Greg Morris drove into a Lumber and Plumbing Supply Company's parking lot fast and halted abruptly in the nearest assigned loading spot. He sat there in his Dodge Ram pick-up truck, engine still running, with Blues music playing, waiting for his best friend to get off from work. Earlier, he made a pit stop at the Stop-N-Go to buy gas, then beer and ice for his large blue cooler, so they could go straight to their favorite hangout. A clearing with a duck-off not far off from the Indianola River.
Sliding glass doors soon parted and out walked Omar, a short but stocky black man. He approached the truck with a bounce in his stride and the company's red work vest thrown across his shoulder. In his left hand, he held a brand new oak handle ax. He got into the passenger's seat then placed the chopping tool in the back cab, and then shut the door. Both men shared fist-dabs before they departed the lot.
"What's up with you?" said Omar.
"Nothing. Excited, that's all." Greg said, "Tonight it's finally coming down."
"Damn right it is," said Omar.
"Is that thing sharp?" Greg said.
"It better be," said Omar. "It's brand new."
"Why not a chainsaw?" Greg said.
"Too loud and expensive," said Omar. "She ain't worth that much."
"True." Greg said, "Ready?"
So off they went. They drove less than a mile to get to their destination's entrance. Down the service road, pass three stop signs, and then a left turn at the fourth one which led onto a pothole-laden blacktop. A paved road that traveled by the dam lock before it changed into a gravel then dirt road and continued along the levee.
A short time later, boyhood friends arrived at their favorite location and soon sat their butts on the back of a lowered tailgate. They applied insect repellant and put the large blue ice cooler—full of 40-ounce bottles—between them. Twisted beer caps followed and soon alcohol met the grass and became foam before vanishing. A liquid offering for the dead. Not for a deity, or an ancestor, but an old lady – a real pain in the ass – whose reputation left a permanent mark on them, on others, and the town in general.
The departed, Ms. Sipala Redclay, died last Saturday morning, on a warm, beautiful, and springtime day. Many remember the day well. The sun and clouds radiated against a powder blue sky and attracted people outside, to walk around, barbeque, sit lazily on front porches, or to do nothing at all. And with so many people being out and about, a little girl discovered her body in the backyard, lying prone underneath a big peach tree, clenching a half-eaten nectarine.
"She's gone, alright," said Greg. "Obeah got her."
"I know," Omar replied. "Although we all wish to live so long."
"Ain't that truth," Greg said. "How old was she?"
"105, I think." Omar said, "And still walking around."
"Not anymore."
The men chatted for hours. By then the blue sky became a beautiful twilight of purple and a bad habit fulfilled. It involved running across the dirt road and up to the levee to toss their first empty beer bottles as far as possible, listen for the splashdown, followed by celebratory howls and skyward kisses, before returning to their tailgate seats to continue drinking.
"Say, you ain't done yet?" Omar said, working on his third 40-ounce. "Drink up!"
"Chill out, already," said Greg. "I'm almost done. I'm not an alcoholic like you are."
"Whatever? I know you."
Now consumed, he threw it into a large metal wash tub kept in the truck bed, where other empties rested. Greg twisted the cap off another 40-ounce, threw back his head, and began guzzling. Pretty soon the moon slowly secured its place in the starry night. Even so, the insects continued to find them both distasteful despite being full of alcohol. Crickets and cicadas serenaded the night. It soon encouraged "Hi, Ho, The Witch is Dead." Neither man could remember the last time they sat around and sang so joyously about someone so disliked.
****
To them, Ms. Redclay, the mean and old Choctaw woman, chased and scolded them. She chastised kids for acting up. A day didn't end without a child going home in tears and talking about what she did. Some parents took offense and derided her. Others understood. They felt children should respect their elders and appreciate how she looked after them. Not Greg and Omar. They simply disliked her brand of advocacy. Along with her village-style of parenting and accountability. They truly resented her oversight, discipline, and moral clarity. Ms. Redclay epitomized everything bad.
"That damn woman was something else," said Omar. "She was too heavy with the rod, often punishing the innocent."
"I know, right," said Greg.
"Mean doesn't describe her, not properly," said Omar. "Every day that damn woman sat on her front porch, eyeing us, holding that switch in her hand, like some overseer or something, ready and waiting to strike us for any petty offense."
"Let her tell it," said Greg, "it made up for the ones we got away with. They all were for our own good—a deterrent of some kind. That somehow whooping ass early often produced less liars, thieves, and murderers. What nonsense! I mean, who have I killed?"
“Nobody I know of. I've come close a few times,” Omar said.
"Yeah you have," Greg said. "I wonder? Who came up with that anyway?"
“What? The village thing," said Omar. "It's an African proverb, ain't it? Maybe Native American?"
“No, not that," Greg replied. "The other thing."
"The other thing?"
"The switch, fool; like, who in hell figured out you could braid willow tree vines into a whip?"
"C'mon, now. You know who?" Omar replied. "Some white dude."
"There you go."
"No. I'm serious."
"You might be right," said Greg. "It got passed down. It's his fault I have these marks."
"You!" Omar replied. "I got them too."
"She got us all one way or another," Greg said. "Even my wife fell victim."
"Well, she did get caught in Ms. Redclay's garden," Omar recalled, "Ernestine tried to steal the biggest watermelon out there. Not a small one mind you."
"Still though, Ms. Redclay didn’t have to do what she did. Made her eat the entire thing, down to the rind," said Greg. "Ernestine puked and pleaded. That old hag didn’t care, talking about how she needed to be taught a lesson."
"A travesty is what it is," said Omar. "A black woman afraid of watermelon."
"I know, right," Greg said. "I don't eat peaches."
"Same here," Omar replied. "And we know why."
"Yeah, yeah. That old woman really fucked us up, you know that, right?" Greg replied.
Omar looked at him and said: "No shit!"
Children, mostly black and brown, from all over the neighborhood experienced similar trauma. Ms. Redclay made sure of it. She punished disrespectful kids routinely. The main reason why so many kids got it on the backside centered around their attraction to her botanical paradise. It provided them a thrill and savory satisfaction. Every year, her garden thrived. This included the chain link fence in front of her house, lined with blackberries, a wide variety of edible plants, and pretty flowers. Some suggested her Native American heritage made her a natural gardener.
Nonetheless, over the years, it became a healthy stopover for children on their way to school. They often showed up in class with blue, red, orange, and purple-colored lips and tongues. A select few, those she liked most, actually knocked on her front door. And for their consideration, they received slices of peaches as a morning treat from her most prized possession, a peach tree she planted in her backyard decades ago. Now when abundant, whether with blossoms or nectarines, it looked from afar in the sunlight like a burning bush.
The garden and peach tree supplemented Ms. Redclay's groceries. At times, she didn't mind sharing. She knew the kids picked her cucumbers, tomatoes, peanuts, and fruit for snacks. And over the years, she tried to plant enough to satisfy both thieves and wildlife alike, but it didn't work. Blame Omar and Greg, they took liberties with her garden and peach tree from their constant intrusions, damaging rows and branches. So she decided to take matters into her own hands and put forth some obstacles to keep them two out. Since it became apparent they wouldn't stop. They required something far more severe. A taller fence wouldn't thwart them. So, for them, she resorted to an air rifle to get their minds right and keep them off her property.
Ms. Redclay used it to shoot fat red squirrels to make them into stew because they too loved the peanuts she planted. Her aim, even at her age, remained swift and sharp. Such accuracy and lethality came naturally, a byproduct of Indian ancestry. It also enabled her to survive a massacre early in life when numerous blacks died at the hands of whites for seeking better pay and work conditions at the local mill. Back then, many whites resented working so closely with blacks so when the opportunity came to put them back into their place they enforced their prejudices. Her home and several others survived; and somehow, in all the mayhem and destruction, three white men lay dead amongst the black bodies in the streets. They all shot through the eye just like fat red squirrels.
Pretty soon Greg and Omar found this out. Ms. Redclay kept the air rifle nearby and when she saw them through the back window out the screened back porch door she bolted firing at them. Neither one lost an eye. Nothing deadly. But they cried out in pain as the pellets left tiny circular bruises and punctured fatty flesh as they jumped back across the fence, scurrying off, cursing loudly, vowing to return, while dodging repeated shots. Nothing thwarted them. They kept at it, but didn't realize how much ammunition she possessed. But it all changed after one early morning. Ms. Redclay's home emanated a sweetly foul fragrance, a strong and inviting odor, which penetrated homes and affected nostrils.
She spent time in the kitchen concocting some kind of brew using the herbs and plants grown around the house. The bluish-green brew got strained, left to cool, and then poured into an old tin metal sprayer. Then at sunrise, she went outdoors carrying a broomstick, the tin sprayer, and two large plastic bowls. She set the sprayer and bowls at her feet and proceeded to use the broomstick to knock to the ground as many high-up peaches as possible. All of the low-hanging fruit remained and after a short rest, she gathered and put all the fallen peaches into both bowls. Now done she lifted the tin sprayer and began hand-pumping fine mist all over the tree. By daybreak, caterpillars fell off and the birds and insects avoided it altogether.
Before the week ended, several students missed school. They all suffered from diarrhea and every sick child admitted they consumed peaches straight off Ms. Redclay's tree. Then, one day, the town's arborist arrived at Ms. Redclay's house. He wanted to inspect her peach tree as poisonous, it being the common denominator, because of the rash of bubble guts occurring at elementary school.
But after a lengthy stay, he didn't find anything. No signs of brown leaves; no signs of discolored bark; soil not toxic and lots of positive bird and insect activity. He soon left and eventually ruled it out as the cause for all the diarrhea. His conclusions disappointed Greg, Omar, and others. They all believed differently, but couldn't prove it. Some, including them, wanted it cut down and tried but failed. Nonetheless, families forbade all their children from going onto and eating anything off her property, making it harder for them to exact their revenge. Yet the incident forever marked her property as jinxed and nobody except for the mail lady entered it for many years
Not until Putney, the 9-year-old girl next door, saw Ms. Redclay's body lying in the backyard, underneath the peach tree, motionless. She called out, but the old lady didn’t respond. So she ran for her mother, Edna Mae, who came out to immediately give aid. Edna Mae didn't find a lifeless body with its eyes sunken back into her skull. Instead, a slowly dying one, still clutching onto a chewed peach. Ms. Redclay's sparkling eyes seemed distant, as if looking back on a long life lived as well as into the next place. Before they darkened, a smile formed, and then she departed. Suddenly, peaches fell which frightened Putney's mother. She ran home and called 9-1-1, informing them of the situation, of her next-door neighbor's death. And yet, she held her tongue about what else she witnessed in the deceased's backyard.
****
"Man, I had the runs for a week," Omar said.
"Who're you telling?" Greg replied.
Now thoroughly drunk, and tired of talking, Omar and Greg could barely stand. Both looked up at the night sky and then each other. They both knew it was time to go do it, to go do what they didn't do when they were kids. Nobody could stop them. Not this time. So off they went, headed back into town, straight to Ms. Redclay’s house. They parked on the side street, got out, and staggered across stealthily. Omar carried the ax. They both leapt over a well-worn section of the fence where a permanent bend existed from their constant climbing. So far, the surrounding homes remained unlit and the streets dark and traffic-free.
As soon as they reached the peach tree, both glanced at the backdoor. Omar readied himself and then reared back to swing. Suddenly, he fell onto his knees in pain. Greg, too. They looked around in utter confusion wondering who shot them. Nobody. The backdoor hadn't opened. Both stood up when the moon descended upon them, full and bright. And it somehow detached itself from the dark sky to shine its bright moonbeams directly onto them and within it, a recognizable face and figure appeared, a short woman with two lengthy ponytails, in traditional tribal attire, and holding a rifle.
“How many times have I told you two?" She said, "Stay out of my yard and away from my peach tree.”
She drifted forward, raising her rifle. Omar chunked the ax directly at her, piercing the phantom without any effect. They ran as fast as they could, zig-zagging drunkenly, but unable to dodge her pinpoint accuracy. Greg hurdled and Omar dove over the fence, both landing hard on the earth. They soon reached the safety of the truck, but it too got pelted, both the windshield and driver's side window suffered cracks. Greg started the truck and sped off, turning the corner so recklessly, he nearly hit a row of parked cars. Suddenly, a police unit on patrol saw this and blared its siren.
The officer soon found two men acting weird, both wide-eyed and talking nonsense about seeing the recently deceased Ms. Redclay. Greg cried about losing his ax. Whereas, Omar claimed a ghost shot at them. The officer simply listened, but the smell of alcohol spoke loudest. It prompted him to look closely into the back of the truck. And there he found a washtub full of empty beer bottles. He then lifted open the blue cooler to find a few 40-ounces floating in melted ice. Moments later, he arrested both men for public intoxication.
At daybreak, the police responded to another call from the Putney residence. Edna Mae explained while taking out the trash, a shiny object captured her attention, and after looking at it more intently saw something lodged into the deceased's back porch wall. Spooked by this and it being another strange thing occurring at a home many already consider bad luck, she felt it needed investigation. Once the officer arrived, he indeed found a brand new ax. And upon closer inspection, the officer realized it came from the Lumber and Plumbing Supply Company, based on the logo etched into the oak handle. He pulled it out, thinking about how it got there. Perhaps those two guys locked up in the drunk tank know something about this—and they did. They wanted to cut down the peach tree for making them ill as kids and hurt Ms. Redclay even in death. They couldn't let it go.
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