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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 07/20/2014
Mama Root: Respect
Born 1950, M, from Clearwater/FL, United States.jpg)
There’s no getting away from Big Cypress heat in July. Steeling yourself against it doesn’t work; you just have to let it pass straight through your body without giving it a chance to settle in. If you’re lucky your brain won’t have time to register the discomfort - it’ll be too busy processing the whine of mosquitoes, the faint sulfurous smell rendered by low water in the saline tidal region and the stunning panorama of sawgrass and star rushes set against a backdrop of pine hammocks, cabbage palms and distant thunderheads.
In this heat, cars don’t fare much better than people. A thermometer idiot light on the Buick’s dash wasn’t needed to tell him that something was wrong - the ominous groan of steam and discontented metal under the hood was proof enough that his day wasn’t going to go as planned. He pulled into a wide spot along the side of the road, stopping in the sparse shade of a lone scrub oak. A head of receding wiry gray hair presented itself from behind the raised hood of an improvised oil-drum barbecue grill.
“Hepyamissa?”
“What?”
“Hep’ ya’ missa’?”
“Oh, sorry. Yeah, buddy, you got any water?”
“Name ain’t ‘Buddy’” the old man advised, stepping out from behind the grill. “An’ ah’ ain’t got no water, jus’ barbecue. You want barbecue?”
His skin was the hue and texture of peppered beef jerky. Hound’s tooth pants and a flowered shirt hung baggy on a frame that looked as though a stiff wind could blow him into the next county. His hands were callused from handling the hot steel grill for so many years without the luxury of oven mitts and his eyes were quick and clever.
The traveler savored the aroma of pork ribs and sauce and the secret combination of woods that created the coals, a scent that hung so thick in the air it nearly took visible form.
“Yeah, actually I am kind of hungry. You got decent barbecue?”
The old man removed his dentures to inspect them. “Beff’ damn barbecue in F’orda!” he responded, squinting at the appliances before replacing them in his mouth for a better fit. He fashioned a vessel of aluminum foil into which he placed two slices of Wonder Bread.
“No no, I don’t want a sandwich. Just some ribs.”
“Ain’t gonna’ be no sandwich. Bread sops up da’ grease. Y’aint from ‘round here, are ya’?”
“No, I’m on my way to Miami for a sales conference.” The traveler picked up a rib with his pinky extended, took a small bite and beamed a broad smile. “Damn, man, you weren’t kidding about the ribs. These are incredible!”
The old man ignored the compliment and bent down to inspect the front of the stranger’s car. “’Spec you got a bus’ed hose here, judgin’ by da’ water. Got some tape in ma’ truck – should fix y’up ‘til ya’ can get a new one.”
“But I still need water.”
“Look ‘round ya’” he said, gesturing about. “It’s a swamp. It’s fulla’ water.”
“Any idea where I can get a new hose?”
“Only place close might have one is Mama Root.”
“Mama Root?”
“Ol’ conjurin’ woman lives off Loop Road. She got a store with all kinda’ stuff, ‘cludin hoses.”
The stranger smirked. “Sounds like a real peach. Think she’ll have parts for anything made after 1950?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed and his speech became slow and instructive. “Bes’ take care not ta’ speak ‘bout Mama ‘at way. She’s eldest in ‘ese parts. After a hu’nerd an’ fo’ty six years she don’ take ta’ folks bein’ disrespec’ful. ‘At’s fo’ dolla’ for da’ ribs.”
The traveler raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “What, you people think you can put one over on the city slicker? By 146 years old, you’re underground, not above it. Here’s five – keep the change.”
“You b’leve what ya’ want, missa’ - I’m just sayin’. You want ‘at hose, ya’ go down here a piece, turn at da’ Loop Road sign by da’ bus’ed down old buildin’, go ‘bout six mile an’ turn ‘gain when ya’ get ta’ a road no part o’ you wanna’ go down. Her place’ll be on da’ lef’. An’ you bes’ be respec’ful.”
“Wait a minute – once I turn down Loop Road, how do I know which road is hers?”
“B’leve me, missa’ – you gonna’ know.”
After stopgap repairs had been made and the radiator was filled, the Buick started with minimal complaint. Half a mile further east on Tamiami was a large ramshackle structure surround by a galvanized chain-link fence, with a road sign proclaiming it to be “Monroe Station”. Originally a way station when the Webb family opened it in 1925 it was the only place to get gas, maps or a snack in an area otherwise devoid of such commodities. A couple with the colorful names of Big Joe Lord and Sweet Sue tried to make a go of the place after that, but the government made him pull the gas pumps for environmental reasons – yet another cause to be pissed off for a guy who had a beef against war protestors, hippies, the IRS and anything else that crossed his path. The place breathed its last in 2005 and was boarded up, home now only to termites, rats and the odd snake. Next to Monroe Station was the stark white lime rock of Loop Road. The traveler set the trip odometer and started down the narrow venue, weaving around chuck holes and the occasional alligator sunning in the middle of the road. The fairly smooth unimproved path with pea-sized gravel soon degraded to a washboard surface strewn with rocks the diameter of grapefruit and his progress slowed.
On the right one lone dirt road eventually presented itself. Even in the bright of day he could see only a hundred or so feet down the path before it was swallowed up in a cavern of swamp maple that intertwined to form a dome over the passage. He proceeded with caution, eyeing snakes hanging from the branches of pop ash and mysterious swirls in the shadowed water, praying the electrical tape would hold for just a little longer.
To his left an aging frame structure struggled up out of the swamp. The skeletal remains of a white picket fence lay strewn around the front and a walkway of rough-hewn cypress planks led to the house. The traveler shut off the engine and watched a thin curl of steam escape from beneath the hood as the scalding water of the radiator loosened the electrical tape. Apprehensive in this alien environment he glanced out the driver’s side window, making sure that he wasn’t about to step on a rattlesnake or whatever the hell else they had out here that was poisonous. Stepping from the car he trotted aross the expanse of ground between the parking area and the stairs leading up to the boardwalk. He climbed the steps, navigated the expanse of cypress planks that comprised the walkway and broad front porch and entered the structure. There he found an old woman – old in the most extreme sense of the word – arranging tins of chewing tobacco behind the counter.
“Hey, you Mama Root?”
The old woman continued about her work.
“Yo, Mama Root?”
The tins were arranged to her liking and she turned her attention to plastic packets of fish hooks and several pairs of cheap sunglasses hanging from a minnow snare.
“Excuse me, <i>ma’am</i>?”
She turned and smiled. “Sorry, hearin ain’t what it useta’ be. Must notta’ heard you twice’t calling my name.”
He recoiled upon seeing her face. She bore few similarities to the living; her features more closely resembled those of a mummy. A thin layer of translucent skin stretched across her skull, with blue veins visible beneath the surface. Dark holes of eyes were sunken into her head, and such teeth as remained her were yellowed and misaligned. Her bone white hair was thin and long, hanging in tangled filaments like Spanish moss. She spoke again in a voice not unlike the sound of a child’s first violin lesson.
“Need a part for your car, do ya’?”
Incredulous, he stared at her, not understanding how she could know such a thing. “Yeah, radiator hose. Upper, for a 2005 Buick Park Avenue.”
“Headin’ for the city?”
The traveler glanced at his Rolex. “Uh, yeah. The hose?”
“Ever been in these parts before?”
Looking out a cracked window at the sun inching towards the horizon, he became impatient. “Look, lady, do you have the hose or don’t you? If you do, I’m going to need a little light in order to put in on. You take plastic?”
She raised a bent twig of a finger in his direction. “Folks in ‘ese parts know ‘bout respectin’ others. Sounds like somethin’ you need ta’ be taught. You sit ya’self down there an’ let me tell ya’ a story.”
He hanged his head and massaged his temples. “Look, for the last time, are you…”
His sentence was interrupted as the old woman’s eyes rolled back in her head, exposing only white accented with rivulets of red capillaries. The words stuck in his throat and his knees buckled, causing him to sit down hard on an upended citrus crate that was immediately beneath him. Mama Root continued.
“Ya’ see that tree out there?” she asked, gesturing in the direction of the east windows. “That one there, past your auto, up on the rise o’ dry land? It’s called a gumbo-limbo. Years back the Indi’ns ‘round here figured that tree was special – not just gumbo-limbo, but that ‘xact tree. It’s too boggy in ‘ese parts for them ta’ grow, but that one took root on that little mound o’ dirt. Indi’ns’d gather up the fallen limbs for firewood an’ carvin’, an’ ta’ make potions outta’ the sap.”
As her attention was focused on the tree the visitor attempted to stand and head for the door, but his legs would not comply. There was no pain; they simply did not respond to the impulses that would normally stir them to action. Mama Root looked back at him and smiled. “Ain’t done tellin’ the story yet. How ‘bout you get ya’self all cozy an’ sit a spell longer.”
The traveler’s only response was to stare wide-eyed at his unsolicited hostess and place his fingers into the hand holes of the crate, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. Satisfied that her’s was still a captive audience, she continued.
“One day this fella’ from the city come by an’ saw the tree. Seems gumbo-limbo was just the right wood for carving them fancy merry-go-round ponies. Without even askin’, he took out his Barlow knife an’ made his mark on that tree, like he was stakin’ some kinda’ claim to it. Told them Indi’ns he was comin’ by in a coupla’ days ta’ chop it down, then he give ‘em some beads, an’ a lookin’ glass, an’ some sugar. Guess they didn’t think that was proper payment, ‘cause they took him out an’ tied him ta’ that tree – each arm to a branch, an’ his middle an’ legs tied ta’ the trunk. Their holy man said some words over him, then smeared sap from the tree on his forehead an’ belly, then they all just sat in a circle watchin’ as he was all trussed up, whoopin’ an’ hollerin. Pretty soon, he started quiet’n down. His skin first turned sickly green, then started gettin’ red peels on it just like the bark o’ that tree. Come a few hours, weren’t nuthin’ left o’ him but his face peerin’ out through the bark o’ the tree, mouth movin’ but makin’ no sound, eyes all crazy an’ whatnot. A time more, even that was gone – tree all the way swallowed him up. From then on, only way ya’ could ever tell anything happened there was that the sap from the tree ran blood red. Still does ta’ this very day.”
The stranger realized he could now move his legs and seized the opportunity to jump to his feet. “Look, I don’t know what’s in your water around here, or how inbred you people are, but I’m getting the hell out of here, one way or another. I don’t need the hose that badly.”
The old woman just stared in his direction, her lips curled back in a sardonic grin. “Somethin’ wrong with your skin, boy?”
He gaped in horror as his flesh gradually turned from lightly tanned to a ghastly shade of green, with reddish flakes in place of the hair. His fingers became long and thin, with waxy green leaves sprouting from the sides. He looked up at Mama Root and the smile disappeared from her face. “My mistake, boy. Your skin looks fine.”
Glancing back down, he found all as it should be.
“Les’see now, ya’ still need that hose. Only got one in the whole place – don’t
know what kinda’ auto it’s for.”
With the aid of a yardstick she knocked the part down from its appointed nail on the wall.
“Well, if that don’t beat all – uppa’ hose, 2005 Buick Park Avenue. That’ll be one hundred dollars, cash money.”
“A HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A RADIATOR HOSE? THAT’S…”
Her eyes began to twitch, and he recanted.
“…that’s… more cash than I have on me right now.”
“Oh, that don’t make no nevermind. You just give me a lock o’ your hair an’ we’ll call it even.”
“My hair? What?”
She produced a pair of shears from behind the counter and handed them to the stranger. Mustering as much control as his trembling hands could offer, he snipped off the requisite payment. The old woman tied it in a knot then enclosed the lock of hair in her fist. Whispering a few words over the prize she then stuck it on the wall with a straight pin, amidst dozens of other locks of hair. Some were held in place with hat pins of tarnished silver, looking as though they had been there for decades. Fulfilling her part of the bargain, she handed him the hose. “Ya’ got a bit more daylight ta’ see what you’re doin’. Once you’re all fixed up I ‘spect ya’ won’t be back ‘round this way, right?”
Too stunned to speak, he merely nodded his head.
She turned and patted the newly added lock of hair then looked back at him, her stare bypassing his eyes and burning straight into his brain like cottonmouth venom.
“An’ I won’t never have ta’ come visit you… right?”
Incapable of articulating a response he made a few quick shakes of his head. Wanting nothing more than to be as far from the old woman and her domain as possible he snatched up the hose and bolted for the door, nearly taking it off the hinges and causing the brass bell above the portal to shriek, rather than announce with its customary delicate voice. The old woman watched in amusement as the stranger raced across the walkway, hit the first step then jumped the remaining four, landing on the ground and rushing pell-mell for his car. Equipped with only a promotional Swiss Army knife (“A.S.P. Conference 2007”) he removed the old hose and installed the new, wiping perspiration from his brow with greasy hands and turning an expensive Italian dress shirt and trousers into shop rags.
Mama Root looked on as he slammed the hood, cranked the engine and sped off, spinning up a shower of dirt from beneath the front wheels and echoing thuds and scrapes as the undercarriage bottomed out on the uneven trail.
The crone shook her head and grinned.
“Skittish little fella’.”
Returning to the store the ancient proprietress resumed her tasks, muttering to herself as she rearranged displays on the countertop. “Place needs a good dustin’ too. Won’t do to have visitors seein’ the place all a mess.”
Pausing her work, she closed her eyes as though in deep concentration, then nodded.
“Yes. Visitors there’s gonna’ be. An’ soon.”
Mama Root: Respect(Phil Penne)
There’s no getting away from Big Cypress heat in July. Steeling yourself against it doesn’t work; you just have to let it pass straight through your body without giving it a chance to settle in. If you’re lucky your brain won’t have time to register the discomfort - it’ll be too busy processing the whine of mosquitoes, the faint sulfurous smell rendered by low water in the saline tidal region and the stunning panorama of sawgrass and star rushes set against a backdrop of pine hammocks, cabbage palms and distant thunderheads.
In this heat, cars don’t fare much better than people. A thermometer idiot light on the Buick’s dash wasn’t needed to tell him that something was wrong - the ominous groan of steam and discontented metal under the hood was proof enough that his day wasn’t going to go as planned. He pulled into a wide spot along the side of the road, stopping in the sparse shade of a lone scrub oak. A head of receding wiry gray hair presented itself from behind the raised hood of an improvised oil-drum barbecue grill.
“Hepyamissa?”
“What?”
“Hep’ ya’ missa’?”
“Oh, sorry. Yeah, buddy, you got any water?”
“Name ain’t ‘Buddy’” the old man advised, stepping out from behind the grill. “An’ ah’ ain’t got no water, jus’ barbecue. You want barbecue?”
His skin was the hue and texture of peppered beef jerky. Hound’s tooth pants and a flowered shirt hung baggy on a frame that looked as though a stiff wind could blow him into the next county. His hands were callused from handling the hot steel grill for so many years without the luxury of oven mitts and his eyes were quick and clever.
The traveler savored the aroma of pork ribs and sauce and the secret combination of woods that created the coals, a scent that hung so thick in the air it nearly took visible form.
“Yeah, actually I am kind of hungry. You got decent barbecue?”
The old man removed his dentures to inspect them. “Beff’ damn barbecue in F’orda!” he responded, squinting at the appliances before replacing them in his mouth for a better fit. He fashioned a vessel of aluminum foil into which he placed two slices of Wonder Bread.
“No no, I don’t want a sandwich. Just some ribs.”
“Ain’t gonna’ be no sandwich. Bread sops up da’ grease. Y’aint from ‘round here, are ya’?”
“No, I’m on my way to Miami for a sales conference.” The traveler picked up a rib with his pinky extended, took a small bite and beamed a broad smile. “Damn, man, you weren’t kidding about the ribs. These are incredible!”
The old man ignored the compliment and bent down to inspect the front of the stranger’s car. “’Spec you got a bus’ed hose here, judgin’ by da’ water. Got some tape in ma’ truck – should fix y’up ‘til ya’ can get a new one.”
“But I still need water.”
“Look ‘round ya’” he said, gesturing about. “It’s a swamp. It’s fulla’ water.”
“Any idea where I can get a new hose?”
“Only place close might have one is Mama Root.”
“Mama Root?”
“Ol’ conjurin’ woman lives off Loop Road. She got a store with all kinda’ stuff, ‘cludin hoses.”
The stranger smirked. “Sounds like a real peach. Think she’ll have parts for anything made after 1950?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed and his speech became slow and instructive. “Bes’ take care not ta’ speak ‘bout Mama ‘at way. She’s eldest in ‘ese parts. After a hu’nerd an’ fo’ty six years she don’ take ta’ folks bein’ disrespec’ful. ‘At’s fo’ dolla’ for da’ ribs.”
The traveler raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “What, you people think you can put one over on the city slicker? By 146 years old, you’re underground, not above it. Here’s five – keep the change.”
“You b’leve what ya’ want, missa’ - I’m just sayin’. You want ‘at hose, ya’ go down here a piece, turn at da’ Loop Road sign by da’ bus’ed down old buildin’, go ‘bout six mile an’ turn ‘gain when ya’ get ta’ a road no part o’ you wanna’ go down. Her place’ll be on da’ lef’. An’ you bes’ be respec’ful.”
“Wait a minute – once I turn down Loop Road, how do I know which road is hers?”
“B’leve me, missa’ – you gonna’ know.”
After stopgap repairs had been made and the radiator was filled, the Buick started with minimal complaint. Half a mile further east on Tamiami was a large ramshackle structure surround by a galvanized chain-link fence, with a road sign proclaiming it to be “Monroe Station”. Originally a way station when the Webb family opened it in 1925 it was the only place to get gas, maps or a snack in an area otherwise devoid of such commodities. A couple with the colorful names of Big Joe Lord and Sweet Sue tried to make a go of the place after that, but the government made him pull the gas pumps for environmental reasons – yet another cause to be pissed off for a guy who had a beef against war protestors, hippies, the IRS and anything else that crossed his path. The place breathed its last in 2005 and was boarded up, home now only to termites, rats and the odd snake. Next to Monroe Station was the stark white lime rock of Loop Road. The traveler set the trip odometer and started down the narrow venue, weaving around chuck holes and the occasional alligator sunning in the middle of the road. The fairly smooth unimproved path with pea-sized gravel soon degraded to a washboard surface strewn with rocks the diameter of grapefruit and his progress slowed.
On the right one lone dirt road eventually presented itself. Even in the bright of day he could see only a hundred or so feet down the path before it was swallowed up in a cavern of swamp maple that intertwined to form a dome over the passage. He proceeded with caution, eyeing snakes hanging from the branches of pop ash and mysterious swirls in the shadowed water, praying the electrical tape would hold for just a little longer.
To his left an aging frame structure struggled up out of the swamp. The skeletal remains of a white picket fence lay strewn around the front and a walkway of rough-hewn cypress planks led to the house. The traveler shut off the engine and watched a thin curl of steam escape from beneath the hood as the scalding water of the radiator loosened the electrical tape. Apprehensive in this alien environment he glanced out the driver’s side window, making sure that he wasn’t about to step on a rattlesnake or whatever the hell else they had out here that was poisonous. Stepping from the car he trotted aross the expanse of ground between the parking area and the stairs leading up to the boardwalk. He climbed the steps, navigated the expanse of cypress planks that comprised the walkway and broad front porch and entered the structure. There he found an old woman – old in the most extreme sense of the word – arranging tins of chewing tobacco behind the counter.
“Hey, you Mama Root?”
The old woman continued about her work.
“Yo, Mama Root?”
The tins were arranged to her liking and she turned her attention to plastic packets of fish hooks and several pairs of cheap sunglasses hanging from a minnow snare.
“Excuse me, <i>ma’am</i>?”
She turned and smiled. “Sorry, hearin ain’t what it useta’ be. Must notta’ heard you twice’t calling my name.”
He recoiled upon seeing her face. She bore few similarities to the living; her features more closely resembled those of a mummy. A thin layer of translucent skin stretched across her skull, with blue veins visible beneath the surface. Dark holes of eyes were sunken into her head, and such teeth as remained her were yellowed and misaligned. Her bone white hair was thin and long, hanging in tangled filaments like Spanish moss. She spoke again in a voice not unlike the sound of a child’s first violin lesson.
“Need a part for your car, do ya’?”
Incredulous, he stared at her, not understanding how she could know such a thing. “Yeah, radiator hose. Upper, for a 2005 Buick Park Avenue.”
“Headin’ for the city?”
The traveler glanced at his Rolex. “Uh, yeah. The hose?”
“Ever been in these parts before?”
Looking out a cracked window at the sun inching towards the horizon, he became impatient. “Look, lady, do you have the hose or don’t you? If you do, I’m going to need a little light in order to put in on. You take plastic?”
She raised a bent twig of a finger in his direction. “Folks in ‘ese parts know ‘bout respectin’ others. Sounds like somethin’ you need ta’ be taught. You sit ya’self down there an’ let me tell ya’ a story.”
He hanged his head and massaged his temples. “Look, for the last time, are you…”
His sentence was interrupted as the old woman’s eyes rolled back in her head, exposing only white accented with rivulets of red capillaries. The words stuck in his throat and his knees buckled, causing him to sit down hard on an upended citrus crate that was immediately beneath him. Mama Root continued.
“Ya’ see that tree out there?” she asked, gesturing in the direction of the east windows. “That one there, past your auto, up on the rise o’ dry land? It’s called a gumbo-limbo. Years back the Indi’ns ‘round here figured that tree was special – not just gumbo-limbo, but that ‘xact tree. It’s too boggy in ‘ese parts for them ta’ grow, but that one took root on that little mound o’ dirt. Indi’ns’d gather up the fallen limbs for firewood an’ carvin’, an’ ta’ make potions outta’ the sap.”
As her attention was focused on the tree the visitor attempted to stand and head for the door, but his legs would not comply. There was no pain; they simply did not respond to the impulses that would normally stir them to action. Mama Root looked back at him and smiled. “Ain’t done tellin’ the story yet. How ‘bout you get ya’self all cozy an’ sit a spell longer.”
The traveler’s only response was to stare wide-eyed at his unsolicited hostess and place his fingers into the hand holes of the crate, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. Satisfied that her’s was still a captive audience, she continued.
“One day this fella’ from the city come by an’ saw the tree. Seems gumbo-limbo was just the right wood for carving them fancy merry-go-round ponies. Without even askin’, he took out his Barlow knife an’ made his mark on that tree, like he was stakin’ some kinda’ claim to it. Told them Indi’ns he was comin’ by in a coupla’ days ta’ chop it down, then he give ‘em some beads, an’ a lookin’ glass, an’ some sugar. Guess they didn’t think that was proper payment, ‘cause they took him out an’ tied him ta’ that tree – each arm to a branch, an’ his middle an’ legs tied ta’ the trunk. Their holy man said some words over him, then smeared sap from the tree on his forehead an’ belly, then they all just sat in a circle watchin’ as he was all trussed up, whoopin’ an’ hollerin. Pretty soon, he started quiet’n down. His skin first turned sickly green, then started gettin’ red peels on it just like the bark o’ that tree. Come a few hours, weren’t nuthin’ left o’ him but his face peerin’ out through the bark o’ the tree, mouth movin’ but makin’ no sound, eyes all crazy an’ whatnot. A time more, even that was gone – tree all the way swallowed him up. From then on, only way ya’ could ever tell anything happened there was that the sap from the tree ran blood red. Still does ta’ this very day.”
The stranger realized he could now move his legs and seized the opportunity to jump to his feet. “Look, I don’t know what’s in your water around here, or how inbred you people are, but I’m getting the hell out of here, one way or another. I don’t need the hose that badly.”
The old woman just stared in his direction, her lips curled back in a sardonic grin. “Somethin’ wrong with your skin, boy?”
He gaped in horror as his flesh gradually turned from lightly tanned to a ghastly shade of green, with reddish flakes in place of the hair. His fingers became long and thin, with waxy green leaves sprouting from the sides. He looked up at Mama Root and the smile disappeared from her face. “My mistake, boy. Your skin looks fine.”
Glancing back down, he found all as it should be.
“Les’see now, ya’ still need that hose. Only got one in the whole place – don’t
know what kinda’ auto it’s for.”
With the aid of a yardstick she knocked the part down from its appointed nail on the wall.
“Well, if that don’t beat all – uppa’ hose, 2005 Buick Park Avenue. That’ll be one hundred dollars, cash money.”
“A HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A RADIATOR HOSE? THAT’S…”
Her eyes began to twitch, and he recanted.
“…that’s… more cash than I have on me right now.”
“Oh, that don’t make no nevermind. You just give me a lock o’ your hair an’ we’ll call it even.”
“My hair? What?”
She produced a pair of shears from behind the counter and handed them to the stranger. Mustering as much control as his trembling hands could offer, he snipped off the requisite payment. The old woman tied it in a knot then enclosed the lock of hair in her fist. Whispering a few words over the prize she then stuck it on the wall with a straight pin, amidst dozens of other locks of hair. Some were held in place with hat pins of tarnished silver, looking as though they had been there for decades. Fulfilling her part of the bargain, she handed him the hose. “Ya’ got a bit more daylight ta’ see what you’re doin’. Once you’re all fixed up I ‘spect ya’ won’t be back ‘round this way, right?”
Too stunned to speak, he merely nodded his head.
She turned and patted the newly added lock of hair then looked back at him, her stare bypassing his eyes and burning straight into his brain like cottonmouth venom.
“An’ I won’t never have ta’ come visit you… right?”
Incapable of articulating a response he made a few quick shakes of his head. Wanting nothing more than to be as far from the old woman and her domain as possible he snatched up the hose and bolted for the door, nearly taking it off the hinges and causing the brass bell above the portal to shriek, rather than announce with its customary delicate voice. The old woman watched in amusement as the stranger raced across the walkway, hit the first step then jumped the remaining four, landing on the ground and rushing pell-mell for his car. Equipped with only a promotional Swiss Army knife (“A.S.P. Conference 2007”) he removed the old hose and installed the new, wiping perspiration from his brow with greasy hands and turning an expensive Italian dress shirt and trousers into shop rags.
Mama Root looked on as he slammed the hood, cranked the engine and sped off, spinning up a shower of dirt from beneath the front wheels and echoing thuds and scrapes as the undercarriage bottomed out on the uneven trail.
The crone shook her head and grinned.
“Skittish little fella’.”
Returning to the store the ancient proprietress resumed her tasks, muttering to herself as she rearranged displays on the countertop. “Place needs a good dustin’ too. Won’t do to have visitors seein’ the place all a mess.”
Pausing her work, she closed her eyes as though in deep concentration, then nodded.
“Yes. Visitors there’s gonna’ be. An’ soon.”
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Jason James Parker
12/04/2019You make it look easy, Phil. Every paragraph is a gulp of single malt whiskey (maybe that should be bourbon given the setting) and I can't get enough. A master-class in structure and style.
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