Suttree

The Indian stood and put his hands in his pockets and gave a little toss of his chin. Okay, he said.

The next week he didnt see him. The crazy boat was gone. Suttree tried the bait but the odor of it, the gagging vomit reek, was more than he could stand. He’d wash his hands again and again after molding it on the hooks. The third morning he caught two turtles and he let the jar descend down through the duncolored water behind the last flaring dropper and went back to his cutbait and doughballs.

Monday morning someone rapped at his door and he turned out in the dawn chill to find the Indian there. He wore the same clothes, the same shoes. The tandem eyeballs still pinned to his pocket. Hey, he said.

Come on in, said Suttree.

How you do with the bait?

Okay. Kept catching turtles.

Hey. Turtles. Snappers, hey?

Yeah. Watch your head.

The Indian stooped and entered and turned.

Sit down. Suttree motioned loosely toward the dim interior.

Them is good to eat, said the Indian. Best meat there is.

Yeah, well. They’re a lot of trouble to fix.

You bring him to me. I show you how to fix him.

You want a cup of coffee?

Sure.

Have it in a minute. Go on, sit down.

The Indian sat on the bunk and crossed his legs.

I didnt see you for a couple of days.

No.

Suttree ladled water out of a lardpail into the coffeepot and lit the burner. He measured in the coffee. I used to know an old guy who shot turtles down on the river. I never see the meat for sale though.

Yeah, well. I sell em sometime.

Suttree set the pot on the burner and put the lid on and turned the flame up. He got down the spare cup. It had a dead spider curled in it and he pitched the spider into the trash and rinsed both cups. When the coffee perked he poured the cups full and turned and handed one to the Indian.

He took the cup gravely and blew on it. He gave off a rich acidic smell of woodsmoke and grease and fish. Sparse whiskers on his fine skin. His arms lean, longmuscled, blueveined.

I never ate one, Suttree said.

One what?

Turtle.

You come to my place sometime I fix him for you.

Okay, said Suttree.

The Indian sipped the coffee and regarded him above the cuprim with grave black eyes. I got thowed in jail, he said.

When?

Last week. I just got out.

What did they have you for?

Vag. You know. They got me once before.

How did you get out?

They let me sweep up. They let me clean up and then they let me out. I come down this mornin and my boat was gone.

Where did you leave it?

Just down here. I reckon some boys took it.

Have you looked for it?

Yeah.

Suttree watched him. Well, he said. Why dont we go in my boat and see if we can see it.

I’ll pay you.

It’s all right.

He got his shoes and socks. These river rats will steal anything that’s not nailed down.

They might of sunk it.

Would it sink?

Put enough rocks in it.

Suttree shook his head.

They went downriver with Suttree rowing and the Indian bailing, bending toward each other at their tasks.

They had a hell of a nigger in there, the Indian said.

Where’s that?

In the jail. They had this great big nigger. They fought all over the jailhouse. They’d go in there and bust his head with slapsticks. He’d come around after a while and start cussin em all over again.

Suttree stayed the oars.

He raised some knots on a few of them jailers, the Indian said.

Did he get out?

Yeah. Somebody come and got him yesterday.

Suttree rowed on.

They went past the last bridge and down the bend in the river. They watched the shore.

That’s not it is it? said Suttree, pointing.

The Indian shaded his eyes. No, he said. It’s just some trash.

Suttree dabbed his eye against his shoulder with a shrugging motion and went on.

You want me to row awhile?

No. It’s okay.

They found the skiff awash in shallow water near the head of the island. Suttree eased alongside and laid back the oars. The Indian stood.

Is it stove? said Suttree.

No. I dont think so.

They must still be here on the island.

The Indian scanned the steaming reaches of reed and willow. A plover was crossing the siltbar like a gallery bird. Suttree stepped out with the rope and they pulled the skiff ashore.

There was a little path going up the island through the weeds. They went with caution. Redwings circled and cried.

They entered a clearing where charred sticks and blackened stones marked a fire. A few empty bean tins. They walked around the glade.

Looks like they skedaddled, Suttree said.

Yeah.

They cant be far.

Let em go, the Indian said.

Yeah?

Sure.

Okay.

They turned and defiled out of the glade, Suttree behind the Indian. Dragonflies kept lifting from the tops of the reeds like little chinese kites.

What’s your name? said Suttree.

The Indian turned and looked back. Michael, he said.

Is that what they call you?

He turned again. No, he said. They call me Tonto or Wahoo or Chief. But my name is Michael.

My name’s Suttree.

The Indian smiled. Suttree thought maybe he was going to stop and shake hands but he didnt.

They got the boat bailed and afloat and Suttree shoved it out onto the pale brown waters. The Indian took up the oars and brought it about headed upriver. What do I owe you? he said.

Not anything.

Well. Come see me and I’ll fix you that turtle.

Suttree raised his hand. Okay, he said. Watch out for the cops.

The Indian dipped the oars into the river and pulled away.

Suttree stepped into his skiff and walked to the rear of it and shoved off from the flats with one oar. The Indian’s patchwork boat was soon far upriver, light winking off the sweeps where they’d been broken and pieced back with tacked and flattened foodtins. He eased his own oars into the water and started up the inside of the island. He watched for sign of the thieves along the shore and he saw a muskrat nose among the willows and he saw a clutch of heronshaws gawping from their down nest in the reeds, spikelet bills and stringy gullets, pink flesh and pinfeathers and boneless legs spindled about. He tacked more shoreward to see. So curious narrow beasties. As he pulled abreast of them a rock sang past his ears. He ducked and looked toward the shore bracken but before he could collect himself another rock came whistling out of the willows and caught him in the forehead and he fell back in the boat. The sky was red and soaring and whorled like the ball of an enormous thumb and a numb gritty feeling came up against the back of his teeth. One oar slid from its lock and floated off.

The skiff drifted down past the landing and down past the end of the island. Suttree lay sprawled in the floor with blood running in his eyes. A tree branch turned against the sky. He pulled himself up, gripping the side of the skiff. He could taste a tincture of iron in his throat and he spat a bloody mucus into the water. He knelt over the side and palmed water at his face and his face was slippery with blood and blood lay in the water in coagulate strings. He touched gently an eggshaped swelling. His whole skull was throbbing and even his eyes hurt. He looked upriver toward the island and swore murderously. The other oar was floating a few yards downriver and he sculled after it. Light kept winking up on the riffles and blood was dripping from his forehead and he felt half nauseous. He recovered the drift oar and rowed back upriver in the main channel. He watched along the shoreline of the island but he saw nothing. After a while his head quit bleeding.