The Murderer Vine by Shepard Rifkin Page B

working hard still going to school.
    “This is what happens when I hire an out-of-work actress,” I said, and immediately realized I had made a serious slip. The local operator might be listening in. Kirby recognized the danger as soon as I did.
    “I’m so glad you wouldn’t let me go on with those actin’ lessons, Hal,” she said. “I was beginnin’ to hate all those No’th’n girls in mah class always makin’ fun of the way I talked.”
    “I always liked the way you talked, honey,” I said, breathing easier. “This bus gets into Okalusa at two-forty. Will you meet me?”
    “What a silly lil ole question! Miss Ethelda-Grace, would you like to come for a ride to the bus station with me when mah Hal comes in?”
    Miss Ethelda protested, but only weakly. She must be quite bored. Kirby knew this was the surest way to spread the news over Okalusa that I had arrived.
    I hung up with a loud kiss echoing in the receiver. I bought a ticket for the Jackson-Okalusa bus, bought a copy of Pleasure, wondered why people thought those colorless bunnies had any flavor, tried to read the third-rate prose, threw it away, and had a better time reading True Detective.
    The announcer finally called my bus. The friendly driver cut short his conversation with the mechanic and helped with my baggage. I thanked him and he smiled pleasantly and went back to his seat and his conversation with the mechanic.
    “Y’ought to make the run to Okalusa just once, Gene,” he said. “We grow cotton so high thataway the moon has to go around by way of Tinnissee. The mosquitoes get so big in the swamps outside of town they c’n stand flat-footed an’ drink out of a rain barrel. An’ the frogs in them swamps along the Chickasaw, why, when they get to bellerin’ of a night, they rattle the winderpanes ten mile off.”
    “You bet, Ray,” said the grinning mechanic. He took out a wrench from his back pocket and adjusted the outside rear-view mirror.
    “Come down an’ eat our catfish,” said the driver.
    “We got good catfish heah. Ain’t no reason to travel a hundred and eighty hot miles to eat yours, Ray.”
    “I tell you we got good eatin’ catfish, Gene. You take our catfish an’ corn bread an’ some of that white mule them hill boys make up in the laurel, an’ you got a good thing goin’.” He saw me listening with interest. He swung around and included me in the conversation.
    “Mister, you look like a stranger. Lemme tell about our catfish up there in the swamp. One time a cotton-mouth struck me on the face, right here. It weighed seventy-eight pound, coiled. It was bigger’n a bushel basket. It plumb tore away the whole left side of my face, but all they fed me for three days straight was that local catfish from the swamp, an’ corn bread an’ corn whisky, an’ by the end of the week it healed up an’ didn’t even leave a scar. You see any sign of a scar on mah face?”
    I shook my head.
    “Mister,” the mechanic said, “Okalusa’s in Milliken County. An’ you can hear anythin’ in Milliken County except the truth and bacon a-fryin’.”
    Ray closed the door, switched on the ignition, and grinned.
    “Hold it, Ray,” said the mechanic. “You got one more passenger!” In a lower tone he added, “A jigaboo.”
    Ray opened the door. He said curtly, “C’mon. Step on it. I ain’t got all day.”
    A black man of about sixty began to climb the steps with a heavy old suitcase. Once inside, he gave his ticket to Ray, who didn’t wait till the old man could be seated. The bus started immediately and the old man was having trouble with his bulky suitcase in the narrow aisle, which was littered with boxes and shopping bags. It was obviously the bus used by country people to do their serious city shopping in. The old man paused and hesitated when he saw the cluttered aisle. There was an empty seat far in the rear, and there was an empty one beside me. I could almost see his thinking processes.
    He would have to ask