The child buried within him walked here one summer with an old turtlehunter who went catlike among the grasses, gesturing with his left hand for secrecy. He has pointed, first a finger, then the long rifle of iron and applewood. It honked over the river and the echo drifted back in a gray smoke of sulphur and coke ash. The ball flattened on the water and rose and carried the whole of the turtle's skull away in a cloud of brainpulp and bonemeal.
The wrinkled empty skin hung from the neck like a torn sock. He hefted it by the tail and laid it up on the mud of the bank. Green fungus hung from the serried hinder shell. This dull and craggy dreamcreature, dark blood draining.
Do they ever sink?
The turtlehunter charged his rifle from a yellowed horn and slid a fresh ball down the bore. He recapped the lock, cradling the piece in his armcrook.
Some does, some dont. Quiet now, they be anothern directly.
What do you do with them?
Sell em for soup. Or whatever. The boy was watching the dead surface of the river. Turkles and dumplins if ye've a mind to. They's seven kinds of meat in one.
What do turtles eat?
Folks' toes if they dont be watchful wadin. See yan'n?
Where?
Towards them willers yander.
Down there?
Dont pint ye fanger ye'll scare him.
You pointed.
Thatn's eyes was shut. Hush now.
He opened his eyes. Redwings rose from a bower in the sedge with thin cries. He bent to the oars again and came down the narrows and into the main channel, the skiff laying a viscid wake on the river and the bite of the oars sucking away in sluggish coils. He tacked toward the south bank in order to bias the bend in the river, coming through the shadowline into a cooler wind. Sheer limestone cliffs rose cannellate and palewise and laced with caves where small forktailed birds set forth against a sky reaching blue and moteless to the sun itself.
Below here the river began to broaden into backwater. Mudflats spiracled and bored like great slabs of flukey liver and a colony of treestumps like beached squid drying grayly in the sun. A dead selvedge traversed by crows who go sedately stiff and blinking and bright as black glass birds from ort to ort of stranded carrion. Suttree shipped the oars and drifted to the bank and stood rocking and recovering as the prow of the skiff grated up against the mud, stepping ashore easily with the rope and mooring the skiff to a root with a halfhitch. He crossed through the high grass and went up the slope, climbing with handholds in the new turf until he gained the crest and turned to look down on the river and the city beyond, casting a gray glance along that varied world, the pieced plowland, the houses, the odd grady of the small metropolis against the green and blooming hills and the flat bow of the river like a serpentine trench poured with some dull slag save where the wind engrailed its face and it shimmered lightly in the sun. He went along the crest of the bluffs through the windy sedge walking up small birds that flared and hung above the void on locked wings. A toy tractor was going on a field in a plume of dust. Down there the island ringed in mud. Suttree scaled a slate out over the river. Turning, winking, lost. He descended through a heavy swale of grass and went on, fording a thorny wicker patch of blackberries, crossing the face of a hill past the promontory kept by the old mansion, a great empire relic that sat shelled and stripped and rotting in its copse of trees above the river and brooded on the passing world with stark and stoned out window lights.
Suttree went along the high rolling country above the river. Two seagulls tracked their pale shapes in the shadowed calm under the bluff and far downstream he saw an osprey turn very high and hang above the distant thunderheads with the sun parried pure white from underwing and panel. He has seen them fold and fall like stones and he stayed to watch it out of sight.
The path he followed wound along the hills through grass and bramble and cut crosscountry toward the lower reaches of the river. It angled down a long bank of shale, it went through a wood. When he came upon the river again it was upon a dead and swollen backwater of coves and sloughs where slime and froth obscured the shapes of floating jars and bottles and where lightbulbs peered from the slowly heaving jetsam like great barren eyes. He went along the narrow path past fishermen, old women, men and boys. Galvanized minnowpails were tied to stumps at the water's edge and picnic hampers stood in the shade. A little girl squatted with her skirt hiked and watched between spattered shins her water trickle along the packed clay. Old men nodded solemnly to Suttree as he passed. Howdy. Howdy. Doin any good?
He went down a strand of mud and crusted stone strewn with spiderskeins of slender nylon fishline, tangled hooks, dried baitfish and small bones crushed among the rocks. Toeing tins from their molds in the loam where slugs recoiled and flexed mutely under the agony of the sun. The path climbed along a wall of purple sandstone above an embayment and in the sunlit shallows below him he could see the long cataphracted forms of gars lying in a kind of electric repose among the reeds. Bird shadows scuttled past but did not move them. Suttree leaned against the face of crumbling stone and watched them. One of the gars came about slowly, the water stirring and going among the willows. His dull side gave back the light like burnt brass. The other three lay like dogs, heavy shapes of primitive rapacity basking in the sun. Suttree moved on. At the head of the cove a hogsnake snubnosed and bloated lay coiled and sleeping in the dry ruins of a skiff.
The path ran on to a landing and there was a biblecamp bus parked there and people in their clothes were floundering around in the water. He descended the grassy bank among the watchers and took a seat. A preacher in shirtsleeves stood waistdeep in the water holding a young girl by the nose. He finished intoning his chant and tilted her over backwards into the river and held her there a moment and brought her up again all streaming and embarrassed and wiping the water from her eyes. The preacher was grinning. Suttree moved closer to watch. An old man nodded to him.
Howdy.
Howdy.
The girl had nothing on beneath her thin dress and it clung wet and lascivious across her cold nipples and across her belly and thighs.
You saved? said the old man.
Suttree looked at the old man and the old man looked back with eyes smoky and opaque.
No, he said.
The old man unscrewed a jar of dark brown liquid he held in his lap and spat into it and put the lid back again and wiped his mouth. Say you aint? he said.
No, Suttree said. He was watching the girl clamber out of the river.
The old man nudged another near him. Here's one aint saved. Says it hisself.
This old man looked past the first one's shoulder toward Suttree.
Him?
Aye.
Been baptized?
You been baptized?
Just on the head.
Just on the head, he says.
That aint no good. It wont take if you dont get total nursin. That old sprinklin business wont get it, buddy boy.
The first one nudged Suttree. He'll tell ye right, he said. He's a lay preacher hisself.
Sprinklers, said the lay preacher in disgust. I'd rather to just go on and be infidel as that. He turned away. He was dressed in soft blue overalls and he was very clean. The other one eyed Suttree again. Suttree was watching the preacher in the river.
Tell him to get down yonder in the water if he wants to be saved, the second old man said. He put one hand to his mouth, his jaw muscles working.
It aint salvation just to get in the water, the first said. You got to be saved as well.
Suttree turned and looked at him. Can you take your shoes off? he said.
The second old man leaned to see him. Jesus never had no shoes, he said.
The first was motioning for quiet with one flapping hand. He turned to Suttree. Aint no need to damp your shoes, he said. A feller can repent shod or barefoot either one. Jesus dont care.
What do you think about the pope and all that mess over there? Suttree said.
I try my bestest not
to think about it atall, the old man said. He suddenly flung one arm upward in a gesture of such violent salutation that people drew back from around him.
That's my grandniece Rosy yonder. Just turned fourteen and saved right as rain. Makes a feller wonder at the ways of the Lord, dont it? How old are you, son?
Pretty old, said Suttree.
Well dont fret. I was seventy-six fore I seen the Lord's light and found the way.
How old are you now?
Seventy-six. I was awful bad about drinkin.
I've done it myself.
The old man glanced again at Suttree. Suttree looked about, then leaned to his ear. You dont have a little drink hid do you?
The old man's eyes careened about in their seamed sockets. Oh lord no, he said. I've plumb quit. Lord I wouldnt have nothin like that.
Well, said Suttree.
He'd scooted away a bit and he turned to watch the ceremonies. The grandniece smiled at those on the bank. Some waved.
The other old man leaned across and jabbed at Suttree with a thick finger. Go on, he said. Get down in that water.
There she goes, said Suttree, pointing.
That's my grandniece, the old man said, waving to the waters beneath which she had subsided.
Two women on the grass in front of them were turning and giving them dark looks. Suttree smiled at them. On down the bank groups were unwrapping sandwiches and opening cold drinks. There was a fat woman spread on the ground with an enormous teat hanging out and a small child fastened to it.
Tell him to come to the meetin tonight, said the second man.
Come to meetin tonight, the first one said.
Where at?
Gospel tent just up off the highway yonder. Did you not see it?
No.
Lord it's big enough. You come to meetin. They havin the reverend Billy Byington and the Sunrise Singers is supposed to be there too.
They are?
Dadjim right. Same as you hear on WNOX.
The women were turning and scowling.
The old man unscrewed and spat into his jar again and leaned forward. You come tonight, he said. I hear tell they might be goin to have May Maude. That does the oldtimey note singin.
There was a man now going into the water like a sleepwalker. He had his hands before him and his eyes were half closed and he was singing some incoherence over and over. The preacher took a step toward him, so unsteady he looked, the preacher smiling with a kind of grave benignity. Friends on the bank seemed to sway with him. This new candidate flailed once, eyes widening in alarm. The preacher lunged toward him with hands out. The man came aright and surged forth, his coattails dipping, reaching for the preacher and then going suddenly sideways with a long moan. The watchers on the bank stiffened. His hands wheeled wildly in the air and this supplicant went from sight like a drunken music conductor.
Suttree shook his head. The old man gave him a little crooked grin, his jawseams grouted with black spittle.
The preacher was blessing the subsiding roil with one hand and with the other was groping about in the water.
Suttree chuckled. The two women rose together and moved away over the grass. A man who was with them but was enjoying himself anyway turned and grinned. Boys, he said, that ought to take if it dont drownd him.
The preacher had the man up by the collar. He was sputtering and reeling about and he looked half crazy. The preacher steadied him by the forehead, intoning the baptismal service.
Suttree rose and dusted the grass from his trousers.
You aint fixin to leave are ye? the old man asked.
I sure as hell am, said Suttree.
You better get in that river is where you better get to, said the one in overalls. But Suttree knew the river well already and he turned his back to these malingerers and went on.
He went up the river path, swinging along in the sunshine, crossing a slough by a driftwood bridge and following the backwater of the smaller river that flowed in on the left. An upcountry river that grew more green as he went until it was a clouded jade. He sat to rest on a dusty log and watched it pass, A bittern stood in singlefooted siege among the cattails and small waterserpents swam. A dog came upstream on the far side tongue lolled with the heat and at a listless trot that told a weary way to go. He whistled at it and it looked at him and went on. Passing upstream it set the halms of marshweed quivering where nesting fish moved out unseen.
Suttree rose. The bittern flew. He went on until he came to a country road. It was hot walking and he didnt hurry. By and by he came to a small house.
He crossed to the front porch and tapped at the door. There were freshly painted boxes on the porch with new flowers cracking the loam of their beds and wasps were hanging about the eaves. The door opened and a small old woman peeped out. Yes, she said.
Hello Aunt Martha.
She pushed open the screendoor. Lord have mercy, she said. Buddy? Why Buddy.
How are you?
Oh lord, she said. She was tiny and frail and the hand that tucked at him trembled like a bird. Come in, she said.
Where's Clayton?
He's asleep. He eat a big dinner and he's asleep. Oh my lord he'll just be so tickled.
They entered the cool semidark of the front room with her taking his elbow like one might a blind man or like a blind man might. He could smell the rich cookery of their Sunday noon meal. She did not take her eyes from him. Have you eat? she said.
I had breakfast late.
They went into the kitchen where dishes still sat at table. Beyond was a sunporch rife with plantlife and the sun fell warmly through the glass and across the floor and table.
Set down, Buddy, she said, her doll's hands fussing at him. Let me just warm you up some dinner.
Dont bother with that, Aunt Martha. I just stopped by for a minute.
It's not any bother. You just set there. You want a glass of cold sweetmilk?
Yes mam, I'd love one.
I'll have some ice tea in just a minute. Lord I was thinkin about you all this mornin.
Suttree stretched his feet beneath the table. She brought a jar of milk from the refrigerator and a tall glass, pouring as she went, talking.
I was sortin out some old things and got to lookin through them old albums and pictures and I thought about you.
He set the halfdrained glass of milk on the table and blew and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. She poured it full again. I wish you'd come see us more, Buddy. What do you want to be so mean for?
Where are the pictures?
They're right here. Did you want to look at them?
If they're handy. If you dont care.
Why they're just right here.
He drank the rest of the milk and looked out at the flowers and the sun. She came in with two old leather photo albums and a blue shoebox. She laid these on the table and pushing the box to one side to make room she opened the first album. Just go ahead and look while I warm this dinner up.
He took her hand. It was thin and finely boned and cool. I couldnt eat anything, he said.
I wish you would.
He looked around. Just let me have a piece of that cake, he said.
You better eat somethin.
No.
She lifted a cracked cakebell and sliced away a heavy wedge of the chocolate cake it contained and laid it on a plate and set it by him.
He was bent over the album, confronting figures out of his genealogy. Who's this? he said.
She rested her hand on his shoulder and peered with him. Lord, she said, let me get my glasses, I caint make it out.
An ancient woman spreadeagled in a bed, dried hands at her sides, a cured looking face. She is bald save for sheaves of hair on either side her head and they lie opposed and extended upon the pillow like pale horns.
She came back with her spectacles and bent over the photo. That's Aunt Liz just afore she died. She was bald pret near. This here's Roy's baby picture.
A tintype picked from
the wedge of the pages. Sailorsuited poppet a fiend's caricature of old childhoods, a gross cartoon.
The old woman's slow hands sorted a loose packet of brown faded photographs, glasses riding down the bridge of her nose as she nods in recognition. She must set them back again with her finger, shuffling these imaged bits of cardboard, paper, tin. They have a burnt look to them, as if dried in a flue. Dark and haggard eyes peer out. In the photographs the children appear sinister, like the fruit of forbidden liaisons.
Who's that?
That's Uncle Carter. He was a goodlookin somethin, wasnt he?
Who's this little boy here?
That's John.
He leaned closer to see was there anything left of that face in the face he knew.
This must be about nineteen ten.
Lord, I guess. I dont know. Here's Helen.
How long has Uncle Carter been dead?
She looked high on the far wall of the kitchen as if perhaps it were written there. He died in nineteen twenty-six. Guess who that is, she said, pointing.
He looked at the darkeyed girl. It was a very old picture. Aunt Martha when he looked at her had one hand to her mouth and was regarding the photograph with a shy and wistful look. Suttree said: That's you, Aunt Martha.
She pushed at his shoulder. Shoo, she said. How did you know that was me?
Why it looks just like you.
Go on, she said. She shook her head slowly. I just loved that dress. Look here. Here's E C.
He looks good in a hat, Suttree said.
Lord, she said, laughing, you remember that?
Sure, he said.
This is Grandma Cameron. She was ninety-two when she died.
This is Uncle Milo.
He was a merchant seaman you know.
Suttree nodded. I remember you Uncle Milo. Lost under Capricorn all hands aboard a bargeload of birdshit one foggy night off the limeslaked coast of Chile. Souls commended to the sea's salt clemency.
He'd not been home for thirteen year.
Foreign stars in the nights down there. A whole new astronomy Mensa, Musca, the Chameleon. Austral constellations nigh unknown to northern folk. Wrinkling, fading, through the cold black waters. As he rocks in his rusty pannier to the sea's floor in a drifting stain of guano. What family has no mariner in its tree? No fool, no felon. No fisherman.