Most folks
around Laplace, Louisiana didn't know Jack Chalmette's
full name, they simply called him Black Water
Jack. He was an old man of
Cajun and Negro ancestry, more Negro than Cajun.
He lived a hermit's life
deep in Black Water Swamp. No one could remember
when or how Jack had
come to live in a brackish, mosquito-ridden hellhole
like the swamp; it
just seemed like he had always been there, living
among the moss-draped
cypress trees with nothing but 'moccasins and 'gators
for company.
The locals were a little afraid of Jack, partly because
of his appearance.
His neck and face were textured by a thousand
tiny furrows, the result of
a combination time and exposure to the elements.
The whites of his
deep-set eyes had gone blood red and when Jack smiled,
which was a rare
occasion, his lips parted to expose a few worn out
yellow stumps.
But mostly people were afraid of him because they
thought he was a "seer".
The speculation
was that in his younger days, when Jack had more
fire than sense, he had knifed a white man and had
been forced to take
refuge in Black Water Swamp where he had plenty of
privacy and time to
practice his seeing and black charms.
Every time
some damned fool wondered into the swamp and
disappeared, or someone's "youngin'" came down
with the whooping cough
Jack got the blame. "Old Jack cursed him," they'd
say. Folks figured Jack
had something to do with just about every unexpected
death, every sick
animal, every accident and every sudden change in
the weather. Black
Water Jack knew what they thought and he was glad.
Their fear gave him
his privacy. He didn't need them anyway.
Jack knew he could live forever
in Black Water Swamp. There were plenty of fish,
deer, and once in a
while, ducks to eat. The cash he needed to buy
flour and oil for his
lamps came from trading a few pelts or occasionally
opening a grave for
the townspeople. The year was 1920, and the
Terrebonne County, Louisiana
population was mostly poor and mostly black and mostly
superstitious.
Among these people, white or black, anything beyond an eighth-grade education was a rarity. Here, the age of reason was a late arrival.
Black Water
Jack had only one friend and only one weakness; they
were one and the same. Jack dropped his eyes
to the three by six feet
rectangle of fresh earth at his feet, then sank the
blade of his
long-handled shovel into the soil that covered Michael
Julian's coffin.
************************
Michael
Julian was five years old when Jack first laid eyes on him
twenty years before. Back then Michael had been
a skinny little kid with
a thatch of mousy brown hair, a dirty face and a crust
of snot under his
nose. He lived with his grandmother in a tar
paper shack at the edge of
the swamp. No one ever did the boy the courtesy
of calling him by his
first name. When he and his grandmother weren't
present, it was always
"the whore's kid" or the " Julian bastard"; in their
presence, he was
always addressed as "boy" or "hey you". More
often than not, he was
ignored.
Jack had
pieced together the story from the letters that Michael
had let him read. Michael's mother had been pretty,
pretty enough in fact
that she was sure she could make it as a model or
even an actress if she
got the right breaks. Claire Julian was naive
and eighteen when she left
Laplace for New York. When she arrived in the
city she was nearly broke
and a lot hungry. Claire made the rounds of
almost every modeling agency
the city had to offer, but she discovered she wasn't
the only pretty face
there; no one "discovered" her. Her situation
grew desperate. For three
days she had been living off of "tomato soup" made
from hot water and
ketchup she had stolen off a table of a cheap cafe
called the "Bringer
Inn" when she met a black pimp who called himself
Acey Lyle.
Acey was
good to Claire at first. He fed her and bought her a
coat to ward off the autumn chill that stung the night
air. Acey claimed
to have connections and promised Claire he would help
her get a modeling
job, "But these things take time," he had said.
Meanwhile, Claire was
getting deeper into his debt; eventually, Acey demanded
that he be repaid.
Claire was forced to turn her first trick.
Her first beating came when
she didn't want to do it again. She did of course;
Acey had the upper
hand. She was dependent on him for everything.
Claire told herself that
she would do what Acey wanted until she had enough
money to get back to
Laplace, but somehow she never had quite enough.
Eventually, she felt too
"dirty" to go back and face the simple folks of her
home town. Claire
found her lifestyle repugnant. She turned to
alcohol to make it a little
more palatable.
Claire
Julian died giving birth to Michael a month before her own
twenty-second birthday. Acey made sure that
Claire's baby got back to
Laplace where the child could be raised by his grandmother.
Although Jack
had never set eyes on him, he allowed as how that
was probably the only
completely unselfish act that Acey Lyle had ever performed.
************************
Jack readjusted
his coal oil lantern. The freshly turned earth
wasn't hard and Jack was in excellent condition, but
his seventy years
were beginning to show. His back and arms ached.
The digging was
beginning to slow. "This is the last one," he muttered
to himself, "when
you fill this one in, it's finished." Jack paused
to wipe the sweat from
his forehead. He started to take off his
jacket then thought better of
it. Through the material of the unlined denim
jacket, his fingers traced
the reassuring form of the .45 caliber Colt revolver
that was tucked under
his belt; from there, his hand slid toward the watch
pocket of his faded
dungarees. His ancient Hamilton indicated that
it was just past ten. The
old man's nostrils flared. He knew that Rayford
Stone would be along in
less than two hours. From Jack's bitter expression
there evolved a
vengeful smile.
Rayford
Stone was young, but his twenty-six years were full of
accomplishment. As a child he had earned the
reputation of being the best
bully Laplace had ever known; he was merciless.
The people around Laplace
whispered to one another, "there's somethin' a little
wrong with that
Stone boy," but they were afraid to say it where Rayford
could hear.
Michael Julian's frailty made him a natural
prey for Rayford Stone. Over
the years Rayford had beaten Michael, locked him in
a sweltering wood box
for hours at a time, and even sodomized him.
One of Rayford's favorite
pastimes was to sit on Michael's chest, pin his arms
to the ground, then
let spittle dribble into his face. After each
episode Michael retreated
to Jack's shanty in Black Water Swamp, where his tears
were dried and his
wounds doctored.
Being a
bully wasn't Rayford's only accomplishment. Among other
things, he was the fastest runner, the best baseball
player and the best
knife thrower anyone had ever seen...It was the knife
that everyone
figured would get Rayford into trouble, especially
after the town marshal
caught him trying to castrate Michael Julian with
it. It was fortunate
for Michael that the scene for the crude surgery was
ill-chosen. Had it
occurred anywhere other than behind Selby's Barber
Shop, Marshal Tremmel
might have been too late. Oddly enough, it was
the knife that made
Rayford Stone a hero in the Great War. It was
in the Argon Forest that
Rayford slithered into a German machine-gun nest and
sliced the throats of
two Krouts; the way had been cleared for his platoon
and Rayford had
earned a medal.
When Rayford
was discharged from the Army and returned to Laplace,
matters grew worse for Michael. Michael volunteered
for the Service in
1917, but was rejected because he had asthma.
While Rayford was earning
his medal, Michael stayed around Laplace and married
Suzy Bradshaw.
Suzy Bradshaw
was as flighty as she was petite and pretty. She
was a year younger than her husband, and like most
of the other kids in
Laplace, had witnessed many of the humiliations that
Rayford had inflicted
upon him. Simultaneously, she felt sorry for
Michael and admired Rayford
for his strength. During the years the United States
was involved in
W.W.I, there weren't any young men left in Laplace,
save Michael Julian;
she and Michael were naturally drawn to one another.
It could be that she
mistook pity for love or maybe it was lust that she
mistook for love, at
any rate she married Michael in August of 1918, barely
three months before
the Armistice was signed. The following year,
when Rayford got back to
Laplace, Suzy was plagued by a growing disenchantment
with her husband.
Patriotic spirit was running high and Rayford
was a hero; Michael had
been found unfit for the Service. Suzy dreamed
of making love to a war
hero.
The night
he caught Suzy making love to Rayford shattered
Michael's spirit. As usual, he made his way to Jack's
shanty hoping to
gather some comfort from his old friend; but even
a friendship like he and
Jack shared could not salve the wound Michael had
suffered. Between tears
and sobs Michael told his story then asked to borrow
Jack's revolver.
Misunderstanding Michael's intention, Jack loaned
him the gun. Instead
of killing Rayford Stone, Michael Julian killed himself.
************************
Black Water
Jack had scraped the last of the earth from Michael's
coffin when he heard Rayford Stone speak.
"Well,
well, well...Looks like I caught myself a nigger diggin' up
white trash."
Jack climbed
from the hole. Brushing the dirt from his hands and
dungarees he said, "Been expectin' ya Mr. Rayford."
Rayford
paused. "Now, why would you be expectin' me to come clear
out here tonight? You tryin' to tell me you
really are a seer? An' what
you doin' diggin' him up?"
A rare
smile spread across Jack's lips. "No sir, Mr. Rayford, I
ain't no seer...I used my ears. Why, this very
afternoon, at Michael's
funeral, I heard you an' Miss Suzy makin' plans to
meet out here so no one
would know."
"You ain't
smart, old man...talkin' like that."
Jack's
face tightened. "You think everybody here 'bouts don't
know 'bout you an' Miss Suzy?"
Rayford
drew his bayonet from its scabbard. He tenderly fondled
its blade.
"I reckon
that's the knife you killed them German fellas with?"
A wild
glint built in Rayford's eyes. "That's right, voodoo man,
and now I'm gonna cut you up with it and bury you
with that white trash."
Rayford began to close the distance between
himself and the old man.
Jack responded
by pulling the revolver from under his jacket. He
pulled back the hammer...one...two...three clicks.
"I think maybe you're
the one that's gonna be buried with Michael."
Rayford
could throw the bayonet and throw it well, but he knew
he'd be shot before he could make his move.
"If you shoot me, old man,
I'll be missed. Suzy'll have the law on ya."
Jack's
voice gave no hint of emotion. "'Spect not. I done been
to Miss Suzy's an' squeezed the life outta her with
these two hands...Felt
good too." Even in the weak lantern light, Jack
could see the shock
register on Rayford's face. The old man nodded
in the direction of the
other new grave. "Buried her with ol' Mrs. Roberts
there. I figure when
you both disappear at the same time, everybody'll
just' suppose you an'
her done run off together."
Jack felt
a wave of satisfaction ripple through his body as he
gently squeezed the trigger.