Black Water by Bobby Norman Page B

little dress, drawin’ yer shoulders back, stretchin’, pushin outchur titties. I can’t git nothin’ done fr’thinkin’ about it. Now, I ain’t lied ‘bout where ya come from ‘n I humbled m’self barin’ m’soul ‘bout how I feel for ya. I’m sorry ‘bout some o’ th’things I said here, m’back was up, but if ya stay with me, I’ll love ya ever bit like I done Pearl ‘n I’ll take care o’ ya just’s good, but we ain’t goin’ on th’way it’s been no more.” He took a step back, folded his arms on his chest, and toed another line in the sand. “So…what’s it gonna be?”
    Lootie thought about all the concern, love, devotion, and caring he’d given Pearl, and it made her as mad as a scalded cat. But before she could slap him silly or scratch his eyes out, she jerked the one and only blanket they had off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and without givin’ him another look, stomped to the door, yanked it open, stepped outside, and slammed it shut.
    The cold was almost physical. She gripped the edges of the blanket and pulled ’em around her, tight, her head turtled down into her hunched-up shoulders. Her fisted hands wrapped in the blanket were bunched under eyes that darted here and there, lookin’ for an answer. There wasn’t one, and nowhere she could go beyond the porch to find one.
    The woman she’d believed all her life to be her mother, wasn’t. The rut-ravaged weasel she’d believed to be her father, wasn’t. All she was to him was a thing. A thing to do with as he pleased. She was no more than a dog he could kick out anytime he wanted. She was property. If she wanted to stay, she had to agree that he owned her. A slave he could have his way with anytime he wanted. Fork it over, or when the sun come up, pack up and get out. But, pack up what? She had nothin’ to pack up. She didn’t even have her own name.
    Then a moment of clarity washed over her and she asked herself what would be th’diff’rence between t’morrow mornin ‘n right now? Hours? That’s all. Nothin’ more. Almost like it was a sign, her body stopped shakin’. She took three steps and clenched her toes over the edge o’ the cold, rough-hewn porch planks. She looked into the cold night and wondered: How long would it take t’freeze t’death?
    Tears she didn’t know were coming ran down her face. They felt hot against her freezin’ cheeks. She didn’t know exactly why she was cryin’. Fear? Humiliation? A life unfulfilled? She hadn’t felt this low, this lost, this helpless, since Pearl’s death. Then she thought of somethin’ Pearl’d told her, and her pulse quickened. It was a last resort. She looked up into the sky and said, “Dear God…”
    ...and then she stopped.
    “Dear God...”
    ...she tried again, but she didn’t know what to ask. Maybe make Roach not wanna...but a memory, a picture come to mind. Pearl’s tortured face and lip-curlin’ stench of rot and decay. A lot o’ good beggin’ to God’d done Pearl. The hopeful spark in Lootie’s eye shut down and her jaw tightened. She looked up, once again, into the star-flecked sky.
    “Dear God…”
    …and this time, she had no trouble findin’ the words.
    “…go t’Hell.”
    Lookin’ into the cold dark woods, she took a deep, steadying breath and dropped her arms to her side. That allowed the blanket to slide off her shoulders and fall to the porch in a crumpled pile at her heels. She waited a couple more seconds, and when lightnin’ didn’t strike her dead like Roach said it had her mother, wearin’ only her thin nightshirt, she stepped off the porch, and melted into the cold, dark night.
    Roach’d expected her to come right back in. When she didn’t, he blinked a couple o’ times, got back in bed, pulled up what scant covers that were left and laced his fingers in back of his head.
    A quarter hour later, and thoroughly ashamed of herself, having discovered that she was a pitiable coward, Lootie slipped back