Black Water by Bobby Norman Read Free Book Online

ending. She cleaned her up when nature called because Pearl either couldn’t get up quick enough to go outside, or, as time went on, she was just too weak and there wasn’t anything to do but let it go. She had bedsores all over her backside and her chest was just a ladder of bones stickin’ out and her poor ol’ titties looked like a couple of worn out socks with nothin’ in ’em, hangin’ off on her sides.
    Pearl knew what was happening and it scared her, but not so much the dying—she was more concerned with what would happen to Lootie if she wasn’t there to look out for her. Roach was totally worthless and couldn’t look out for hisself, how could he possibly take care of Lootie. She’d had so many plans for her. For a better life than she’d had, for damn sure. She hated hers; it’d been valueless and empty. Except for Lootie. Lootie made her entire existence worthwhile.
    Pearl had taught Lootie how to pray. To make it simple, she told her it was kinda like writing a letter, and you started it with “Dear God.” She said if Lootie needed something bad enough, God would answer her prayers, but she couldn’t ask for something like a new kitty or a fancy dress—it had to be for something special. She told her that God was like a father, and like any good father, he wanted his children to be strong and to try to stand on their own, but if things got really bad, they could ask for help. Then she told her how many times she’d tried to have a child and she thought it wasn’t never gonna happen. But, she kept praying, “And what happened?” she asked Lootie.
    Lootie smiled. “I got borned.”
    In the last couple of months, Lootie had prayed, day and night. Letter after letter floated up to Heaven. “Dear God. This is Lootie Komes. I’m awful scared. Please make my Mama better. Her name’s Pearl ‘n she’s th’best Mama in th’world. She ain’t never done nothin’ wrong ‘n even if she did, she didn’t mean it. Please God. Make ‘er better.” And with ever letter sent off, she’d run in the house to see if Pearl’d jumped off the bed. She hadn’t.
    Roach was sending letters to Heaven, too, but his concern wasn’t for Pearl. His went no futher than his own hide. He was bad scared. He depended so much on her he couldn’t imagine goin’ on without her pullin’ her share of the load, which had always been pretty much the whole load. Roach declared war and elected presidents, but he’d never cooked a meal or washed out a pair of socks in his life.
    One morning he woke Lootie up just before sunup and told her, “I’m gonna see somebody ‘bout med’cine fer Pearl.” Then he nodded over his shoulder. “I fixed up some biscuits ‘n greens. They oughta hold you ‘n yer ma ‘til I get back. Probly ‘bout sundown.”
    Lootie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and looked toward the stove. “You cooked somethin’?”
    He knew what that meant. “It ain’t that bad!” Her face told him somethin’ else. “It’s that ‘r starve.” He slapped his sweat-stained hat on his head and left. Lootie rolled over and went back to sleep.
    Roach’s destination was way back in the swamp to where there was rumored to be a witch who could conjure potions and such, and he detected wood smoke tinged with bacon and eggs two miles before he got to her. His stomach was growlin’, and he wondered if maybe she’d ask him to breakfast when she found out how far he’d trekked to get to her. Finally, he spied it through the thinning trees—a rundown, lop-sided shack with a slow smoky curl snakin’ out the top of the rock chimney.
    The skinny old crone was perched on a tree stump just outside the door in the shade of the porch overhang. She had a corncob pipe stickin’ out the corner of her mouth and she was bent over, kinda, readin’ a book with a busted spine. She wore a dress as shapeless as an old sock and a color that could only be described as disappointed. She had a floppy-brimmed hat on her head