“Son of a bitch calling me a nigger,” Scratch said. “I'll show him.”
He was already on his way to see Darktown to talk to Dobro. Maybe Scratch would discuss the letter with him.
Scratch went to the icebox, took out a saucer with liverwurst and a jar of mayonnaise. He sat it all on the counter by the sink, opened the bread box and cut two slices. He fixed the sandwich and went out the door, leaving everything sitting on the counter.
12
Scratch didn't exactly miss Darktown. He missed the people. He missed Immy and Dobro. He didn't miss Culke Lowe, the self-professed sheriff of Darktown not recognized by any judicial or state law. He sure as hell didn't miss his uncles, who basically ran Darktown.
The area still looked the way it did in the twenties before electricity hit Oklahoma. Rows and rows of broken-down houses that used to be sharecroppers' homes went on until the horizon turned into woods.
It was way too late to see Immy, but he decided to go to her house anyway. Her kids would be asleep, but last time Scratch spoke to her, Immy had as much trouble sleeping as he did. He went to a small faded green shack that sat among several larger shacks. A big brown four-story house sat behind the shacks. That house belonged to the landlord, Calvin Stevens. He was a miserable old bastard when he could remember who owed rent to him. Immy had in the past had to offer her body to Stevens to pay the rent.
Scratch stepped on the porch and looked through the kitchen window. A gentle breeze blew the drapes and he saw Immy sitting at her kitchen table, reading. A quarter bottle of Carmen Brothers' whiskey sat beside a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Scratch knocked lightly. Immy looked up, startled. A huge grin spread across her face. She jumped from the kitchen chair, her nightgown riding up, and trotted barefoot across the linoleum floor to the door. She opened the door and Scratch stepped inside. Nothing was said.
Immy threw her arms around Scratch's neck.
“I missed you, Allan,” she said. Scratch hugged her back. “I missed you, too, Sis.”
Immy raised an eyebrow, lifted his eye patch. “You wearing your eye patch. Where's the eye?”
“I lost it,” Scratch said and smiled. “A long story.”
Immy shrugged. “You'll tell me when you're ready.” Immy hugged Scratch again. She pulled away, shut the front door and lead Scratch by the hand to the kitchen table.
“Sit down,” she said. “You want some meatloaf?”
“Oh, no,” Scratch shook his head, sat down. “My stomach is in knots right now.”
“Want some coffee?” Immy asked.
He really didn't. Immy was just like their mother. If you kept denying her hospitality, she'd get angry. One thing to consider about both women was they were nice to an extreme, but if you got them riled there was no end to their dissatisfaction with you.
“Yeah, sure,” Scratch said.
She filled the coffee pot with water, and spooned coffee into the filter. She gave Scratch a curious look.
“What brings you back to Darktown, brother?”
“Problems,” scratch sighed.
“Aren't they always?” Immy said. “You left Odarko with troubles, brought them to Darktown to add to their troubles? Darktown is not going to fix anything for you. You should know that.”
“Where's Carter?” scratch asked.
“That shiftless jackass? He left again,” Immy said.
“Back to the oil rigs?”
Immy shook her head. “No. Gone for good,” she watched the percolator bubble up. “I'm not so sure I'm sad he's gone.” She looked up at Scratch. “He reminds me of Daddy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I found out two months ago Carter had another family. Less than a mile from here. Two kids with that poor young girl and she was four months pregnant. That poor girl.”
“He go to her?”
“Fat chance,” Immy laughed. “That piece of shit can't be tied down, Allan. Just like our piece of shit daddy.”
“Yeah,” Scratch tried not to think about his father. His mind often drifted back to the man. The things he did right, which weren't many, the things he did wrong, which were countless.
“You had it worse than I did when he was in the house,” Immy said. The coffee was ready. Immy poured Scratch a cup, sat it on the table and pushed the sugar toward him. “I'm out of cream.”
“I don't use it anyway. I drink it black nowadays,” Scratch said.
Immy smiled. “Me too.” She sat down, scooted her chair very close to Scratch, placed her head on his shoulder.
“You can't sleep either?” he asked.
“The past keeps haunting me… ghosts root under my skin.”
“Yeah.” Scratch drank his coffee. “Me too.”
“Been thinking about what happened to us. What happened with me and Daddy… what he did to you when you were born. How he thought you were the devil, tried to drown you in the kitchen sink. All of your childhood that son of a bitch called you Mr Scratch because he was sure you were evil and you would bring bad luck to everyone. I hate that damn nickname. Don't you?”
“No.” Scratch stared off in the distance. “I try not to think about it,” he said. “Any of it.”
“You didn't bring me bad luck.” Immy snuggled closer to Scratch. “You saved me, brother. More than once. You saved me from him.”
Scratch scoffed. “Immy, let's not talk about it.”
“We should,” she whispered. “It helps me get over it for a little bit. Just… knowing you'll always protect me.”
Yeah, Scratch thought. Who's going to protect me?
“How's Micha and Justine?” Scratch asked.
“They miss their Uncle Allan,” Immy said. “Micha is reading The Adventures of Robin Hood. He had an idea to steal some fruit from Mr Pitt and give it to the Rodgers twins.”
Scratch laughed. “He didn't steal for himself…”
Immy laughed. “Don't start, Allan. Stealing is stealing, no matter how you look at it.”
“I know,” Scratch said. “I know. His heart is in the right spot.”
“Just like his uncle,” Immy said.
“What's Justine been up to?”
“She stayed two days with Carter's mama. She's six years old! Started eatin'
