SWEET TALKIN WOMEN

He was sent to France in the Great War an got wounded twice. By rights he should’ve been dead six times over before now, but you know what they say—the Lord looks after fools an drunks.  Not that Uncle John is a fool, but the drink is somethin else agin.

I remember one time he went off on a three-day bender with Jimmy Mayes an Jim Bit Nose Ward, an when they didn’t have no more money for moonshine, they drank wood alcohol.  Now wood alcohol can kill a man.  Jimmy did die from it an Bit Nose went blind, but all John got was a hangover the size of the house.

Then there was a time one December when he was comin up the holler, drunker’n any three men ought to be—walkin up Old House Creek about five or six o’clock in the mornin—we don’t know for sure just what time it was, but before dawn, anyway—an he passed out with his head in a snowbank an his feet in the creek.  Dee Mabry found John when he was headin off to work that mornin an carried him on up to the house.  Mommy put him to bed under a pile of quilts, a hot rock at his feet, an when he finally come ’round, he didn’t even have a cold in his head.

“A little whisky’s good for what ails you,” he always said. “An if nothin ails you, it’s good for you anyhow.” As proof he’d point to that time when he got bit by that black widow spider. He drank corn liquor from three o’clock in the afternoon till seven o’clock at night, an when he was done he was still sober as a judge, an none the worse for the black widow. He swore by a mixture of honey, vinegar, an moonshine for arthritis; equal parts honey, lemon juice an moonshine for asthma; rock candy in white whisky for congestion. If you had a cold he prescribed parched an powdered hot red peppers in pure white corn liquor—or sometimes lamb’s ear an whisky tea or whisky an honey. He said horehound candy in whisky was good for TB—or any kinda cough, for that matter. He had remedies for colic an croup, for dropsy an dysentery. I guess his most general, all-purpose brew was pokeberry wine an whisky, which he said was good for everythin from rheumatism to toothache to muscle cramps. If he’d took only medicinal whisky, I guess he coulda turned into a mighty ailin man. But believin in an ounce of prevention, he took a little somethin every day. Or maybe more than a little.

Once John got out of the Army, far as I know, he never did a lick of work for pay.  He made his way by dealin seconds an sweet talkin women.  Oh, he did spend a spell in the Federal Pen in Frankfurt that time for counterfittin quarters, but that was just what you might call a aberration.  Mostly he lived on cards an women. No one knows for sure how he come to be so good with cards. Granny was a stiff-necked Baptist an never let a deck of cards in the house, so maybe it was while he was in the Army.  Or maybe he was just born with quick fingers. Whatsomever, he must of had a knack for countin cards an sleight of hand. Not that he was ever caught cheatin—he’d’ve been dead for certain if he had—but he made a livin of it. So let’s just say he was mighty sharp with a deck of cards.

As for the women….  Well, I’m here to tell you: Uncle John sure had a way with the ladies.  You mightn’t credit it now, but he used to be a mighty good lookin man.  He was always clean-shaven, his cheeks as smooth as a baby’s bottom, an he wore cologne an a dress shirt an pants with a sharp crease.  Sometimes it was a white shirt, but more often it was pink or blue or lavender.  In winter he wore a grey felt hat, an in summer one of white straw.  He always tipped his hat to the ladies, an said something nice in that soft drawl of his. Whenever I said I hoped I could be just half the ladies man Uncle John was, Mommy would puff up like a pigeon an say, “If he was half the man he thinks he is, one of his wives would’ve kept him!”

He was married seven times that we know of—eight if you count the two times he married Aunt Hattie.  The first time he an Hattie got divorced was when John run off to marry Rosa.  Rosa was Daddy’s younger sister, which made their daughter Verna Mildred what is called a double cousin to me. As far as we know, Verna was the only child John ever begot,  prob’ly owin to a bad case of mumps he got soon after she was born.  Maybe it’s just as well.  Verna died at the age of thirty-three, bled to death during surgery, an she’d been married four times by then, I believe.

The second time John an Hattie parted ways, she run him off with a shotgun.  Hattie had a girl as come in to clean, an one day Hattie come home unexpected like an found John in bed with the girl.  I still think that if she’d really been aimin to kill him, he’d’ve come away with more’n a few buckshot in his backside.

Not too long before I left home—I was maybe fourteen, so that’d make John maybe forty-two or -three—John talked Mommy into lettin him stay at our place agin.  Mommy always was a soft touch for John, an in that she weren’t no different from all the other females around.  I reckon all told, he lived with us more’n with all his seven wives combined. But this time I’m talkin’ about, he was between wives just then, an he went out cattin around most every night.  One night he was makin time with Maizie Caudill.  She’d let him know Willis was gonna be out coon huntin.  Well, a big ol’ coon slashed his hound dog’s leg, an Willis come on home while John was still in bed with Maizie.  While Willis was comin in the door, John was goin out the winda, his pants an shoes in his hand.  John rolled up tight agin the porch an just laid there, hardly breathin, waitin for Willis to put out the light an go on to bed.  The last thing Willis done before gettin into bed, he come out to take a leak off the end of the porch—an pissed right on John.  An if that weren’t bad enough, it turned out John rolled in poison ivy that night. Poison ivy must be about the only ailment Uncle John ever got that whisky didn’t take care of. He got an awful case of it an Mommy flat out refused to tend to the places he couldn’t reach.  She said she didn’t know exactly what he’d been up to but she had a pretty good idea, an she didn’t doubt he deserved everything he’d got an then some.  So I was the one put the witch hazel an boric acid on him, which is how I come to know what happened that night—an how I come to learn about lovin women.

We was in the bedroom an I was soppin a piece a white muslin to douse the poison patches on his back.  When I asked him how he come to get that poison, I didn’t really think he’d tell me.  But he did, real matter-a-fact—just like as if he told me that sorta thing all the time.  So I was feelin pretty much like one of the men folk—like him an me was equals, you know—an I said to him, “How the hell do you get all them women, anyway?  It ain’t like you’re all that good lookin anymore.”

He was standin in front of the dressser an he leaned over an looked real hard at his face in the mirror there, the tiny red veins makin lace across his nose an his jawline gettin a little blurry, an then he kind of looked over his shoulder at me an said, “So you don’t think I could give Clark Gable a run for his money, huh?”

He said it so serious, I thought, “Uh-oh, now I’ve gone an done it,” an I got all tongue-tied an red in the face.  But then he straightened up, chucklin an smoothin back his thin hair, an he says, “Well, now, I guess I can’t argue with somethin that’s plain as a rock in the road.” He dropped his pants an leaned over on the back of a straight chair so I could I soak the last of the poison.  “But looks don’t signify.  The world is full of women needin a lot more lovin than they’re gettin.”

I snorted, “Yeah, there’s lots of fat, ugly old heifers around!  But who cares?  That ain’t what I’m askin.”

He turned around an put his hand on my shoulder. “Now you get that kind of thinkin right out of your head, son, or you’re gonna end up gettin about as much pain as you give!” He gave me a little shake. “I’ve seldom met a woman didn’t have somethin worthwhile to offer, an iffin she gets somethin worth havin in return…why, then we’re both a lot happier.  An you’d be surprised the number of pretty women will judge a man on how he treats the homely ones.”

He looked up from zippin his fly an I guess he could see I weren’t convinced, ’cause then he said, “I wouldn’t want you followin in my footsteps in most things—card sharpin can be mighty dangerous an drink can ruin a man ’bout as quick as anythin—but I hope you’ll heed what I say about how to treat women—whether we’re talkin ’bout one woman or a hundred, ’bout one night or fifty years.  Now you just set there a minute an hear me out.” He kinda nudged me toward the oak chair that hid the necessary an then perched on the edge of the bed beside me. He was still barefoot, an nekkid from the waist up, an all of a sudden I didn’t want to see his white belly goin soft while he was talkin about women, so mostly I looked at my feet.

“First off, don’t expect to get more’n you’re willin to give—not in anything, but specially not in bed.  A woman’ll tell you what she wants—even the shy ones. If not in words, then her body’ll tell you.  You just have to learn how to listen.  An then you’ll both have a mighty fine time of it.” I cut a sideways look at John. He was just starin at the wall like he was seein a movin picture there.

“An when you are in bed with a woman, you mind your manners: you always put yourself between her an the door—just in case you’re taken by surprise.  An you don’t never force yourself on a woman—not even if it’s somethin she’s let you do before—not even if she’s your wife an you think you got rights.  If she says no, you’d best just believe she means it, an iffin she don’t, she’ll let you know that soon enough.

“Sweet talkin is good—before, durin, an after.  An laughin is good, too.  Chances are, your time with a woman won’t last long once you stop laughin together.

“Now, when you do part company with a woman—an it don’t matter whether it’s sooner or later, your idea or hers—just thank her for the good times an don’t never bad-mouth her after.”

He was quiet so long, I liked to bust, an finally I said, “That’s it?” an he cocked his left eyebrow at me like he always does, an said, “Pretty much.  Except one last thing: if you’re gonna be happy with a woman, you gotta really love her, an that means lovin her inside more than her outside.”

I couldn’t decide whether he was talkin through his hat or he really believed all that stuff, but either way, I thought it was a pretty sorry excuse for an answer when what I really wanted to know was just what words women find sweetest an such like, an I says, “If you know so almighty much about women an love, how come you can’t stay married?”

His smile was so little it was hardly there an he said, “Elwood, I thought you was old enough to know the difference between can’t an don’t.” An then he put on his shoes an shirt an went out to set on the porch, playin solitaire an takin a little nip of whisky whenever Mommy weren’t lookin.  He never would tell me how he got into bed with all those women, even though I pestered him about it all that summer.  He’d just smile an drawl, “Iffin you really love women, the sweet talkin comes natural.  An after that, every man just has to find his own way.”

When John weren’t married an he weren’t livin with us, mostly he lived with Aunt Hattie.  I’m pretty sure she never actually married him more than twice, but whenever John moved in, she’d put on her weddin ring an call herself Mrs. Perry.  We could always tell when he was gone agin by the ring not bein on Hattie’s hand. Now that he’s eighty-six, half blind an deaf as a stump, maybe he’ll settle down an do all his sweet talkin to one woman.  Maybe he’ll stay with Hattie for good this time.  But I wouldn’t put no money on it.