Black Water by Bobby Norman Read Free Book Online Page A

that shaded most of her face. Her hair hung over her shoulders and down her back like a greasy old mop. Settin’ at her feet was a monstrous thing that had originally been a bristly-coated, Russian Wolfhound, gnawin’ contentedly on a bone. Time and circumstance had ground and battered it into somethin’ mean, hateful, and cunning. When Roach stepped into the clearing, it raised its head. The scarred old nose sipped the air while its head roamed slowly back and forth like it was havin’ trouble seein’ him—the lids hung down, pouch-like, like an ol’ alky’s. It was minus the left front leg clear up to the shoulder. One ear and its top lip had been ripped off the side of its face, revealing a row of long, dry yellow teeth. Its squarish muzzle was peppered with graying hair, and the creature constantly slobbered from the gap in its ruined maw. Finally, the head weavin’ stopped and those blood red eyes stared straight at Roach. It growled low and deep.
    Roach stopped at what he considered, or at least hoped, was a safe distance. “G’mornin’,” he said, nervously, with an equally nervous smile. Then he remembered his manners, jerked his hat off his head, and wrung it in his hands.
    She lifted her head, slowly, exposing eyes that looked like black glass.
    He waited for a “Good Mornin’” back, didn’t get one, and finally told her, “You’re Cob.”
    She waited a second, never takin’ her eyes off him, and then croaked, “I awready know that. You want somethin’ or ’dju traipse alla way outcheer just t’sell me some eggs?”
    He took two jerky steps closer but stopped when poochie’s remaining lip curled up. He reclaimed his steps. Then he heard a phlegmy cackle as the woman closed the book, leaned down, and softly petted the monster on the top of its scab-encrusted head. “No, les be patient. See wat it wants first.”
    The animal looked Roach over then went back to workin’ the bone.
    “I heard I might could get somethin’ from you fer my wife. She’s real sick.”
    “A rec’mendation,” the hag said, nodding. “Well, well, ‘at’s nice, ain’t it. From a satisfied customah, was it?” She cut loose with another phlegmy cackle, hocked and spat, then dropped the friendly façade. “Wat’s ‘er symptoms?”
    “She’s lost a lot o’ weight. Lots o’ trouble breathin’, cain’t hold much o’ nothin’ down. Coughs a whole lot. Got th’shits.”
    Cob leaned for’ard and casually passed a death sentence. “She got th’tissick. Don’t know ‘bout th’shits, though. Might just be th’shits.”
    “I’s told that, ‘bout the tissick, but nobody knows what t’do ‘bout it. I’s hopin’ you c’d help.” He continued wringin’ his hat in his bony hands and kept a wary eye on the dog, which was still eye-locked on him like he was o’ slab a somethin’ tasty and it was just waitin’ for the signal to pounce.
    The old woman took another couple of thinkin’ sucks on the pipe, snorted up another slug, and spat. She hadn’t leaned over far enough or given it enough push. Some of it ended up on her chin and the rest on her dress. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and then it on the dress. “I got th’cure, fer sure, if you ain’t awready waited too long.”
    “I’s told you’s a body could do just about anything,” Roach said with a mite more cocky than he actually felt. “Maybe I’s tol’ wrong.”
    She gave him a look and hissed, “You take off yer ol’ hat but ya ain’t got no more mannahs’n t’stand way off outchonder, makin’ me yell, not showin’ no respek, but come scratchin’ ‘round, jerkin yer doodle ‘n beggin’ favohs.”
    Roach was at a loss with a comeback because he didn’t want to make her or the dog mad.
    “I doubt you got ‘nough t’pay me t’work mir’cles nohow,” she said with a dismissive wave, “’n a mir’cle’s probly what it’d take. Ten dollahs ‘n three bottles o’ good whiskey ‘n I’ll give ya