CROSS DOG BLUES by Richard M. Brock

Author:Richard M. Brock [Brock, Richard M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Action and adventure, afircan american history, Blues Music, coming of age, Mark Twain, Mississippi Delta, Southern culture
Publisher: Bogie Road Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

19

Dockery Farms, Mississippi

1925

“I’ll crack your damn head, Charlie!” came an exclamation from outside.

The preacher, Eddie ‘Son’ House, was sweeping the floor of his church, watching carefully for any donations that may have fallen out of the hat, when he heard the commotion outside.

He dropped the broom and ran to the door. Before him, all the beauty of God’s natural palette was laid bare. It was that time of a summer’s afternoon when the symphony crescendoed, when the ancient oak trees spread like mountains, with animated leaves casting a flittering shade on the rich grass below, the flowing white tangles of beard lichen swaying in the breeze, hanging like scrolls of wisdom from the static, gnarled limbs.

But amongst all this, Charlie Patton, in bare feet and bare chest, was being chased down the street by his third wife, Minnie Franklin, who was swinging a pitchfork with deadly intent. Charlie, in his own right, was swinging his guitar right back, in no more civil of a manner, though maybe at least partially to fend off her blows.

“You’re a rotten goddamn drunken fornicator!” Minnie yelled and swung the pitchfork. “I give you a hundred second chances, and this is what I get?” She swung the fork down like a sickle, narrowly missing Charlie’s knees.

Charlie jumped to miss the blow and ran before she could reload, turning after ten feet to brace for the next attack.

“But, baby, you know--” Charlie started.

“Don’t call me baby!”

“But, baby--”

“I know what you’re going to say, and don’t you even think about it!”

“But, baby.”

“You’re just a drunken asshole, Charlie. That’s all there is to it. I can see behind your stupid little eyes you trying to figure a way you can blame this on what happened with Huddie and that boy. Just like always! I can see it right now, right there behind those stupid, little, drunken, liar eyes.” She swung the pitchfork and missed narrowly.

“But, baby--”

“One doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the other, Charlie!” she continued her rant. “You can feel guilty and be a goddamn mess for a long time, and you can even keep using it as an excuse for a long time after that even. But not seven damn years, Charlie! It’s just a goddamn excuse!”

Charlie didn’t say anything. And Minnie didn’t swing the fork this time. She exhaled, and hesitated, a moment of empathy for the skinny little man crouching in front of her. But this was a mistake. Charlie saw his opening and leapt from his crouch and swung his guitar down like a sledge over the head of his wife. The guitar rang out and Minnie Franklin slumped to the ground in a heap.

The preacher Eddie ‘Son’ House was running across the lawn toward the couple when Charlie let her have it with the side of his guitar. He couldn’t help but stop and cover his mouth.

“Good-NESS, Charlie,” he yelled. “What the heck are you doing?”

“She was trying to kill me,” Charlie said drunkenly, staring down at Minnie who was now moaning on the ground as she came to.

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