard halfway down his chest. There were murmurs of assent.

“I don't know that we can,” Mandalay said.

“Worth a try, anyway,” someone else said, to a few chuckles.

“That was my idea, too,” Bronwyn Hyatt said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Mandalay faced the man who'd spoken. “You think? What if that's what she's trying to provoke? You may not understand what we're up against here, so let me tell you: In all of Tufa history, we've sung out exactly two people. One now lives in New York. And the other is Bo-Kate Wisby. She wouldn't be here just to say hello to her family. She's got an agenda, and we don't know what it is. She's got abilities we've never seen before. And she hates us all.”

At last Peggy Goins said, “So … what do we do?”

“There's only one person who might have a clue in all this,” Mandalay said. “Jefferson Powell.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the gurgling of the coffeemaker.

“He's in New York,” Mandalay continued. “So someone will have to go get him.”

“Why can't we just call him?” Whizdom said.

“He couldn't hear us. That's part of what happened to him. The only way to reach him is face-to-face.”

“I'll do it,” Bronwyn said.

“Is it safe for you to fly?” asked Delilah, a sad-eyed middle-aged woman.

“Are you being sarcastic?” Bronwyn shot back.

“She'll be fine,” Bliss said.

“But she won't go alone,” Mandalay said.

“Why the hell not?” Bronwyn said, and tried to stand. It took a couple of tries for her to heave her pregnant self upright. “Oh, fuck it, never mind. Who's coming with me, then?”

“I will,” a new voice said.

Junior Damo stood in the door, still in his coat and boots. He smiled, all faux innocence. “What? Y'all got a problem with that?”

“You're not supposed to be here,” someone said.

“Yeah, well, things change. I don't want Bo-Kate here any more than the rest of you highfalutin' purebloods do, either. And if someone's gonna go fetch the cavalry, they need to represent all the Tufa, not just you.”

Murmurs went through the crowd. Junior kept his eyes on Mandalay.

“You have a point, there, Junior,” the girl said at last.

“You've got to be kidding me,” Bronwyn said. “You expect me to go all the way to New York with him? I wouldn't trust him to lead me across the street.”

“You ain't got nothing to worry about with me,” he said. “In fact, it might be best for everybody. My wife's pregnant, too, so I know how you'll be.”

“And just
how
will I ‘be,' Mr. Damo?” Bronwyn challenged.

Mandalay held up a hand. “Calm down, Bronwyn. You'll be in charge, in my name. Is that clear, Junior?”

He nodded and made a hand gesture of respect.

“You'll deliver the message I give you, and you'll decide what to do based on his response. He's been gone a long time, and he's likely to be … reluctant.”

“And pissed off,” Junior added.