Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

tucked into green trousers cut off at the knee. He’s sitting on a little wooden cart with tiny wheels on the bottom. His pants end at the knee because that’s where his legs end, and I can see the fleshy nubs like two elbows poking out at me.

“Well, look what the cat drug in.”

Cats? Momma always said cats were good, a good sign is what she said they were.

“Get in if you’re gettin’.”

I stand up and shake my hair out like a dog. I look behind me to Tommy and he nods so we go in together. The man slams the door behind us. He scoots himself around by his hands, the wheels squeaking across the dirt floor. We’re inside, and I don’t know what world we just walked into.

The room is dark, lit by candles, a few wooden chairs, a chipped table with legs about a foot high with weird cuts in it like someone dragged a knife over the top. In the center is a broken clay pot full of browning flowers. No windows, just a lantern burning on the table and some stubs of white candles. Piles and piles of beets are stacked up on the floor, everywhere. A fire in the hearth flickers weird light over everything and a big black cauldron bubbles over the flames. It’s like a happy home gone wrong, like what me and Momma had but twisted and sunk with grime. Whatever’s cooking gives off an awful smell. I’d ask what stinks but it’s not polite to ask what an awful smell is in a home if you’re a guest in it. I might be an almost-bandit, but Momma taught me that much.

So I ask him where his kitty is.

“My what?” he says.

“You said you had a cat.”

“Naw I did not.” He spits in the dirt. “Filthy critters, cats. Mess everywhere. Worst-smelling mess there is. Worse than dog mess, worse than people mess. Hate cats.”

The man wheels right up to me. Tommy’s hiding behind me and I hold his hand tight.

“Let me get a look at you.” His stubby fingers grab my jaw. He turns my cheek, brushes my hair out of my eyes. He smells real bad. “You’re a pretty little thing. What’s your name, girlie?”

“Goldeline.”

“I’m Tommy,” says Tommy.

“Did I ask you your name, little boy? Don’t care about little boys. Little boys are varmints. Run around and muck up your garden. You a varmint, little boy?”

“No sir.”

“Sir?” The man’s laugh cackles out and falls into rasps. “No sirs around here. No sir. Nobody called me sir ever. You’re a varmint, for sure, calling me a sir. Wish Momma could have heard that, a varmint calling me sir.”

“I’m not any varmint,” says Tommy. “I’m an orphan.” He looks at me. “We both are.”

“Don’t go whining about it to me,” says the man. “Everyone’s an orphan if they live long enough. Done cried a lot when my own momma died. Death makes you hungry. Y’all hungry?”

I nod at him.

“Well, sit down then and I’ll heap us up something.”

The man scoots over to the counter and gathers three wooden bowls. He balances them on the cart and pulls himself over to the fire, to the cauldron where that awful smell comes from. With a big wooden spoon he ladles us full portions of soup. Tommy’s nose is running and he’s shivering all over. Hope he’s too scared to show how bad it smells, lest he get us killed. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back. It’s good to know you’re not the only scared one on the earth.

The man places the bowls on the table. Stink wafts up, like from a bog. We stare down at them.

“Sit down, will ya?” he says. I didn’t realize we were still standing. Me and Tommy take our seats on the floor. “I’d sit down too, except I’m already sitting down. See, I ain’t got any legs.”

“I did see, sir,” says Tommy.

The man wheels over to Tommy and sticks his grizzled beard up in Tommy’s face. “What’d you say to me, little ginger? What’d you say to ol’ Zeb?”

“Nothing,” says Tommy.

“What’s that, boy?” The man pulls a long carving knife off the table. “What you got to say to Mr. Zeb?”

“Mr. Zeb?” I say. “Is that your name?”

“How did you know that?” he says. He looks at me askance, eyes gone weird, like he’s scared. “You a witch?”

I think about it for a second, but then I remember how much trouble witching got Momma into.

“No sir,” I say. “That’s just what you called yourself.”

“I did?” he says. He points the knife at Tommy. “Did I?”

“Yes sir,” says Tommy.

The man roars out a laugh. He’s slapping the floor, cackling until he can’t hardly breathe. He calms down after a minute, holding his belly like it hurts.

“Well, I guess I did then,” he says. “Momma named me Zeb, rest her soul. Never knew my daddy. He run off when I was born. That’s why I’m living in a durn hill, ain’t it?”

He scoots over to a shelf from where he takes down a big jug. He guzzles from it till it’s running down his beard. He wipes his face off and holds the bottle out to me.

“You want a drink, little girl?”

I sniff it and gag. It’s worse than the soup.

“No thank you,” I say, smiling as big and bright and sweet as I can.

“No thank you,” says Zeb, mocking me, waving the knife in the air. “No thank you, no thank you. Well, at least miss prissy here’s got some manners, don’t she? What about you, little varmint? You want a drink?”

Tommy’s face goes pale and sweaty.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “Sir.”

“Well durn,” says Zeb. “Making ol’ Zeb drink by himself. I guess that makes it about the same as every other night since my momma passed, don’t it?”

He holds the bottle up high over his head in his right hand, like he’s toasting a banquet hall full of people.

“To Momma,” says Zeb, taking a long glug from the