“Holler when yer done.”
She watched him leave and close the door. Then she looked to the window alongside and saw the poor excuse for a curtain was closed. She heard his voice, muffled through the door.
“You hurry up, now. It’s cold out hyere.”
“Thank you, I will,” she said, but kept her eye on the door for a few seconds just in case he decided to jump back in again. The water was startin’ to get cold so she got up and quickly finished scrubbin’, unaware that Roach was outside in the dark, peekin’ in the tiny crack between the curtains, while his hand slid over his pecker like there wasn’t no tomorrow. She drug the washrag between the lips on the near-hairless little slit and his cucumber exploded, spittin’ goo on his shoe.
Pearl was in the cold, hard ground six years, two months, one week and two days the first time Roach and Lootie shared a bed. All Lootie’d ever slept on was a cot, the kind army soldiers or prospectors used in tents. The only thing beneath her was the rough, canvas, sling-like bottom, and with winter comin’ on, it got miserable cold at night. He explained that the reason for havin’ to sleep in the same bed, together, was to save on firewood and keep each other from freezin’ to death.
Sharing a bed come to a head not long after it started. Lootie’d seen enough of her little animal friends rasslin’ and ridin’ piggy-back to know that the growth between Roach’s legs wasn’t caused by roomatiz like he claimed. As time went on, he got bolder and bolder, until one night in mid-February, with his brain anesthetized from a snoot full of whiskey, he started runnin’ his hands clumsily over her legs. He’d touched her before, but always made like it was a slip o’ the hand when he turned over. He turned over a lot. That night, it wasn’t a slip; one hand boldly moved to her crotch while the other stroked his legless Cyclops.
She grabbed his hand before it reached its destination, threw his arm back, yanked the thin covers off, and jumped out o’ bed.
“STOP IT! You ain’t doin’ that no more! I know whatchu want ‘n it ain’t gonna happen! You ain’t givin’ me no more baths…,” she spat, her little fists clenched, “’n you ‘n’ me ain’t sleepin’ in th’same bed no more, either. I’ll sleep on th’cot ‘r th’floor ‘r standin’ up like a horse if I have to. Yer my Papa, ‘n it ain’t right!”
It’d happened so fast, the booze took aholt of Roach’s mouth way ahead of his soggy brain, and it was his turn to jump up. “Well, I’ll tell you somethin’, you think yer s’dadgum smart. NO! I ain’tchur papa. ‘N Pearl? She weren’tchur mama! Yer real mama was a dadgum albino witch, bitch, whore everbody called Smoke ‘n she was bad fucked b’th’Devil hisself ‘n that’s th’festered pecker ‘n th’stinkin Hell hole you come from!” He clapped his arms over his chest and jutted out his jaw. “So, whadaya think o’ that?”
“You’re a liar!” she barked.
“Bullshit I am!” he boasted. “Pearl ‘n me come on yer mama…fried as a fish in a skillet ‘n jest’s dead, but Pearl wouldn’t leave it alone. Noooo, no, God jabbed a stick o’ lightnin’ up Smoke’s witchy, snow-white ass, but Pearl knowed more’n dadgum God. She sliced up yer mama,” he pointed to his crotch, “from here…”—and drug his thumb up to his breastbone— “…t’here ‘n fished you out.”
Then he thought of something and pointed his finger at her. “You know what?” He stepped off the bed and stalked carefully in the dark to the table, snatched up the knife with the leather-wrapped handle, and brought it back to her.
“That’s th’very dang knife Pearl gutted ‘er with. I pried it out o’ th’dead fingers o’ th’dead hand on th’dead arm that’d got blowed clean off ‘n laid in th’muddy road.” He waggled it in front of her face, then tossed it back to the tabletop. “Your real mama had six fingers on her
She watched him leave and close the door. Then she looked to the window alongside and saw the poor excuse for a curtain was closed. She heard his voice, muffled through the door.
“You hurry up, now. It’s cold out hyere.”
“Thank you, I will,” she said, but kept her eye on the door for a few seconds just in case he decided to jump back in again. The water was startin’ to get cold so she got up and quickly finished scrubbin’, unaware that Roach was outside in the dark, peekin’ in the tiny crack between the curtains, while his hand slid over his pecker like there wasn’t no tomorrow. She drug the washrag between the lips on the near-hairless little slit and his cucumber exploded, spittin’ goo on his shoe.
Pearl was in the cold, hard ground six years, two months, one week and two days the first time Roach and Lootie shared a bed. All Lootie’d ever slept on was a cot, the kind army soldiers or prospectors used in tents. The only thing beneath her was the rough, canvas, sling-like bottom, and with winter comin’ on, it got miserable cold at night. He explained that the reason for havin’ to sleep in the same bed, together, was to save on firewood and keep each other from freezin’ to death.
Sharing a bed come to a head not long after it started. Lootie’d seen enough of her little animal friends rasslin’ and ridin’ piggy-back to know that the growth between Roach’s legs wasn’t caused by roomatiz like he claimed. As time went on, he got bolder and bolder, until one night in mid-February, with his brain anesthetized from a snoot full of whiskey, he started runnin’ his hands clumsily over her legs. He’d touched her before, but always made like it was a slip o’ the hand when he turned over. He turned over a lot. That night, it wasn’t a slip; one hand boldly moved to her crotch while the other stroked his legless Cyclops.
She grabbed his hand before it reached its destination, threw his arm back, yanked the thin covers off, and jumped out o’ bed.
“STOP IT! You ain’t doin’ that no more! I know whatchu want ‘n it ain’t gonna happen! You ain’t givin’ me no more baths…,” she spat, her little fists clenched, “’n you ‘n’ me ain’t sleepin’ in th’same bed no more, either. I’ll sleep on th’cot ‘r th’floor ‘r standin’ up like a horse if I have to. Yer my Papa, ‘n it ain’t right!”
It’d happened so fast, the booze took aholt of Roach’s mouth way ahead of his soggy brain, and it was his turn to jump up. “Well, I’ll tell you somethin’, you think yer s’dadgum smart. NO! I ain’tchur papa. ‘N Pearl? She weren’tchur mama! Yer real mama was a dadgum albino witch, bitch, whore everbody called Smoke ‘n she was bad fucked b’th’Devil hisself ‘n that’s th’festered pecker ‘n th’stinkin Hell hole you come from!” He clapped his arms over his chest and jutted out his jaw. “So, whadaya think o’ that?”
“You’re a liar!” she barked.
“Bullshit I am!” he boasted. “Pearl ‘n me come on yer mama…fried as a fish in a skillet ‘n jest’s dead, but Pearl wouldn’t leave it alone. Noooo, no, God jabbed a stick o’ lightnin’ up Smoke’s witchy, snow-white ass, but Pearl knowed more’n dadgum God. She sliced up yer mama,” he pointed to his crotch, “from here…”—and drug his thumb up to his breastbone— “…t’here ‘n fished you out.”
Then he thought of something and pointed his finger at her. “You know what?” He stepped off the bed and stalked carefully in the dark to the table, snatched up the knife with the leather-wrapped handle, and brought it back to her.
“That’s th’very dang knife Pearl gutted ‘er with. I pried it out o’ th’dead fingers o’ th’dead hand on th’dead arm that’d got blowed clean off ‘n laid in th’muddy road.” He waggled it in front of her face, then tossed it back to the tabletop. “Your real mama had six fingers on her
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