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Red dust puffed around my bare feet. Sweat trickled down my back and soaked into my panties. I lifted the hem of my dress and wiped my face, then descended to the Gum Slough Bridge through a narrow canyon of kudzu that climbed forty feet into the trees. I stopped on the bridge. The old copperhead was down there beside the moldering log in the shallows. I bounced a pebble off his glistening head. He didn't flinch. High in the pines, a raven quibbled with a squirrel. The pungent aroma of perpetual decay rose from the swamp, but today a trace of wild mint rode the dawdling breeze.
My mother was bedfast again. This time she had the Wal-Mart disease. It seemed worse than all the others.
Two hundred yards ahead, Miss Columbine Jackson stood beside her mailbox, looked at her shopper and pretended she didn't see me. I approached her. Miss Columbine's house sat back a hundred feet from the road nestled in the trees at the edge of the cotton patch. Her skinny hound Badger sprawled on the porch, his loose skin oozed out over the bone-gray wood like a liver-colored blob of melted candle wax. Only his eyes moved. A 1940 Ford pickup sat in the front yard on cinder blocks. It had gradually been impaled by a Magnolia, which had grown through the floorboard and out the windshield.
"Lacey Jay's goin' fishin'."
"Can't keep any secrets from you, Miss Columbine," I smiled.
"The cane poles gave you away, sweetheart."
"I need to fix some soup for mother."
"Soup won't cure your ma. A tree fallin' on that slick Yankee husband of hers would cure your ma."
"Lamont's not so bad," I said. My big toe plowed an L' in the dust.
"Last week in the food stamp line Sadie recalled that your ma never fell in a store till she married that Yankee. K-Mart, Sears, Public Grocery, now the Wal-Mart. Sadie says it's suspectful," Miss Columbine said.
"Sadie should talk---she's healthy as a horse and still takes the dole. That ain't Christian."
"What is Christian, Lacey Jay?"
"Living right, and going to Heaven," I said.
"Heaven? That's a big promise." Miss Columbine fanned herself with the free shopper.
My toe carved an O' in the red powder.
"God keeps promises, and God heals all things."
"Then whatcha makin' your fish head soup for, Lacey Jay?"
"God doesn't fish. He works through us. We make the soup. He puts the power in it." I carved a V'.
"I got to git outta this sun."
"When did you turn against God, Miss Columbine?"
"A true God wouldn't allow this pain. Look at these fingers."
I put down my cane poles and worms, took Miss Columbine's hand in mine and massaged it.
"Oh, Lacey Jay." She sighed. "That feels good."
"I'll bring you some soup, too."
I massaged her hand for several seconds in silence. Tears mixed with perspiration on Miss Columbine's cheek. Then, after a brief hug, I stooped, made an E' in the dust with my finger, retrieved my poles and continued on my trek.
"You're an angel," Miss Columbine said, barely loud enough for me to hear.
I looked back, smiled then turned away.
"Oh, Lacey."
Her voice was urgent.
"They let Buck Cheadle out last week."
"I know."
"You shouldn't walk these roads alone."
"Maybe he's changed," I said.
"Oh, I'm sure he's changed-for the worse."
It was half a mile along the flat before the road began its gentle descent to the river.
Hampton Labranche sat on an inverted pail behind two poles, which he had punched into the riverbank. He watched his bobbers.
"Hello, Hampton ."
Hampton grunted. He seldom spoke. A gang of toughs had cut out Hampton 's tongue on his first day in town, after he had asked a white woman for directions to Ebenezer Church .
"Catch anything?"
He raised one finger then held his hands twenty inches apart.
"That's good."
I sat on a smooth log ten feet upstream from Hampton , wormed my hooks and threw them in. Twenty seconds later, the water exploded.
I grabbed my pole. The fish nearly jerked it from my grasp. For several minutes we battled, as Hampton cheered, jumping, grunting and flinging his arms about.
Then the jerking stopped. I tugged on the pole until my back ached. It wouldn't move. Sweat stung my eyes. My arms quivered.
Hampton froze, panic on his face.
"Aaag," he said.
"Yes, it's snagged for sure. A bad one."
Before I could blink, Hampton had flung himself into the river. He grabbed my line and followed it down.
" Hampton !"
I waited, watched the slow moving water. I wiped sweat on my dress.
"Oh, no."
Hampton Labranche had come years ago to preach at Ebenezer Church . There being no demand for preachers which congregations can't understand-though there seems to be an abundance of them- Hampton had become a handyman, and a fine one. Three years after he arrived, he rescued from a burning truck the man who had held his tongue with pliers while another sliced it off with a razor. The story of Hampton 's heroism had appeared on TV and in newspapers around the world. Hampton had suffered severe burns on his face and arms in the rescue. The man he saved later died, but Hampton 's reputation as a Samaritan had become legendary. I had fished with Hampton hundreds of times over the years and had learned to understand his tongue-less speech.
"Please come up, Hampton Labranche."
One minute passed. I was about to run for help when his scarred ebony face, wearing a picket-fence grin, emerged from the water.
" Hampton ."
He struggled toward the bank, with only his head visible. I extended my other cane pole. He grabbed it. Even through Hampton 's body, I felt the jolting power of the fish.
"Ouuow!" Hampton 's face pinched in pain.
He lunged toward the bank, and the fish broke the surface. It thrashed, twisted and whipped its tail like a gator.
"My goodness, Hampton . That's the biggest catfish I've seen."
There was both pain and pleasure in Hampton 's expression. He had rammed his hand into the mouth of the fish to grip its gills. The fish's teeth sawed Hampton 's flesh with each jerk. Blood oozed from the ragged wound.
I set my feet and pulled. With one lunge Hampton fell on the bank. The fish writhed on his arm; its tail thrashed the water into muddy bubbles which drifted lazily away. Hampton rested for a moment. His chest heaved. Then we pulled the fish far up the bank, avoiding its stingers, and freed Hampton 's bloody arm.
We watched the fish for several minutes before it died, and even then our eyes remained on its great body. Hampton waved his hand over it to keep the flies away.
"What does it weigh?"
"Fify."
"You shouldn't have done that, Hampton ."
He smiled. After several minutes Hampton spoke.
"Ooh have maeey, Aaey?"
"Two thousand-my father's insurance."
"Whea I I I eeve my maeey oo oo."
"That's silly, Hampton . When you die, you should leave your money to the church."
He pointed at me.
"Oo. Oo my bess pow."
"You're sweet."
A clattering truck roared past; dust swirled in its wake and settled around us. In seconds the truck returned across the bridge and slid to a stop. Buck Cheadle emerged from the dust cloud.
Buck, half-Seminole, half-Irish, was short, stocky and dark. A black comma of hair hung on his forehead. His comma had been carefully trained. The pocket of his unbuttoned shirt was stuffed with Camel cigarettes. His chest was broad and hairless, his movements tight and quick. Wide black eyes, sharp cheek bones, a flat, crooked nose, smashed by his father years ago, and thin lips set in a strong jaw gave him a craggy look that most girls favored. A cigarette bounced as he spoke.
"Come go for a ride, Lacey."
"No thanks."
"Too good for me?"
"Everyone's good in God's eyes."
"Don't spout that bull, Lacey."
Buck grabbed my arm and jerked me up.
"Let's go," he said.
Quick as a thought Hampton materialized between Buck and me. Hampton 's feet were wide, he was slightly bent, his fists tight. His back muscles, toughened by digging and lifting, rippled through the shirt that stuck to his skin.
"What are you doin'?"
Hampton said nothing.
"You goin' with me, Lacey?" Buck looked around Hampton .
"No," I said.
"I ain't used to bein' refused."
For the next minute there was a strange silence as they stared at each other. Smoke curled around Buck's squinty eyes and drifted past his comma. It was like a grade-school stare-down.
Then Buck looked away.
"I'll get you--."
He turned, went halfway up the bank and stopped.
"And one day you'll go ride with me, Lacey," Buck said. His finger stabbed the air with each word.
Buck's truck tires showered us with dust and pebbles as he roared off.
"Thanks, Hampton ."
We gutted the fish to lighten our load some.
Hampton walked me home, though it was out of his way, and his load was heavy.
Buck Cheadle caught up to us and followed, revving his motor and saying awful things.
"I'll cut your guts out, boy."
Buck hurled beer bottles, which scattered the dust as they cart wheeled past. Hampton walked directly behind me.
At my home, we divided the fish. I took the heads for soup. He took the bodies. Before he left I hugged him. I felt a gooey substance on his back. I looked at my hands.
" Hampton , you're bleeding."
"Beea baooh hi me," he pointed to his head.
"Beer bottle?"
He nodded.
I washed and bandaged the wound, and bid him farewell.
"God bless you, Hampton Labranche. You're a warm, wonderful human being. I'll bring you some soup, too."
I made my special soup, prayed that God would spice it with his healing power and took a bowl to mother. She was sprawled on the sofa bed in the living room wearing her neck brace, fanning herself. Lamont sat beside her watching Cold Case Files. He wore a sweaty undershirt and held a cold bottle of Jax to his temple. He chewed a dead cigar.
Then I set out with a bucket of soup for the residences of Miss Columbine Jackson and Hampton Labranche.
---
Four days later, mother and I and a small group of friends gathered for the funeral. I thought there would be more in attendance, but what can you expect from people who are still fighting the Civil War.
It was only a graveyard service, and it was nice-considering the situation, but there was no display of grief, other than Willafay Buckley, who cried at every funeral.
As my mother and I walked away, Miss Columbine caught up to us.
"Did you hear they arrested Buck Cheadle last night over in Weaver," she said.
"I hope he serves a long time," mother said. "Buck Cheadle's an evil man."
"By the way, Lacey, thanks ever so much for bringing the soup. My hands feel better," Miss Columbine said.
"Thank the good Lord for the power in that fish," I said.
Miss Columbine put her hand on my shoulder and stopped me.
"Is it true what I heard?" she asked.
"What did you hear?"
"I heard that the dear departed choked to death on a fish bone?" Miss Columbine asked.
"That's true," I said.
"From your soup?"
"Yes."
"How paradoxical," Miss Columbine said, taking mother's hand.
"He was a decent man," mother said.
"I'm happy to see you have made a miraculous recovery from your Wal-Mart injury," Miss Columbine said to my mother.
"Yes, I've discarded my neck brace," mother said.
"It must have been a powerful fish, the way everything turned out," Miss Columbine smiled.
---
Hampton Labranche had been invited to mother's house for cornbread and honey. He waited for us just outside the cemetery gate. Hampton had a phobia about cemeteries, and refused to enter, even to dig graves. He told me he didn't want to go to the graveyard one second before he had to.
Hampton took my mother's hand, his expression filled with sympathy.
"Aaaheee, foh u oss," Hampton said.
Mother looked at me.
"He said he was sorry for your loss."
"You're a sweet man, Hampton Labranche," mother said.
He offered his arm. She accepted.
"Let's go sit and have some cornbread," mother said.
Hampton smiled.
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was co-owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.
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