Water Witch (15 page)

I walked to the edge of the water, glanced
about to make sure the coast was clear, then pulled my left hand
out of my pocket. It felt weird standing out here without my
gloves, without my finger tucked into my palm. Hiding, I was always
hiding. Throughout dinner, I’d kept my left hand hidden under the
table, later it went into my pocket, then inside rubber gloves. Out
in the open this way, I felt vulnerable, naked, like I’d literally
stepped out into the world without a stitch of clothes on.

Gritting my teeth, I curled my left hand into
a fist, then held it out at arm’s length. If this was going to be
anything like at the Bloody Bucket, I was in for another serious
round of ouch. But that’s why I was here, right? The kids. The kids
and Angelle.

After glancing around once more to make sure
no one was watching, I unlocked my fist and splayed my fingers,
stretching them out wide. I closed my eyes and focused on Sarah
first—that little girl, only seven years old—what it must have felt
like to be that small and lost in such a big wilderness, in the
dark—how afraid she must be. I did the same with Nicky—only eight
years old. Then, without any conscious effort on my part, their
energies merged in my mind, and those assumed fears became one
huge, living, breathing terror. The power of it rolled over me in
waves, cutting my breath.

Within seconds, my extra finger
reacted—violently. Burning, biting, like a firecracker had blown
off the tip. Then the digit pulled itself up--up as if meaning to
point to the sky, then it jerked over to the right, overlapping the
two fingers beside it. Fire raced through the finger, down through
my hand, my wrist, up my arm. I gasped from the intensity of it.
I’d never felt anything like this before.

Heat normally came when I hunted for
inanimate objects—keys, a watch, a hair brush. But this wasn’t
normal heat. It was explosive, intense, and I didn’t understand it
at all. The only thing that did make sense was the steady point of
the finger. From where I stood, it was telling me to head east . .
.

Despite the pain, I forced myself to calm,
concentrate, clear my mind so I could understand and interpret what
I was experiencing.

Time . . . something to do with time.
. .

The more fierce the heat, the pain—the
shorter the time. . . the less time we had to find the kids? The
less time the kids had to live? Which was it? Both?

. . . shorter the time . . . shorter the
time . . .
I rolled the words over and over in my mind,
concentrating hard on the kids, desperate for a clearer
interpretation.

Suddenly, I heard the slight clearing of a
throat, then, “I’d be careful with that if I were you.”

Startled, my eyes flew open, and I whirled
about. A man was walking past me, already fifty or so feet away—a
man wearing a black Stetson, a long black coat. Cherokee. How long
had he . . . sonofabitch—my finger . . . he’d seen it!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I felt anesthetized, too stunned to move or
speak as I watched Cherokee’s tall silhouette meld into the dark
distance until there was no discerning his black coat from the
cloak of night. He’d seen—seen
me.
Not even Angelle had ever
witnessed my finger reacting with such intensity. What would he do?
Who would he tell? Would I walk into town tomorrow morning and find
every head turning my way, every expression screaming, “Freak!”? Or
would it be like before, people following me everywhere, wanting,
begging, nagging, never giving me a moment’s peace?

A sudden squeal of tires on pavement broke my
train of worry, and I glanced towards the sound. It was Trevor’s
truck, peeling down the highway in front of the house. Even with
his boat in tow, he managed to pull smoke from the asphalt.
Evidently, the tiff he’d been having with Angelle and Poochie
hadn’t ended on a warm and fuzzy note.
Great, something else to
worry about.
Tucking my left hand into my pocket, I headed back
to the house, still trying to come to terms with the fact that I’d
been
seen.

When I walked into the kitchen, Poochie was
rambling about the absurdity of men, while wiping down already
clean countertops. Sometimes that’s what women do to work out anger
or frustration, we wipe things, clean things, scrub things. Right
now, Poochie looked angry enough to scrub somebody’s face off.

Angelle was sitting at the table, her head in
her hands. She looked up as soon as I walked in. “You okay? Where’d
you go?”

“Went for a walk.”

“You look . . .I don’t know . . . frazzled?”
She peered at me intently, and I saw the questions in her eyes she
obviously didn’t want to ask aloud. “
Did something happen to you
out there? Did you see . . . something?”

In that same momentary eye contact, I tried
relaying my own message. “
I’ll tell you later.”
Then said
audibly, “I’m fine.”
Her brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered to Poochie, then back to
me. “Sorry you had to hear that big mess earlier.”

I gave her a half smile. “No worries.” I
pulled out a chair and sat beside her at the table.

“If it was up to me,” Poochie said, tossing
her dishtowel into the sink, then coming over to join us. “I’d take
all dem men and put dem in one big trash pile ‘cause dat’s all dey
good for. Or put dem all back in diapers ‘cause most de time dey
act like babies anyway.”

“Trevor isn’t usually like that,” Angelle
said. “He’s been putting in a lot of hours at the plant and with
those new traps . . . he’s probably just really stressed out.”

Poochie harrumphed. “You can make all de
excuses you want. I know you trying to be nice, but I know dat boy.
Dat’s my grandson. I can say he’s a piece of shit when I need to,
and right now I need to ‘cause he’s acting like a piece of shit.”
With that, Poochie aimed her chin at me. “And you, you got you a
man?”

Slightly taken aback by the question, I
shrugged, then shook my head.

Poochie cocked her head, her eyes flashing
with curiosity. “Mais, how come? You pretty and you smart. How come
you don’t got a man?” Before I could answer, she stuck out a hand
and wiggled it from side to side. “You one of dem . . . what you
call dat? A lessbean?”

“Jesus, Poochie,” Angelle said, her head
snapping to attention. “Dunny is
not
a lesbian.”

Poochie tsked. “You don’t gotta get you
drawers all tied up you butt. I was just asking.”

I grinned, relieved that the conversation had
turned down a less serious road for once. “It’s all right. I date
men, Poochie. I just haven’t found one worth keeping is all.”

She nodded. “I know what you sayin’. Like I
say, dey just babies dat never grow up.”

Angelle opened her mouth as if to say
something, then closed it, evidently changing her mind. Seeing
that, I scooped up the conversation so Poochie wouldn’t zero in on
her.

“Talking about men, I saw Cherokee outside a
moment ago. That’s his name, right? The guy who wears the black
cowboy hat and the long coat?”

“Yeah, dat’s Cherokee. Where you saw him like
dat?”
“Out on the other end of the property, near the bayou.”

Poochie frowned. “Huh . . . I wonder what he
was doin’ out here dis time of de day? He lives all de way down de
Plaquemine highway, pas’ de big bridge. He makes a little pass into
town every once in a while, goes eat at de Bucket, you know? But I
don’t remember de last time I seen him come out dis way. What he
was doin’ out dere?”

Folding my hands under the table, I quickly
sorted through words I might be able to use that wouldn’t
incriminate me or create a lie. “I don’t know. He just sort of
showed up. Talked to me for a couple of seconds, then he was gone
again.”

Poochie’s brows peaked. “He talked to
you?”

“Well . . .yeah,” I said, a little surprised
that she seemed surprised.

“Huh, dat’s something. Cherokee hardly don’t
talk to nobody even when he knows dem. Stays to himself most de
time; you know what I’m saying?”

“He’s a little weird if you ask me,” Angelle
said. “Wearing black all the time. The only time he takes off that
coat is in the dead of summer, and even then he still stays in
black. It’s always so hot around here I don’t know how he stands
it.”

“Dat’s not really too weird, no. Some people
get cold all de way down to deir blood, so it’s hard for dem to
warm up. Either dat or dat’s jus’ what de man likes to wear. From
what I can see, he’s not too bad. Kind of nice in his own way, you
know? At leas’ he’s not stupid like dat retarded Pork Chop over to
de Bloody Bucket?”

“Is Cherokee from around here?” I asked.

“I don’t know much about him,” Angelle said
with a shrug. “He’s been around here as long as I’ve been here.
That’s about it.”

“Oh, dat man’s been here since he was a
baby,” Poochie said. “Sook tol’ me.”

“Is there anything Sook
doesn’t
tell
you?” Angelle asked.

Poochie pursed her lips, glanced up for a
moment as if contemplating the question, then said, “Non. Sook’s
pretty good about dat. She tells me what I gotta know, about
Cherokee, about a lot of people around dese parts.”

“What’d she say about Cherokee?” I asked.

“Dat his mama and daddy was quiet like him.
His mama was part Cherokee, dat’s how he got his name. His daddy, I
t’ink Sook said he was part Sioux or Chitamachi, I’m not too sure.
Dey got a lotta injuns ‘round here. Sioux, Cherokee, Pawnee, all
dat. Some of dem full, some of dem mix up wit’ de Cajun
people.”

“Is Sook part Native American?” I asked,
remembering the woman’s broad features.

“Non, Sook her, part her people’s from
Mississippi, part’s from New Orleans. Dat’s how come she got a
funny accent. Dem people from Mississippi, dey nice, yeah, but when
you mix dem wit’ de people from here . . .it’s like puttin’ turnips
in a gumbo. It might taste good, but it’s gonna look funny.”

I grinned, not sure I understood the
reference, but getting a kick out of her own accent. Then something
dawned on me from earlier. “Why does Trevor call you Poochie like
everybody else? How come he doesn’t call you Grandma or
Granny?”
Poochie crossed her arms over her large, sagging breasts. “Because
I said so, dat’s why. I tol’ his mama and daddy de day he was born,
have dat boy call me Poochie. I didn’t want no name like Grandma.
Dat makes me sound like a old woman ready for de nursing home, and
me, I was far from goin’ to de nursing home den. I’m still far from
dat, you know?”

I nodded in agreement. I couldn’t see Poochie
in a nursing home.

“Okay, let’s hol’ up a minute . . .” Poochie
dropped the dishtowel on the counter and joined us at the table.
After settling into a chair, she tapped the table top with a
finger. “I wanna put something on dis table right now. We got to
quit dancing around Trevor, Cherokee, all dat. We got to get some
serious business down now.”

As soon as Poochie said, ‘down now,’ my
finger began freezing up again. I gritted my teeth, trying to keep
my expression neutral.

“What are you talking about?” Angelle
asked.

“You know what I’m talking about.” She turned
to me. “’specially you. I know you seen dat toaster move, huh?”

I sat back, surprised. I thought I’d been the
only one to see it happen.

“What about the toaster?” Angelle asked.

“You was too busy fussin’ with Trevor to see,
but dat toaster over dere, it moved by itself. I seen it. And you
sister, I know she seen it, too.” Poochie drilled me with a look.
“You might think I don’t know nothin’ ‘cause I’m too old, but I
seen how you went out de kitchen before. You was hurting. You hands
was hurting. How come dat is? You feel dem ghosts with you hands or
what?”

Angelle’s eyes went wide. She looked ready
for a panic attack. “Poochie, there’s nothing—“

“Look, don’t play crazy with me, no. I know
better. And you know better, you, too.”

Besides curiosity, I saw determination and
honesty in Poochie’s bright green eyes. Seeing that, I felt
something spontaneously unlock inside me. Like an old forgotten
closet door, it creaked open slightly, and I suddenly found myself
wanting to tell Poochie Blackledge everything. My mouth went dry. I
licked my lips. Then, without any explanation, I pulled my hands
out from under the table, stretched out my fingers . . . and laid
both of my hands palm down on the table.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Angelle let out a breathless, “
Dunny . .
.
”

Poochie’s eyes settled on my left hand. She
pursed her lips and nodded. “Uh-huh, I knew it was something.” She
looked up at me. “So what you can do with dat?”

“Mostly find stuff.”

“Like dem little chil’ren?”

“Maybe.”

Angelle looked as if she’d just seen a UFO,
mouth hanging open, eyes wide with that deer-in-the-headlights
look.

“It’s okay,” I said to her. “I really don’t
think she’ll say anything to anyone.”

“You talkin’ about me sayin’ something? Ha!
Not me, no.” Poochie pinched her thumb and forefinger together in
front of her mouth, twisted them as if turning a key, then made a
tossing motion over her left shoulder. “You see dat? I locked dat
all up and t’row away de key. Whatever you got to say gonna stay
right here.”

As simplistic as the gesture was, it opened
that closet door within me even wider, and I soon found myself
telling Poochie everything, starting with the water found on Frieda
Hughes’ property. By the time I reached the part about finding
Pirate, Angelle had evidently warmed up to my exposing the
secret
because she started adding little comments. About how
much she loved that cat. How devastated she’d been to discover he’d
died such a horrible death. How she’d kept my secret all these
years and never once told a soul, not even her husband. I followed
up with more stories, moving through all the years and incidents
that had involved that extra finger.