The Dirty Parts of the Bible (14 page)

When Uncle Will surmised what had happened, he just laughed. “A little scorpion can’t kill you.”

At least Aunt Millie took some sympathy—she brought me some ice to put on the bite and a bromide fizz to drink. “The poison might upset your tummy,” she said.

I was starting to see some good aspects of life in Remus: it was too cold for flesh-eating bugs or ass-biting insects.

+ + +

That second week, I began searching in earnest for Father’s money. Instead of going straight to dinner after work, I left Craw to explore the farm on my own. I cursed my luck for losing the map; with it, I’d have already found that well. I wanted to tell Craw about the money and enlist his help, but I couldn’t. Who knew how much or how little money Father had buried? I couldn’t promise anyone a cut.

On my second or third day of searching, I ventured to the far north end of the farm, which was bordered by a row of tall cedars. Sweaty and aching after a day of digging holes, the sound of rushing water lured me onward.

Beyond the trees and down a steep gorge was the Paluxy River. It was like nothing I’d ever seen—a swath of pure, blue water winding between huge slabs of chalky white limestone, set off against lush evergreens and bright green cacti. I slid down the hill and entered another world, far from Wilburn’s dusty fields.

I wound my way between the big rocks and scampered over the smaller ones, till I reached the shore. Leaving my boots behind, I waded into the shallows. The water flowed around my ankles, warming my feet and cooling my body at the same time. In a spot where the stone formed a deep pocket, I spotted a school of bluegills—next time, I’d have to see if I could borrow a fishing pole from Uncle Will.

Then I got a strange urge—strange for me, at least. I peeled off all of my sweaty clothes and jumped into the water. When I was in up to my waist, I held out my arms and leaned back, gliding wieghtless on a sparkling bed of sapphire blue. All of my aches and pains melted away.

I wondered why I’d never liked swimming before. Then I remembered that the waters in Northern Michigan are ice-cold even in summer, they’re full of green slime and brown muck, and there’s a good reason why the pond near our house was called Leach Lake.

After twenty minutes or so, I climbed back on shore and gathered up my clothes and boots. The sun was still shining through the trees on the other side, so I decided to climb onto a rock and bake till I was dry. I’d never seen rocks so big, and I felt like a mountain climber scaling them. I’ve always been afraid of heights, so when I reached the top I crouched down, afraid to stand and look over the edge. A ten-foot drop was more than enough to give me the shivers.

I stretched out on a slab of limestone, closed my eyes, and listened to the bubbling water and the buzz of cicadas. It was a strange feeling, being naked in the open air. For as long as I could remember, I’d been embarassed over my body and more than happy to keep it hidden. In fact, I’d only been naked out-of-doors once before—and that was in a desperate attempt to grow pubic hair. When I was fourteen, Eddie Quackenbush told me that cod liver oil was a magical hair-growth stimulant. “I put some on my sister when she was asleep,” he claimed, “and a patch of hair sprouted up right before my eyes. When she woke up, boy was she steamed.”

So I snuck out into the the woods with a bottle of Squibb’s Cod Liver Oil, laid naked on a pile of leaves, and slathered it on my chest, arms, and privates. Of course, nothing happened. But the next day, I told Eddie, “You’re sure right about that oil. Now I’ve got more hair between my legs than the Wild Man of Borneo.”

That got him back good—he went home and took a bath in the stuff.

Lying there above the Paluxy River, I looked down my chest at the scant patch of hair between my legs. At least I had
something
now. My chin was another story—I hadn’t shaved for two weeks, and I was just now getting a five o-clock shadow.

From body hair, my thoughts turned to home. I wondered what my parents were doing right now and how Mama was taking it. She probably thought I was dead. In just over a month, they’d be kicked out of their home and shipped off to the poorhouse. To save them, I needed to find Father’s money and bring it back—but after what Uncle Will had said, I was less sure than ever about returning home. My father didn’t lift a finger to help his own mother in her hour of need—why should I help him? But there was Mama, too . . . if I didn’t try to help her, how would I be any different from my father?

I dreamed of what I’d do with all that money, all to myself. First thing, I’d buy a long, black Rolls Royce. And I’d get some fancy duds to match—a pinstriped suit and patent leather Oxfords. When Emily Apple saw me cruising down the street, she’d curse the day she met Lars Lundgren. She’d beg me to take her away, but I’d brush her off and say, “I loved you before you had breasts; you should have loved me before I got money.” Then I’d leave her in a cloud of dust and go find the French Lady, whom I’d track down from the studio name on her postcard.

The dream was so vivid that, even when I was roused by the sound of an animal moving through the brush behind me, I swore it was the French Lady I saw scampering over another rock and making her way to the river. Maybe the sun was getting to me.

I squinted, blinked, and squeezed my eyes shut, but when I opened them again, she was still there—a real, flesh-and-blood girl in a long black dress, walking along the shore. I flipped over onto my belly and scooted around to get a better look. Good thing I was laying flat, or she would have seen me already.

The girl dipped her toes into the water and watched the ripples she made. I couldn’t see her face, but her hair was as black as her dress. She bent down to look at her reflection—or something under the water?—and then dropped to her knees. As the river lapped against her waist, she curled forward, pressing her face into her hands. Her shoulders started to shake—was she crying?

Next thing I knew, she was wailing and screaming and slashing at the water like a girl possessed. Finally, exhaused, she threw herself forward into the river. The water was only a foot deep, but that was enough to cover her almost entirely.

I wanted to call out, to ask if she was all right, but then I remembered that I was naked. More than that, my body was having its natural reaction to seeing a girl splashing in water. The flag pole was rising, completely oblivious to the possibility that she was in danger—and equally oblivious to the fact that I was lying flat on a slab of stone.

She floated face down in the water for what seemed like an eternity, the current tugging at her hair and dress. Then her head broke the surface, coughing and gasping, and she struggled up onto her hands and knees. When she rose to her feet, her whole body was shaking and her dress clung to her black and shiny as a seal’s skin. She yelled something that I couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded like, “Dammit—I
am
cursed!”

As she trudged back to shore, I scooted to the far end of my rock and laid low. I kept my cheek pressed against the rough stone—breathing heavy, heart pounding—while she scurried between the rocks, up the hill, and out of sight.

Even after she was gone, an electrical charge hung in the air. Every hair on my body was tingling, and all my senses were buzzing. Or was it just the cicadas?

CHAPTER 19

I
didn’t tell Craw about what I’d seen at the river—unlike him, I wasn’t one to talk about every woman I’d ever laid eyes on. But the image of that girl, floating in the water like a dark mermaid, stuck in my mind.

A couple days later, we were back at work in the field, whittling posts, digging holes, and stringing wire. It was the hottest one yet—not even June, and it must have been a hundred degrees. Sweat dripped off my hair and ran down my face, stinging my eyes, and my throat was as parched as the dirt under my feet.

About noon, when the sun was directly overhead, Craw threw down his hatchet. “Holy leaping lizards . . .”

It sounded like he’d cut himself, but I didn’t see any blood. “What’s wrong?”

“The dementia’s coming on,” he said. “I always wondered which would go first—my mind or my body. Thank God it’s my mind. At least I’ll be comforted by visions of virgins in my final days.”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“You can’t see her,” he said. “She’s only a figment of my fancy.”

But when I turned around, there she was coming towards us—the mermaid girl, wearing the same black dress. “You aren’t the only one halucinating.” Against her hip, she carried a clay jug wrapped in white cloth. It was filled to the brim, and as she stepped water sloshed out and dripped down the hem of her dress.

“It ain’t real,” Craw said. “It’s one of those visions a dying man sees in a desert—a mirror—mira—oh, what the hell do you call it?”

Mirage or not, Craw rushed past me. “Old men first.” He grabbed the jug, tipped it back, and gurgled till the water ran down his chin.

“Better slow down,” the girl said, “or your friend will have to drink it off your shirt.”

Finally, Craw passed me the half-empty jug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It ain’t whiskey, but it ain’t bad.”

I was too nervous to look the girl in the face. As I took a sip, Craw removed his derby and gave a deep bow. “Are you an angel? Sent to comfort me in my dying hour?”

The girl laughed. “I’m no angel—I’m Sarah Hawthorn. Mister Henry sent me to keep you from dying of thirst.”

I was too stunned to take it all in. A girl about my age, living right there on the farm—why hadn’t Wilburn and Millie mentioned her before?

“I thank you mightily,” Craw said. “It’s hot enough to bake a horny toad. Of course, I can handle it fine—I have the endurance of a camel. But young Tobias here was on the verge of collapse.”

She turned to me. “You’re Mister Henry’s nephew, right?” But before I could answer, Craw cut in. “You’ll have to excuse my young friend. He’s a bit, shall we say, girl shy.”

Mortified, I stared down at the ground, hoping to find a hole into which to crawl and die. “Uncle Will—yes—that is, he’s my uncle.”

After an awkward silence, Sarah took the empty jug and turned to leave. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got to water the goats next.”

Craw moaned like he’d been stabbed in the gut. “Now I see how it is. We’re just two more animals that need watering. Is that all we are to you?”

She smiled and kept walking.

Craw called after her. “Why don’t you fetch us some hay while you’re at it? And a bucket of slop, too?”

“Just don’t ask me to clean up after you,” Sarah yelled back over her shoulder. “You’ll have to shovel your own shit.”

Craw whistled. “Now
there’s
a girl.”

Craw poked me with the round side of his hook. “Don’t you feel it, boy?”

I was still wondering what she’d been doing at the river the day before. “Feel what?”

“What a girl can do—bring a ray of sunshine to the cloudiest day.”

I squinted up at the sun. “Cloudiest day? You
are
hallucinating.”

“It’s a figure of speech, my boy. What I mean is—look at
that
.” Craw pointed at Sarah in the distance, jug swinging against her hip.

I shook my head. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing refreshes the spirit like a pretty girl with nice jugs.”

“That’s enough.” I waved him off and started back to our fence.

“What? It was very nice of her to bring us a jug of water, that’s all.”

I bent down and picked up my post-hole digger. “You know—you could be that girl’s father.”

“If she takes after her mother, I surely could be.”

I spun around, digger in hand. “You’re a disgrace. Practically throwing yourself at a girl half your age. No—a quarter of your age, if that.”

“Me? You actually thought that I—?” Craw gave me the same wounded look he’d given Sarah. “Believe me, son—I have no interest in her for myself. I was only trying to help
you
.”

I jammed my blade against the ground. “Well, for your future reference, I don’t need any help. I can do a fine job of embarrassing myself.”

“You certainly can,” Craw spat. “A boy your age letting a pretty girl pass unnoticed—now
that’s
disgraceful. You didn’t even look at her face.”

“Neither did you. You leered at all of her
but
her face.”

Craw picked up his hatchet. “Tobias, my boy, a woman is the crown of creation. Remember—Adam was only God’s rough draft, but Eve was his masterpiece. And if you don’t appreciate God’s masterpiece—why, that’s what I call blasphemy.”

+ + +

Later that afternoon, Wilburn drove out to inspect our work. Cigarette hanging from his lip, he squinted at our ragtag assemblage of wire and posts. “The bad news is, that fence couldn’t hold a blind bull with no legs. The worse news is, I’ve got three healthy bulls arriving in four weeks.”

My jaw dropped to the ground. Craw lowered his head and clasped his derby over his heart. We’d been doing our best—could it really be that bad?