hole and bury Jim neck-high like you do when a man gets skunk-squirted.
Jort laughed, his belly shaking around his belt until it hurt, and then he wiped his eyes and shook his head as if to say, don't it beat all? Don't it just? That Jim.
He settled down to business again, watching the house. The light in the girls' room was still on and the shade up, but there wasn't anything of interest to see now. Just Dorry in some kind of new dress, primping herself before the mirror. She'd been going at it for half an hour. It had been better a little while ago when she first came in and turned on the light – when she'd removed her old dress to try on the new one. Oh my yes, that had been much livelier. And wasn't it a caution the way that girl never wore her undies?
Old Sam had been corked off when Jort made him stay down at the backwater to watch after Shad. But it had to be that way because Jort knew Sam. The no-good woods colt would lose track of everything watching Dorry's window, and, too, there wasn't anyone who could trail a swamp man like that Sam. Shad was a tricky devil, but not tricky enough. Every time he made a move Sam would be riding in his hip pocket just as soft and unnoticeable as a bandana. That Shad.
It didn't seem too long ago, Jort reflected, when he used to meander by the schoolhouse and pause to watch all the young hellions scrapping in the yard during recess or lunch. One thing he always noticed – that little Shad Hark never lost a fight. And he had his share of them.
Jort used to lean on the schoolyard splitrail and watch the feisty little devils kick up a storm. He'd grin and chuckle and sometimes call encouragement to one or another of them, but never advice – that would be giving one kid an edge over another and Jort believed that each boy and man had to discover his own edge.
Aside one day, he'd said to Shad, 'You ort a start learning you something about eye-gouging. You gitting along to fourteen now, and someday soon some big brawler is goan take after you fer keeps and not fer play.'
But the overly tall, scrawny boy had shaken his head and said flatly, 'I'm not fixing to damage nobody penm'nent. I make 'em say uncle and that's a-plenty fer me.'
'Tough's an old boot, ain't you?'
And the boy, wiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist, staring blanidy at the big man, had said, 'Enough so's when you fix to come at me you best bring help.'
And Jort had bellowed laughter and thigh-slapped himself, and said, 'Bet I might at that.' And the funny part of it was it had given him a premonition. Something out of the nameless future had told him he was going to mix with that boy someday and it was going to be hell on earth. So he'd gone on watching Shad fight his way out of puberty, and he'd waited, and he'd put it off. Hedidn't really know why because he knew he could beat him, and yet couldn't seem to bring himself around to proving it. And so Shad bothered him and always had.
Down under the birch and paw-paws and maple Sam Parks sat in cross-anided restlessness. He was watching the squat black hulk of the shantyboat that never went anywhere in the weir-gurgling backwater. He'd been lurking there for three hours now, waiting for Shad to make a move, and though he was so fidgety he was fit to be tied and placed in a basket, his faculties were always greedy for signs, and there was an alertness about him so tense that at times he thought he could hear the weeds growing. And so, though there were only the thin lines of light where the shanty's shutters clamped to the frames, he detected just the sporadic flickering, and knew that Shad was having himself a pacing time in there.
Plain mad, Sam thought.
And that got him to thinking of Dorry, which made him mad all oven again because Jort had put him down here in the slough to watch Shad, while he, Jort, sat up there at the Means' place.
He fussed around and fretted and mumbled. 'That Jort's always bossing me about like I didn't have motherwit of my own. And me that has to tell him what Shad's doing and ever'thing. And what do I git outn hit? That's what I'd kindly like to know? Nothing.'
Well, things were going to be different. When he got his share of the money he'd be his own man. He wouldn't have anything more to do with Jort, not ever. He was tired of playing slave to the big bully. He was sick to death of the craven feeling that the big man's physical presence evoked in him. He wanted to stand on his own two feet for a change and answer to no man.
That was what he wanted and that was how it was going to be. But right now the air was humid and buggy and there was a colony of night-rambling ants on the prowl and they were pestering him to distraction.
'Gol durn antses!' he hissed furiously.
The door of the shantyboat opened, throwing a big block of white light on the afterdeck, and Shad stepped through it like someone magically coming out of the mouth of a furnace and went to the edge of the porch.
Sam forgot about the ants and the weight of the cross life had given him to bear. He rose to a crouch and became a statue-man, waiting. Maybe now he'd get some action. Maybe this was what he and Jort had been waiting for. But Shad just stood there a while; then he walked on back inside slamming the door behind him.
Sam sank back on his haunches and the ants with a groan. 'Tain't fair,' he muttered. 'Tain't fair a-tall.'
It was getting late. It was getting on to bedtime. Shortly now she would have to take off the new dress and get into bed with Margy. And she dreaded it because she just knew that Margy was going to be an endless question box. She was going to want to know about the new dress, about the ten dollars. She wasn't going to settle for the story Dorny had given their parents about saving up her allowance. Margy knew better than that, much better. And she would keep at it and keep at it, there in the hot, muggy dank, and she wouldn't go to sleep until she learned, and that meant she would still be awake when Dorry slipped off to go see Shad, and she would want to know all about that too.
'Bother,' she said, but then she looked at her reflection in the tarnished mirror again and saw how pretty she was and how beautiful the dress was and how well it fit, and she was pleased that it wouldn't have to be taken in at all, because, my goodness, a dress just couldn't be any tighter than this one – not and be decent – and she forgot about Margy and her nosy questions.
She pushed her hair all away from the left of her neck, bunching it along the right, and gave herself a side look, making her eyes soft and smoky, opening her overpainted lips and putting her front teeth together so that just the tops and bottoms touched – the way those pin-up girls in magazines did.
A muted knocking vibrated through the wooden walls of the house, and she looked at her own closed door, wondering, and heard the rasp of her pa's chair in the other room and a moment later the squeak of the door opening, and then a murmur of voices minus words and meaning.
Dorry went to the door and put her ear against the panel, The result was unsatisfactory. She still couldn't pick out the words, but the tone of one of the speakers was definitely foreign. She raised her eyebrows and paused to adjust the dangerously low line of the dress about the burst at her breasts, and then opened the door.
Bell Means had just given Mr. Ferris a split-bottomed chair, and as he'd been making his first preparations for bed, he suddenly discovered he was in his stocking feet, and it embarrassed him because he didn't want to give Mn. Ferris the idea that they were poor whites. Now he was blinking around confusedly for his shoes while Mrs. Mears was covering up very nicely, asking Mr. Ferris if he wouldn't have some coffee. And Mr. Ferris was smiling, saying politely, 'Thank you. That's very kind of you.' And so Margy was on her way to the stove to reheat the coffee, and her expression was blank except for that little suspicious frown she always made when anyone she didn't know well approached her.
But Dorry remembered Mn. Ferris – though she'd only been fourteen at the time – remembered him very well. She had never seen a man like him. He was something that had just stepped out of a magazine – one of those
Mr. Ferris had just looked at Dorry – a quick, penetrating look, too quick for her parents to take offence -and was trying to place her in his memory, but without success. Good Lord – he'd thought they only bred ignorance, apathy and filth in the deep south. That girl was positively a Freudian study. And then, because he was a man who had full control over all the tributaries of his mind, he switched Dorry onto a siding.
'I shan't beat about the bush with you. Mr. Mears. I'm here to discuss one of your neighbours – Shad Hark.'
Bell nodded wisely, said, 'Thought so.'
Mr. Ferris nodded also. 'You've heard the rumours about Shad and the Money Plane then?'
