This tickled J.Pea. He slid off the barrel and cleared the stranger's way. Willy unscrewed the lid. "What stripe is that buggy mister?" "Buggy--?" "Yer chassis out h'yere, ain't never seen the like." "That, young man, is a Strand Excelsior cou-pee. I inherited it from my maiden aunt. She raised me, not far from here, she fostered me from the tender age of three. Auntie always believed that if something was giving you a problem in life, try depriving it of food for forty-eight hours. Got any pepper?" A nervous snort ripped from J.Pea's nose. Eyes agog, Willy shuffled for a word. "No matter." From the linen breast pocket came a silver-pheasant pepper shaker. Crash. The anvil thundered outside, the door blew open, J.Pea hurried over to latch it back. "Well it's a pure beauty," he said, over his shoulder, "yer buggy, I mean. I'm J.Pea Shea. Live up Coffin Holler." Pushing his hat back, the man peppered his egg and took J.Pea's place on the barrel. "Gabin Bane. I do confess, I'm daunted by your keen perception," he chomped the egg, twice, then it was gone. Extending forth a pinkish paw, dainty fingerstubs, he shook J.Pea's hand on return. Mr. Bane let his thick tongue swab the eggy recesses for a moment, then popped a cracker. He gave Willy a challenging glance. This stranger wasn't moving. A twist of apron string, and Willy flushed red. "Well...sure...nothin wrong with you settin a spell. The rain'll let up." Something faltered in strawheaded Willy's good cheer. J.Pea couldn't figure it. This wasn't like his cousin at all. Meanwhile, Bane's mushy hand kept milking J.Pea's like a heifer's tit. "And you, my fair patron--are you the infamous Wilfred Gottswinger Birdnell?" Willy scratched, blinked, just a hiccup in his eversweet nature. Nothing more. "I am, heh, that I am." At this, Willy began to cackle. And that's what unnerved J.Pea. He took back his hand. "Have you any lager?" "Lager," Willy pondered. "You want lager." Mr. Bane rose and made a wide sweep of the room, forcing J.Pea to seek a chair by the stove. "No, your bill of fare is more frivolous, how dim of me. Why not a sarsaparilla, a seltzer with lime possibly...?" "We got soft cider." "...or a fountain drink with maraschino cherry?" "We got Big Red. An Co-Coler." "Sell me a bottle of this Big Red." While Willy uncapped a strawberry soda, J.Pea danced his doc maertins on the kettle-black surface of the woodstove. He felt sleepy. You could hear bootsoles a-sizzling as he leaned back on the chair's hindlegs and surveyed Mr. Bane with a dopey sneer. "Not many Banes left in these parts. And all them er still poorfolk." He watched the stout man tip his Big Red. "Use to be more." A nod, another swill of strawberry and another cracker down the sluice. "More Banes, I mean. Still a couple up the County. Reckon they kin to ya." He yawned. "Hmmm, that could be. True to tell..." True to tell. True to tell. True to tell. But true to tell fell down the well. J.Pea saw the leeside of a hominy can, a dark file of #2 hominy cans, light coming through their cracks. Beyond he could see the cocked heels of Willy Bird's shoes. Giant golashes. Sniffing around, he left tiny cobwebbed prints as he skittered along the dusty shadow and slipped through a chink in the baseboard. There were voices muffling, the scent of men. And another. "Diddy, I don't wan no gumbaw--" It was Lucrice Jackson. In the arms of her pa, Newburn. Here they came through the door, soaking wet, and J.Pea was back. Newburn was town constable and he coached Intramural Sports for the school during sessions. Lucrice was his youngest, about four this year. J.Pea swung his head. "Hey there, Newburn. Lucy--" "J.Pea. Hey, Will." Wielding a collapsed umbrella, he tossed it by the pop bottle cases. "Damn ole umbreller of Mammaw's weren't never good fer nothin..." Mr. Bane seemed put out by their intrusion; he shied over to the stove with his last cracker. They had evidently made the dash from Miss Rebekah's house. Lucrice's mama was Miss Rebekah's niece and they all lived fitfully with her. "My goodness Newburn, we got to dry y'all out." Willy came around the counter, took the little girl from those sinewy arms and set her by the till, right where the yoke had been. She was small for her age with black bangs. "Lucy, do you want a licorice?" asked Willy. "Nome." "Do you want ye a all-day sucker, then?" "Nome." "Lucrice, honey..." sparked Newburn, shaking out his slicker. "How bout a gumball? That's what I promised her. Need a box of 30-30's fer myself..." "Nome. Ain't good gumbaw." "...if ya would, Will." Newburn left the coatpeg. "That's naw sir, honey, not no ma'am." Smelling some insult, Willy Bird began to frown, handing over a blanket to rub her down. "What's she mean--my gumballs ain't good--?" "Aw, Will--" Newburn toweled off the nubbin of a girl, special attention to the ears. "She ate two dozen yesterdy. I believe you peddled em to my in-laws." "Oh," Willy said. "I seem to recollect somethin of that woof." "I figured ye might." "Gee, Newburn, they'll rot the teeth from her head." "I jist bet they will. Made my mornin vows fer one, one gumball, only one," he slit his eyes at Willy. "And now she don't want that. You git the picture, Will." Wincing, Willy Bird chose to cut his losses; he shrugged and slipped away, toward the back shed. J.Pea was tossing pineknots into the fiery flap of the stove. Stoking with a longiron, he heard Mr. Bane call out. "Ah say, barkeep, I believe I'll try a shoat's knuckle--" "Be right with ye," Willy called in response, then disappeared out the rainy backdoor. A shard of lightning lit up the place.
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