Chapter Nine

Fannie glared into the eyes of the man standing before her. He chewed on the end of the cheap cigar clamped tightly between his teeth, the end wet with saliva. Rolling it around, he blew a ring of smoke that drifted lazily toward her face. Instead of backing up, she leaned in, a smile curling the corners of her mouth, her index finger stabbing the air between them and emphasizing her words.

“I done told you, Jacob, we’ll take this place. My boy, Clyde—he do all the fixing up here and your other places for you for taking down the rent.”

“How old that boy of yours be?” he asked, pushing his hat back and scratching at the bald patch on his head, seeming to consider her offer.

“He ain’t but ten, but he real big for his age. Strong too.” She flicked her head sideways toward the door, and his eyes pulled in that direction as she continued. “His daddy done teached him how to fix most anything round the house.”

Jacob looked through the door at the hulking figure standing at the rail. He would never have guessed him to be ten years of age. The boy looked up, his red-rimmed eyes connecting with his. It made him look away quickly, not wanting the perplexing fear that tingled in his gut to show.

“You asking too much as it is, but I ain’t paying no more than twelve a month. Plus, you ain’t paying no wages to Clyde,” Fannie continued, stepping back so she would not have to bend her neck to look up at him. “This here ain’t nothing but a shack, nohow.”

“I cain’t go no lower than fifteen, Fannie. Take it or leave it,” he said, clearing his throat, aware of Clyde still standing silently on the porch with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“I guess I be leaving it then,” Fannie said, turning to give the man her back.

“Shit, woman, wait. You got the money now?” His voice dropped until it was a whispered shout. He felt sweat beading under the rim of his hat, glancing uneasily from the door and back to Fannie. He had never seen the boy before today, but he knew of him, had heard some whispers about the strange boy out at the Henry place outside of Rayville, the next town over—stories told by the Henry boys when they’d had a few drinks at the Doll House. The way the boy glared at him from under his brows, his body tightly coiled and ready to spring, forced him to shuffle his weight from foot to foot nervously.

Fannie turned back, her head lowered to conceal the smirk of satisfaction on her face and dug down into her dress pocket to pull out a faded and twisted handkerchief. Pulling the knot free, she extracted twelve crumpled one-dollar bills and placed them into Jacob’s waiting palm. He counted them twice, cleared his throat, and handed her a set of keys.

Fannie took them, looked at the lock, and snorted to herself. She doubted if the dilapidated lock served any purpose besides decoration, declaring rust was the only thing keeping it together.

“You getting a deal as it is. I’m giving you all the furniture with the place.”

Fannie laughed out loud this time, air snorting through her nose as she surveyed the furnishings. A full-sized bed resided in one corner, its mattress sinking in the center to form a dangerous concave that would only allow an individual to rest at its most extreme edges. Stains of various sizes and shades covered what may have once been blue and white stripes while an explosion of metal coils and stuffing erupted from its surface. Beside the bed, five large wooden pegs had been hammered into the wall to hold clothing, a battered trunk sitting beneath them.

A round, wooden table sat in the center of the room, the least battered item in the place. Surprisingly, two beautifully hand-carved chairs adorned either side.

Jacob sucked his teeth, then grinned at her, showing brown tobacco stains, genuine pride sparkling in his eyes. “My daddy carved that there table and chairs hisself. That been here since him and my mama was here. I got one, but it way bigger with six chairs.”

Fannie listened to the man brag as she ran her hand over the smooth, sanded surface of the wood, marveling at the texture and the craftsmanship.

“And I thanks you. Now that we done come to an agreement, I take good care of it.”

“You best do that,” Jacob said, turning surly again, avarice sidling up beside his pride. “I’m gon’ have to charge you if anything get broke.”

“I done said we take care of it.” Fannie bristled, casting an eye toward Clyde, who had begun moving forward, his face registering the distress he heard in his mother’s voice. “What you thinking?”

Jacob shifted uncomfortably as Clyde shuffled into the room, anger blazing in his dark eyes. Jacob’s eyes roamed from the apparent strength of the boy’s upper body to his face, tightened in anger, and then fell into the depths of darkness in Clyde’s eyes. He could not stop himself from recoiling as he stared, the fear transforming from a tingle to a surge threatening to liquefy his legs. Jacob swiveled abruptly, skirting around Clyde to reach the door in two quick strides.

“I didn’t mean no harm, Ms. Fannie. I knows everything be took good care of.” Sweat poured profusely, rivulets sliding into his beard. His words came swiftly as he tried to read the expression on her face, gauging her anger level.

“I leaves you all to get settled,” he called over his shoulder, not caring that he was running now, feeling the boy’s eyes boring into his back. Fannie chuckled, the laughter rumbling and threatening to overflow, but stopped when she saw Clyde, his shoulders slumping now that the threat to her was gone. His sadness tugged at her heart.

Clyde broke off his staring after the fleeing man, the darkness swirling inside wanting to reach out and bring the man back—show him that he couldn’t talk to his mama that way.

“Th . . . This where we gon’ be staying?” he asked as Fannie stepped close to him, running her hand along his cheek, letting her corral the darkness.

“Yeah, baby boy. We gon’ have to work real hard, but we can makes it. I got the same folks buying bread from me and might get a few more now that we in town. I can takes in laundry too. You be able to hire out in the fields and around town. Plus, your daddy and brothers got the shop. I know they help out too. We be all right here.”

“It don’t feel right.” Clyde sank into one of the chairs, his shoulders heaving, and Fannie feared he might cry. She walked closer, reaching down to lay her open palm once again on his cheek, stroking softly.

“We gon’ fix it up, and pretty soon it feel just like home. Don’t you worry none. Mama gon’ fix it. That witch gone, and we safe. You safe. Don’t nothing else matter.”

Clyde gazed into her eyes, which glistened with tears, and he shrank back, afraid he had hurt her feelings. She was trying hard to make it right for them. He grasped her small hand between both of his and then stood, towering over her petite form.

“And don’t you forgets, you my special boy, give to me by the Lord. He ain’t took his hand from around you.”

“O . . . OK, Mama.” He choked the words out.

Fannie turned her hand inside his until she could lead him gently across the room, sinking down to the edge of the bed and guiding him until he was next to her, then lay his head in her lap. Clyde listened to the soft whisper of material sliding over the front buttons of her dress and inhaled deeply. The musky smell of her skin and her milk blended, and his head swam in ecstasy, his eyes shut tightly. He felt his lips puckering in anticipation as she lifted his head and pushed his eager mouth to her breast, both sighing aloud.

Fannie rocked him gently, one hand still stroking his head and rubbing it in a circular pattern, trying to ignore the throbbing between her legs that pulsated through her sex with each tug on her nipples. Easing backward, carefully avoiding the dip in the mattress, she curled herself around her son, where they remained until darkness filled the windows and sleep claimed them both.

Clyde stopped in the shadows of the alley, the last building at the very edge of the town’s main street. He stretched his feelings, allowing the fingers of darkness to extend outward, searching the area around him. The dark powers within him had grown. He could sense it in others, sometimes lying dormant, waiting for a spark to ignite it. In some, he could reach out to it, draw it to him, or feed on it. He had discovered that everyone carried darkness in them. Sometimes, he felt that he was learning to control it. Other times, it strained to overwhelm him.

He had promised his mama. There would be no more slipups. He was good. He wouldn’t succumb to the desires the darkness kindled. If God spoke to him in a dream or through the darkness, he would tell her first. He would not be bad again.

He bent his neck backward, craning to see the top of the two-story structure, and squeezed his eyes shut in silent prayer. This building had to offer up some work. If not, he would head out to the farms that bordered the town.

A smile crept over his face as he anticipated seeing the woods again, getting away from the closeness of the buildings, the crush of people staring at him, the constant mud, and the smell. Hearing the coins jingling in his pocket from making grocery deliveries, he forgot his dislike of the town and began whistling, thinking how happy Fannie would be.

Hearing the slide of a window sash being raised overhead, he stepped back just in time to avoid the contents of the slop jar being hurled from the window. A head full of brown paper bag curlers poked out after it, the eyes in the round face beneath them squinting at him first, then the face’s open mouth howling in laughter.

“Boy, what the hell you doing standing out there in the dark? Black as you is, I damn near cain’t see you, and you was about to be covered in shit and piss.”

Clyde blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open. “I, uh . . . I mean, why come you talks like that? I ain’t never heard no lady say them kind of things.”

The woman threw her head back and laughed even louder as two more heads joined her at the window. She held onto the arm of one of the women to support herself, pointing downward, talking loudly between guffaws of laughter.

“That little fool down there say don’t no lady talks like that.”

“Boy, don’t you know where you is?” the other woman managed to snort out the words.

Clyde shook his head. “I was just walking around town looking for work, and I stop back here. Does you got anything for me?”

The three heads withdrew and conferred before the brown curlers reappeared. “Come on over to the side door. I’ll come down and get you.”

Clyde moved slowly to the door cut into the side of the building and waited, bouncing awkwardly on the balls of his feet. The door opened, and a pale brown hand and arm grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him inside. He followed the woman attached to the arm into the dim light of the lamp she held, trying not to watch the sway of her buttocks visible beneath the sheer fabric of her robe and night dress as they made their way up a set of creaking stairs leading to the second-floor level.

The smell of tobacco, whiskey, and perfume mingled thickly in the air, and Clyde wrinkled his nose in disgust. At the top of the stairs, they followed a floral carpet to the end of the hall, passing several closed doors. Wisps of darkness swirled beneath each one. Reaching the end, the woman opened the last door, and bright light spilled into the hallway, silhouetting her body’s ample curves.

“Come on in, honey. Don’t get shy now. Ain’t nobody here gon’ hurt you.”

Clyde eased into the small, cramped room, his head down and his hands finding their way into his pockets, afraid to look up at the three women. The one who had led him up the stairs turned and sank into a chair in front of a vanity table with a large mirror. The other two women lounged on their beds, their legs spread apart beneath the layers of lace on their gowns. Clyde could see the shadow of their womanhood beneath the reds and blues of their garments. He felt his face coloring in embarrassment.

“My name Baby Doll. What they call you, boy?” the woman with the paper curlers haloing her face asked, leaning over to place her finger under his chin, lifting his face. “Jesus, boy, look at you.” She laughed, dropping his chin back down.

“Girl, stop. He cain’t help the way he look. And it ain’t all that bad. Just way too much of it!” The woman she had been talking to at the window clicked her tongue between her teeth, shaking her head from left to right. “It a damn shame, though, to have all that pretty hair and nothing fine to go with it,” she said as she rose and walked toward him, first running her fingers through the thick black curls, then placing her hands on both sides of his face as she lifted it, studying it closely. “My name be Sugar.” She clicked her tongue again, and Baby Doll shook with silent laughter, the paper curlers softly rattling as Sugar continued studying his face, finally concluding, “You right, though, Baby Doll. God ain’t do him no favors when he give him this face. What your name?”

“Clyde.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Speak up, honey. Don’t be ashamed. You done met Baby Doll and me. Her over there be Sweetness.”

Clyde cleared his throat, glancing at the woman sprawled on the bed, then averted his eyes as he spoke again. “I’m obliged to meet you ladies.”

All three women burst into gales of laughter again, Sugar collapsing onto a plush burgundy velvet armchair near the window. Clyde stared at them, confused.

“You just keep on calling us ladies, and you sure can work for us,” Baby Doll gasped, sucking in deep breaths and trying to control the mirth that kept rising.

“B . . . But, you is ladies; you all ain’t mens,” he replied, his words stuttering over themselves.

This caused another bout of hilarity, the women holding their stomachs and sides, reaching up to wipe tears from their eyes. Clyde narrowed his eyes and unleashed the darkness, feeling it stretch out, siphoning from the women. He detected the darkness building as the laughter fell around him, his head sinking lower, his chin resting on his chest.

“Clyde, how old is you?” Sugar asked, taking a deep breath.

Clyde lifted his head and pulled himself up straight before he answered, “Ten.”

“Shit, but you big for ten. You almost the size of a grown man, excepting them legs. What wrong with your legs?” Sweetness asked, her eyes roaming from head to foot, looking at him from her place on the bed across the room, her hand waving the red feather boa that draped over her negligee.

Clyde refused to answer, his face coloring with shame, the dark swirls of anger swimming in his head. His hands clenched to fists inside of his pockets.

“Don’t mind her, boy,” Sugar said, rolling her eyes in her friend’s direction before looking back at Clyde. “Well, you old enough to know what this is, child. This a whorehouse.”

Clyde’s features remained blank as he looked from one woman to another.

“Damn, he stupid too!” Sweetness harrumphed loudly, crabbing backward toward the headboard and ignoring Sugar as she slapped at the air in front of her.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Sugar asked, her voice soft as she began to explain. “This where men comes to be with women. You know?”

Across the room, Sweetness let her body lean against the brass railings that formed the headboard, supporting her torso while allowing her legs to sprawl open farther. Holding Clyde’s gaze with her own, she lifted her hand to her mouth, sucking her index finger until it glistened, then dipped it between the dark cleft between her thighs. Bringing it back, she waved the finger in front of her face before curling it to beckon to him. “All mens wants something sweet every now and then,” she purred, her words throaty and sensuous.

Clyde violently shook his head, looking down at the floor, his eyes searching wildly for an escape. The darkness brought the full stain of the women to him, rolling over him in waves, revulsion crawling over him as Sweetness continued to rub herself, touching her private place.

He could smell it, the scent like the one he had sniffed on his mother one night, lingering beneath the usual smell of her skin and her milk. The one that caused a stirring, like the one he felt now. He remembered that time with his mother, when his man parts had stiffened, and she had pushed him away, screaming at him that he was bad, demanding to know if he had been touching himself.

Mama had beat his hands until they were red and swollen, then cried, her tears falling on his hot flesh while she beseeched the Lord not to let him lose his soul and prayed for his return to purity. She had made him kneel on hard white rice all night, praying for forgiveness and redemption.

His body jerked forward as he felt a hand on his shoulder, rubbing softly, a cloud of perfume swirling through the air with it. But beneath it was that other smell.

“Stop being so nasty, Sweetness,” Baby Doll scolded. “You see the boy don’t know no better.” She had moved from her seat at the vanity and now stood behind him, pulling him closer to her. She took up where Sugar had left off. “It where men pays women to sex them, Clyde. They comes here when they wants to drink and has a good time. We gives it to them.”

Stepping in front of him, she was close enough for Clyde to feel the heat from her body, smell the rank odor beneath the overpowering scent of the perfume she wore. Her breasts pushed against the fabric of her gown as she inhaled and exhaled.

Snatches of conversations he’d overheard from his older brothers filtered into his awareness, of them smoking behind the garage, drinking whiskey, and talking about some place called the Doll House and who had been there last. They would howl and grab their privates, challenging each other, calling their privates “dicks,” and asking who had the biggest dick and who could do the most with it. The words and images slammed together with the memory of his own hands touching himself, Fannie’s beating, the biting pain in his knees as he prayed, and the women in front of him.

Clyde’s head snapped up, and his eyes rounded in horror. He knocked the hand from his shoulder and began backing toward the door, his arm raised and his finger pointing in accusation. “Harlots! You all is Jezebel womens. My mama done told me about you. You all is sinners!”

The laughter ceased abruptly, sliced in two by his words. The women’s features hardened, becoming one collective, carved into masks of anger, each an effigy of rage and resentment. Baby Doll, who had been leaning forward to talk to him, uncurled to her full height, standing a head taller than him and trembling with rage. Striding toward the door, she threw it open, then held it in place.

“Boy, get your little righteous ass out of here,” she screamed, her mouth contorted in a snarl. The softness had left Sugar’s face, and she glared at Clyde as he turned and passed by her. He avoided looking at Sweetness on the bed altogether.

Intent on escape, he did not see Baby Doll as she lifted her foot, slamming into him with such force that he could feel the pointed toe of her slipper digging deep into the crevice of his buttocks, pain shooting up his tailbone. He fell face-first on the musty hall carpet, inhaling the smell of stale vomit as she shrieked, “Who the fuck you think you is?”

Clyde heard her words, a string of curses, behind him as the door slammed shut. Crawling slowly, he remained a few feet outside the door for a few minutes and let the rage gather in his chest, feeling it pitching through him. The palms of his hands burned in remembrance of the punishment for sin—the knowledge that these women did “things” with men and would have done them with him if he’d let them. He pushed to his feet using his hands, ignoring the pain radiating up his back and embracing it as he stood.

The darkness emerged, engulfing him with rage. His eyes burned, and he knew that if he could see them, they would be ringed in red, the pupils pitch black. He let it consume him, incinerating his promises and controlling him.

The darkness of the hall around him gathered to join his own, and he sucked it in as it swirled toward him from the various rooms he passed. Clyde let it comfort him and drew it to him, the mist gathering around his feet and mingling with it.