Deacon King Kong(73)

“I know pokeweed’s here somewhere,” she said. “The wetter the ground, the better the chance it’s around.”

“Maybe we ought not burn too much gas looking for it,” Sportcoat said. “I had a cousin who got sick from eating it.”

“It depends on what part you eat,” she said. “What did he eat? The root, the stem, or the leaves?”

“Lord, I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Well there it is,” she said. “Me, I got numbness in my legs. Plus cataracts. I can’t see a thing. The pokeweed cleans my blood. I can see better. My legs don’t hurt so much. I can eat almost any part of it, anytime.”

Sportcoat was impressed by her certainty. She stood up and ventured into the swamp, and he followed her. The two moved deeper into it, their feet sinking into the wet grass, which became marshier as they drew closer to the water. They searched for several minutes and came upon several treasures they liked: skunk cabbage, spring beauty, and fiddleheads. But no pokeweed. They spent another twenty minutes searching westward parallel to the water. Finally, they struck gold in a swampy lot next to an old paint factory that faced the water. In the lot behind the factory was a wealth of good things: wild mustard, wild garlic, huge geraniums, and—at last—pokeweed, some of it four feet high.

They gathered as much as they could carry and slowly made their way through the weeded lots to Miss Four Pie’s house.

She was happy with their haul. “These things are big,” she said of the pokeweed. “You couldn’t find them this big in a store. Of course you can’t buy good vegetables in the store anymore anyway. Tomatoes you buy now, they look so nice and shiny and red. When you get them home and slice them, they’re all red mush inside. They taste like nothing. How can you make spaghetti sauce with that?”

“Don’t reckon I could,” Sportcoat said.

“Nothing’s the way it was,” she complained. “You ever see a son as good as his father? The son might be taller. Or stronger. Or thicker about the shoulders. But is he better? My son is stronger than his father. On the outside. But on the inside? Hmph.”

“I don’t reckon I’ve met your son, Miss Four Pie.”

“Oh, you’ve seen him running around here,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Trying to make fast money like the rest of these young people. Bigger. Better. Faster. More. That’s all they want. Always in a hurry. Never takes time for things. He needs to meet a good Italian girl.”

The thought seemed to distract her. As they made their way back through the lots to Silver Street, they bypassed some real treasures Sportcoat knew she liked: milkweed, knotweed, wild garlic, and beggar’s-lice. But she was too busy chatting happily. “I tell my son, there’s no such thing as fast money. Money’s not everything, Deacon. If you have enough to live, that’s enough.”

“You’re by golly right about that.”

They walked on and she glanced back at him. “How long you been a deacon?”

“If I had to count the years, I’d lose track. But I’d say it’s now going on twenty years over at Five Ends. My wife was a trustee, y’know.”

“Is that right?”

“I had a good wife,” he said wistfully.

“They don’t make them like they used to, Deacon,” she said.

“Surely don’t.”

By the time they arrived back at her brownstone, the old lady was tired and she took the unusual step of inviting him inside. She announced she was so tired she had to go upstairs to lie down and instructed him: “Put the plants in tubs and wash them in the sink. Then leave them on the counter and you’re all done, Deacon. I left your money on the counter. Pull the back door when you leave.”

“Okay, Miss Four Pie.”

“Thank you, Deacon.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

She went upstairs, and he finished the job as instructed and left out the back door, which led to a tiny yard. He walked down the stairs and turned to the left to the alley that separated her brownstone from the one next door.

As he stepped into the alley he walked dead into the Elephant.

He didn’t recognize him, of course. Few people from the Cause Houses knew which of the several Italians that moved in and out of the boxcar was the Elephant. But everyone knew the name, and the reputation and the dread associated with it.

Elefante had been home from the Bronx for a week, but the visit was still fresh in his mind. He was deep in thought about the whole business of it when he walked into the old colored man in his backyard. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m the gardener.”

“What you doing here?” Elefante asked.

Sportcoat smiled uneasily. “Well, the garden is where gardeners work, mister.” He watched the Elephant’s quick glance about the yard. “I reckon you must be the son, for you favors Miss Four Pie. She spoke of you all day long.”

“Miss who?”

Sportcoat realized his mistake and puffed out his cheeks quickly, blowing the air through his mouth. “The lady inside . . . the plant lady. I take it that’s your momma? I works for her. I forgot her name.”

“Is she all right?”

“Oh yeah. She just went to lay down. She had me out there . . . uh . . . we was seeking pokeweed near the harbor.”