Saturday Afternoon Company by Fiona M. O'Downey

[fiona]

Well, here's the story: "Saturday Afternoon Company", pretty much as it was written in 1993. It's a set piece and here I present the unedited and unexplainable edition.

[fiona]

Of the two women, perched like dusty birds on the sagging remains of a once fine red velvet fainting couch, the daughter saw the stranger first. From her vantage point on the porch of the ramshackle dog trot house, propped almost incidentally under the eaves by two long poles and the Grace of God, his sudden appearance had startled, but not frightened her. The noon sun was high up, knife bright, chopping up the shadows into bits, when he came up over the crest of the ridge. A gaunt figure, silhouetted black against the toneless sky, the daughter saw him pause briefly, then limp down into the windbreak of ragged slash pine that delineated the boundaries of Bodies Flat Land.

She saw him first because it was as if, she reasoned, she had somehow been expecting him. She had been day dreaming, rambling in her mind to a place where young fellas with polka dot bow ties and clean hands proffered exotic gifts like ice cold Co-Cola's and picture show passes. Her hands worked lazily and of there own accord at the unshelled pile of yellow butter beans in her lap; she wondered, but just for an instant, why the man hadn't come by the Town Road like all the others... then, gazing out to where the sun dappled earth was splashed with various attitudes of shifting light and shadow, she dismissed the thought. It was Saturday afternoon after all, the man was company and company meant money. She didn't want to know anymore.

The mother bore a heavy set face which had a discernible expression of hopelessness. Her small watery blue eyes had taken on the hues of a summers evening at sunset, in that winking moment when the last of the light is lost. She too wore bib jeans faded in such a way that the woman and her garment had become one solid grey washed unit. Her large fingers worked automatically at the pile of beans in her lap; she dropped them into a rusty bucket between her bare feet, the pods she tossed into a heap behind her. The daughter was simply a thinner repetition, only distinguished by the fact that she had a really ugly wall eye; a round white thing that protruded from it's socket like a misshapen marble. The other eye was a deep clear blue, and her curly blond hair was twisted up into a scraggly top knot. She had taken extra care with it today, because she had been hoping for early company. They hadn't had any Saturday afternoon company for a spell of a time.

The daughter sucked in her breath as the man came out of the trees. She could see now that he was a lanky full growed nigger man, wearing tattered denim work pants and little else. His left arm hung limp at his side and there was an odd tilt to the way he carried his neck and head. He raised his right hand, shielding his eyes from the sun, then broke into a lop sided trot. Descending down the ridge, he disappeared again behind a thick stand of mulberry trees that grew flourshing in a heap of back country detritus: Broken down bed steads, an upended cast iron cook stove, ancient rain washed plank wood, and the rusted out skeleton of a model A car; all beset upon by a tangled mass of vines and ringed by busted up bottles and flattened tin cans of sizes various and sundry.

The daughter opened her mouth to speak but the mother cut her off. She spat a long arc of tobacco juice over the porch rail. "Damm fool town folk. It ain't rained for two months of a Sunday", she said, shifting her weight on the couch. "Gettin' stiff" she postulated and then: "Heard that a fella over in Mose...or could be Gunby... took an ax to his milk cow last week. Axed her just because she couldn't give milk. Udder's just dried up was all. Folks gets crazy in this heat, I swear."

The daughter turned way. She was hoping the company wasn't just a dream - joke, and when she saw the man again, he was still half hidden by the trees. "Takin a piss," she said to herself. "Same's as any what come's callin. Pee and spit like they's tryin to grow spit bushes or somethin." She leaned over and jabbed the mother in the ribs with her elbow. "Nigger man comin in tirectly!" she cried out, her voice rising into a high, cracked falsetto.

The mother sat bolt upright on the couch. "Damm you gal! You got me right in my misery. Right smack in the middle of my misery.!" She rubbed the spot with her hand. " I knowed he was there afore you you said it. Nigger's got a certain kind a smell. Say we ain't got no work and send him on his way."

"Say... how'd you know it again?", asked daughter, lazily swinging her right foot in a wide arc.

"Gal, you ain't got no more sense in your head than a bursted pumpkin." The mother dumped the beans into the bucket. " Caint you see he ain't for us? Ain't our kind. It ain't right, even that."

Annie wagged her tongue at the mother. " I got more sense in my head than you'll ever have in a month a Sundays, old woman. Good Saturday afternoon company ain't even out of the bushes yet and you already down and showin' all you got.!"

Gripping the edge of the couch, the mother yanked herself to her feet. " Say it gal. Say we ain't got no work and send him on his way!"

"Why can't you say it?" countered the daughter and she pitched a large bean into the bucket. The older woman glared down at the younger. "Gal, you ain't nuthin' but a lint head. Call him up here and you'll be workin them cotton mill spools, I swear it. The mother slapped her hands together. "Say we ain't got no work or I'll box yer ears till yer deaf!"

The daughter jumped back. "Damm you old woman. Damm you to Hell. He's all the company we got and you got to go and do me like this. Now, you just stop yer gabbin, old woman. I got somethin in mind just for him. He can trot right back to town and fetch us some nice cold Co-Cola's and we can have ourselfes a little do." Annie ran her fingers through her hair, tightening and twisting her top knot. "Purty is as purty does, what I say."

The mother spat tobacco juice at her feet, then turned to the screen door. "You comin' in ain't you?"

"No. No I ain't. I ain't goin no where fore I gets us them two cold Co-Cola's."

"Suit yerself" said the mother and she let the screen door slam behind her.

The daughter squinted her good eye at the man, still standing where he was half hidden by the Mulberry trees. Those Co-Cola's would be fine right now if she could somehow trick that old Nigger man into fetching them. She rolled the thought in her mind like someone playing with a seed on their tounge. Going to the edge of the steps she made a freindly gesture. " You can come on up here.", she hollered. "We got us a whole world a work up here. Just come on up and we'll get you started on it right quick!"

Several long moments of silence followed, when the daughter could hear the mother moving about the kitchen, then the man stepped out from behind the trees. Circling the mounds of trash, he began weaving his way towards the house, his gait a half limp, half trot. Dust coated his bare feet, trousers, chest as he loped forwards. Then he stopped. He just stopped short of a big China berry tree, gazing at the girl with sunken dark eyes that were set like raisins above his mottled and swollen cheek bones.

The daughter went down the rickety steps and stood in the sun dappled shade, intently studying the man. Now it was clear to her why he hadn't come right up. Why, he was just ashamed to come callin lookin like he did with his face all lumpy and purple and his arm hanging down like it was bursted. For a few seconds she was sorry that she wanted to trick the man, but then, after all, he had come here on his own and good Saturday afternoon company never came empty handed.

"Hey Boy", she said, "Where you runnin too? North? This here's East - West. Ain't no North round here for a hundred miles."

The man shifted his weight unsteadily from leg to leg. The dust was gathering like a living thing around his ankles, till he was standing in a deep pool of it. A light breeze came up, stirring the leaves of the Chin Berry; it carried the smell of pine resin and turpentine, rank sweat and the distinct odour of something fried.

"Now, lissen here, Boy. I'm speakin at you." She said impatiently. " I ain't got all day. I needs me some Co-Cola's from town. You got any money or ain't you?"

The man crumpled down into a small child squatting position. Laying his head on his knees he rocked slowly back and forth.

"Well, you ain't got to cry about it. I aint goin to force myself on you. I got too much good in me for that." She sucked at her teeth, a loud sharp sound.

The man crumpled down, rolling flat out onto his back, staring open eyed at the darkening sky. A cooler breeze stirred the heated land and high above the ridge scudding black clouds brought the sharp sweet smell of rain. The daughter paused, then plowed straight ahead as her idea broke through in full force.

"Lissen here, Boy. I'll cut you a deal. You just get up and trot into town and fetch me and ma them two nice ice cold Co-Cola's and I won't go to my own telly phone and call the Sherriff and tell him I got me a stray and dangerous Nigger right here on my own property. Runnin from somewheres, way you look."

Closing his eyes, the man made a wounded animal sound a way down in his throat, his legs twitched and then, were still.

She edged closer balancing herself againt a sudden gust of wind that whipped her hair about her face in long greasy strands. She peered down into the man's swollen face which was the color of dark ash. He seemed to be shrinking away, drawing up into himself, getting smaller and smaller as she watched. She poked the man in the shoulder with her foot. "Hey Boy, I'm still talkin at you. It's fixin to rain an I got to get back, You got money or ain't you?"

The man's mouth fell open revealed cracked broken teeth and just a black scab of something.

"Why, if you aint a sight for sore eyes"! she exclaimed, hands flying to her mouth in surprise. Thunder boomed and rolled overhead, fat cool rain drops hit her face and arms. Turning, she ran back to the house. She had to get there fast. She had taken extra care with her hair this morning and didn't want to get caught in the rain.

The mother was standing at the screen door. Chewing on a scrap of corn cake, her mouth worked rhythmically from side to side. "Bout how long you figure that ol Nigger mans going to lay out there?" she saked beteween swallows.

"Bouts long as he wants to, what I figger." said the daughter, pushing past the mother. "I'm done talkin at him. Why he aint got no more sense in his head that a bursted pumpkin."


END

[Dave]

Fiona, what a terrific piece! Your descriptions are excellent and very visual. You hooked me into the story in the first paragraph, played the visiting many through his approach to the house and then left me wondering if he was dead at the end. That was great!

I don't think you've ever put your writing on More Stories, the Writer's Place. Would you allow me to upload it there and become one of the More Stories authors?

I've been thinking lately of putting more effort into the entire MoreStories Writers' Place, my first project on the web. Lately I haven't given it much attention and your story would be an excellent kick off piece.

See the MoreStories main page here:
www.windsweptpress.com/morstor.htm

and the stories listing for occasional authors here:
www.windsweptpress.com/mortoc.htm

PS: I'm also interested in the inclusion of more poetry. And Keith has a story or two (that got lost when I revamped this forum) that would make excellent articles for the More Stories website.

[fiona]

oh sure. Go ahead. I think it would be fun. Glad you like it. Did you find it unsettling at all/ I did! And it was very hard to write, especially all the multiple points of view. Thanks Dave.

[keith]

I don't think unsettling even starts to describe the feeling. No gore, no overt violence yet over-the-top scary.

[Dave]

Thanks, I'll put it up next week when I get home. Or maybe sooner depending on schedule and what I can do on this netbook.

[fiona]

@ Keith: Things seen from the side, from one eye or from the corner of the eye are often the most frightening.

[fiona]

I made a few corrections, but it's good as it stands and ready to go.