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Black Water Jack

Most folks around Laplace, Louisiana didn't know Jack Chalmette's full name, they simply called him Black Water Jack. He was an old man of Cajun and Negro ancestry, more Negro than Cajun. He lived a hermit's life deep in Black Water Swamp. No one could remember when or how Jack had come to live in a brackish, mosquito-ridden hellhole like the swamp; it just seemed like he had always been there, living among the moss-draped cypress trees with nothing but 'moccasins and 'gators for company. The locals were a little afraid of Jack, partly because of his appearance. His neck and face were textured by a thousand tiny furrows, the result of a combination of time and exposure to the elements. The whites of his deep-set eyes had gone blood red and when Jack smiled, which was a rare occasion, his lips parted to expose a few worn out yellow stumps. But mostly people were afraid of him because they thought he was a "seer and a voodoo man".

The speculation was that in his younger days, when Jack had more fire than sense, he had knifed a white man and had been forced to take refuge in Black Water Swamp where he had plenty of privacy and time to practice his seeing and black charms.

Every time some damned fool wandered into the swamp and disappeared, or someone's "youngin'" came down with the whooping cough Jack got the blame. "Old Jack cursed him," they'd say. Folks figured Jack had something to do with just about every unexpected death, every sick animal, every accident and every sudden change in the weather. Black Water Jack knew what they thought and he was glad. Their fear gave him his privacy. He didn't need them anyway. Jack knew he could live forever in Black Water Swamp. There were plenty of fish, deer, and once in a while, ducks to eat. The cash he needed to buy flour and oil for his lamps came from trading a few pelts or occasionally opening a grave for the townspeople. The year was 1920, and the Terrebonne County, Louisiana population was mostly poor and mostly black and mostly superstitious. Among these people, white or black, anything beyond an eighth-grade education was a rarity. Here, the age of reason was a late arrival.

Black Water Jack had only one friend and only one weakness; they were one and the same. Jack dropped his eyes to the three by six feet rectangle of fresh earth at his feet, then sank the blade of his long-handled shovel into the soil that covered Michael Julian's coffin.

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Michael Julian was five years old when Jack first laid eyes on him twenty years before. Back then Michael had been a skinny little kid with a thatch of mousy brown hair, a dirty face and a crust of snot under his nose. He lived with his grandmother in a tar paper shack at the edge of the swamp. No one ever did the boy the courtesy of calling him by his first name. When he and his grandmother weren't present, it was always "the whore's kid" or the "Julian bastard"; in their presence, he was always addressed as "boy" or "hey you". More often than not, he was ignored.

Jack had pieced together the story from the letters that Michael had let him read. Michael's mother had been pretty, pretty enough in fact that she was sure she could make it as a model or even an actress if she got the right breaks. Claire Julian was naive and eighteen when she left Laplace for New York. When she arrived in the city she was nearly broke and a lot hungry. Claire made the rounds of almost every modeling agency the city had to offer, but she discovered she wasn't the only pretty face there; no one "discovered" her. Her situation grew desperate. For three days she had been living off of "tomato soup" made from hot water and ketchup she had stolen off a table of a cheap cafe called the "Bringer Inn" when she met a black pimp who called himself Acey Lyle.

Acey was good to Claire at first. He fed her and bought her a coat to ward off the autumn chill that stung the night air. Acey claimed to have connections and promised Claire he would help her get a modeling job, "But these things take time," he had said. Meanwhile, Claire was getting deeper into his debt; eventually, Acey demanded that he be repaid. Claire was forced to turn her first trick. Her first beating came when she didn't want to do it again. She did of course; Acey had the upper hand. She was dependent on him for everything. Claire told herself that she would do what Acey wanted until she had enough money to get back to Laplace, but somehow she never had quite enough. Eventually, she felt too "dirty" to go back and face the simple folks of her home town. Claire found her lifestyle repugnant. She turned to alcohol to make it a little more palatable. Though she may never have consciously arranged the thought in her mind, she knew she would continue to work for Acey for two reasons: fear, and the only alternative she could see was abject poverty.

Claire Julian died giving birth to Michael a month before her own twenty-second birthday. Acey made sure that Claire's baby got back to Laplace where the child could be raised by his grandmother. That was probably the only completely unselfish act that Acey Lyle ever performed; he didn't even know why he did it.

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Jack readjusted his coal oil lantern. The freshly turned earth wasn't hard and Jack was in excellent condition, but his seventy years were beginning to show. His back and arms ached. The digging was beginning to slow. "This is the last one," he muttered to himself, "when you fill this one in, it's finished." Jack paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He started to take off his jacket then thought better of it. Through the material of the unlined denim jacket, his fingers traced the reassuring form of the .45 caliber Colt revolver that was tucked under his belt; from there, his hand slid toward the watch pocket of his faded dungarees. His ancient Hamilton indicated that it was just past ten. The old man's nostrils flared. He knew that Rayford Stone would be along in less than two hours. From Jack's bitter expression there evolved a vengeful smile. He resumed his work.

Rayford Stone was young, but his twenty-six years were full of accomplishment. As a child he had earned the reputation of being the best bully Laplace had ever known; he was merciless. The people around Laplace whispered to one another, "there's somethin' a little wrong with that Stone boy," but they were afraid to say it where Rayford could hear. Michael Julian's frailty made him a natural prey for Rayford Stone. Over the years Rayford had beaten Michael, locked him in a sweltering wood box for hours at a time, and even sodomized him. One of Rayford's favorite pastimes was to sit on Michael's chest, pin his arms to the ground, then let spittle dribble into his face. After each episode Michael retreated to Jack's shanty in Black Water Swamp, where his tears were dried and his wounds doctored.

Being a bully wasn't Rayford's only accomplishment. Among other things, he was the fastest runner, the best baseball player and the best knife thrower anyone had ever seen...It was the knife that everyone figured would get Rayford into trouble, especially after the town marshal caught him trying to castrate Michael Julian with it. It was fortunate for Michael that the scene for the crude surgery was ill-chosen. Had it occurred anywhere other than behind Selby's Barber Shop, Marshal Tremmel might have been too late. Oddly enough, it was the knife that made Rayford Stone a hero in the Great War. It was in the Argon Forest that Rayford slithered into a German machine-gun nest and sliced the throats of two Krauts; the way had been cleared for his platoon and Rayford had earned a medal.

When Rayford was discharged from the Army and returned to Laplace, matters grew worse for Michael. Michael volunteered for the Service in 1917, but was rejected because he had asthma. While Rayford was earning his medal, Michael stayed around Laplace and married Suzy Bradshaw.

Suzy Bradshaw was as flighty as she was petite and pretty. She was a year younger than her husband, and like most of the other kids in Laplace, had witnessed many of the humiliations that Rayford had inflicted upon him. Simultaneously, she felt sorry for Michael and admired Rayford for his strength. During the years the United States was involved in W.W.I, there weren't any young men left in Laplace, save Michael Julian; she and Michael were naturally drawn to one another. It could be that she mistook pity for love or maybe it was lust that she mistook for love, at any rate she married Michael in August of 1918, barely three months before the Armistice was signed. The following year, when Rayford got back to Laplace, Suzy was plagued by a growing disenchantment with her husband. Patriotic spirit was running high and Rayford was a hero; Michael had been found unfit for the Service. Suzy dreamed of making love to a war hero. It took little encouragement from Rayford for her to fall out of love with Michael and into love with him. Suzy was pretty and the fact that she belonged to Michael Julian made her all the more appealing to Rayford Stone.

The night he caught Suzy making love to Rayford shattered Michael's spirit. As usual, he made his way to Jack's shanty hoping to gather some comfort from his old friend; but even a friendship like he and Jack shared could not salve the wound Michael had suffered. Between tears and sobs Michael told his story then asked to borrow Jack's revolver. Misunderstanding Michael's intention, Jack loaned him the gun. Instead of killing Rayford Stone, Michael Julian killed himself.

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Black Water Jack had scraped the last of the earth from Michael's coffin when he heard Rayford Stone speak.

"Well, well, well...Looks like I caught myself a nigger diggin' up white trash."

Jack climbed from the hole. Brushing the dirt from his hands and dungarees he said, "Been expectin' ya Mr. Rayford."

Rayford paused. "Now, why would you be expectin' me to come clear out here tonight? You tryin' to tell me you really are a seer? An' what you doin' diggin' him up?"

A rare smile spread across Jack's lips. "No sir, Mr. Rayford, I ain't no seer...I used my ears. Why, this very afternoon, at Michael's funeral, I heard you an' Miss Suzy makin' plans to meet out here so no one would know."

"You ain't smart, old man...talkin' like that."

Jack's face tightened. "You think everybody here 'bouts don't know 'bout you an' Miss Suzy?"

Rayford drew his bayonet from its scabbard. He tenderly fondled its blade.

"I reckon that's the knife you killed them German fellas with?"

A wild glint built in Rayford's eyes. "That's right, voodoo man, and now I'm gonna cut you up with it and bury you with that white trash." Rayford began to close the distance between himself and the old man.

Jack responded by pulling the revolver from under his jacket. He pulled back the hammer...one...two...three clicks. "I think maybe you're the one that's gonna be buried with Michael."

Rayford could throw the bayonet and throw it well, but he knew he'd be shot before he could make his move. "If you shoot me, old man, I'll be missed. Suzy'll have the law on ya."

Jack's voice gave no hint of emotion. "'Spect not. I done been to Miss Suzy's an' squeezed the life outta her with these two hands...Felt good too." Even in the weak lantern light, Jack could see the shock register on Rayford's face. The old man nodded in the direction of the other new grave. "Buried her with ol' Mrs. Roberts there. I figure when you both disappear at the same time, everybody'll just' suppose you an' her done run off together."

Jack felt a wave of satisfaction ripple through his body as he gently squeezed the trigger.

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