The Year's 25 Finest Crime & Mystery Stories 4th Annual Ed. (1995) by Mystery Scene Staff

Author:Mystery Scene Staff [Staff, Mystery Scene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Old Rattler

SHARYN McCRUMB

Sharyn McCrumb’s first books included a very witty look at science fiction fandom (BIMBOS OF THE DEATH SUN, 1998), as well some traditional mysteries (If anything of Sharyn’s can be traditional). But it has been her more serious novels about Appalachian culture (IF EVER I RETURN, PRETTY PEGGY-O, 1990; THE HANGMAN’S BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER, 1992; and SHE WALKS THESE HILLS, 1994) that has brought her best reviews, and greatest readership. Not that she’s deserted the traditional mystery. She remains one of its most colorful practitioners.

She was a city woman, and she looked too old to want to get pregnant, so I reckoned she had hate in her heart.

That’s mostly the only reasons I ever see city folks: babies and meanness. Country people come to me right along, though, for poultices and tonics for the rheumatism; to go dowsing for well water on their land; or to help them find what’s lost, and such like; but them city folks from Knoxville, and Johnson City, and from Asheville, over in North Carolina—the skinny ones with their fancy colorless cars, talking all educated, slick as goose grease—they don’t hold with home remedies or the Sight. Superstition, they call it. Unless you label your potions “macrobiotics,” or “holistic,” and package them up fancy for the customers in earth-tone clay jars, or call your visions “channeling.”

Shoot, I know what city folks are like. I could’a been rich if I’d had the stomach for it. But I didn’t care to cater to their notions, or to have to listen to their self-centered whining, when a city doctor could see to their needs by charging more and taking longer. I say, let him. They don’t need me so bad nohow. They’d rather pay a hundred dollars to some fool boy doctor who’s likely guessing about what ails them. Of course, they got insurance to cover it, which country people mostly don’t—them as makes do with me, anyhow.

“That old Rattler,” city people say. “Holed up in that filthy old shanty up a din road. Wearing those ragged overalls. Living on Pepsis and Twinkies. What does he know about doctoring?”

And I smile and let ’em think that, because when they are desperate enough, and they have nowhere to turn, they’ll be along to see me, same as the country people. Meanwhile, I go right on helping the halt and the blind who have no one else to turn to. For I will restore health unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds, saith the Lord. Jeremiah 30. What do I know? A lot. I can tell more from looking at a person’s fingernails, smelling their breath, and looking at the whites of their eyes than the doctoring tribe in Knoxville can tell with their high-priced X-rays and such. And sometimes I can pray the sickness out of them and sometimes I can’t. If I can’t, I don’t charge for it—you show me a city doctor that will make you that promise.

The first thing I do is, I look at the patient, before I even listen to a word.

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