Lulu and Butterbean ~ Teased to Death
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

There was this time when me and Lulu Cantrell and Lulu's momma Dolly had to go up to Carterdale to see Dolly's sister, the one that everybody calls Aunt Sister. Seems Aunt Sister - a hairdresser by trade and inclination - was entered in the annual hairstyling championship of Flathead County, held every year in otherwise podunk Carterdale. Aunt Sister was feeling her nerves, and Dolly wanted to give her some moral support in person. Lulu just had to go along, of course. Where goest Lulu, there goeth I, too, as it sort of says in the Good Book. All three of us in a station wagon I borrowed from Cousin Willard, 'cause Dolly purely hates to drive anywhere in a truck. She says it's common. I don't know where Dolly got them airs, since her daddy was a manure salesman, and Dolly herself is, by all accounts, a six-month baby who weighed ten pounds at birth. Hah!

Anyhow, I didn't have nothing better to do, and damned if I was going to let Lulu and her momma drive to Carterdale by themselves. I was afraid they might get into trouble, them being two women who could borrow grief interest-free and pay off the mortgage by sundown. You know it's true. Cantrells attract trouble the way shit attracts flies. The last time there was a Cantrell family reunion, a tornado wiped out the meeting hall, half the picnic got poisoned by bad mayonnaise, a herd of cows stampeded the sack race, and there was a rain of catfish that plumb ruined the upholstery in Daddy Cantrell's new Cadillac convertible. See what I mean? Trouble with a capital "T."

Now a good many Cantrells live in and around Carterdale, which makes it the consternation capital of the universe. They've got a Mystery Spot, a Gravity Hill, spook lights, a phantom motorcyclist, ball lightning, two-headed calves, white ladies by the score, Bigfoot, swamp apes and what-not, or so it's claimed. Ever since the state closed off the Irvine Extension road, Carterdale doesn't get that many visitors, which is just as well. Too many tourists gettin' eaten by swamp apes or carried off by giant mosquitoes does tend to send local economy into the crapper. The mayor of Carterdale, casting about for some event that might bring cash to the city's coffers, hit upon a hairstyling championship called Hairdo Voodoo. No danger to tourists, as it would involve natives only, plus all their relatives who would, presumably, flock to Carterdale to buy cheap sourvenirs and expensive beer. Sounds like a plan, huh?

The idiot. I could've told him that there ain't no disaster - natural or otherwise - that compares to a town full of bloodthirsty females ready to do each other the dirty in order to be declared Miss Hairdo Voodoo of Flathead County. The first year there was two shootings, a dozen fist fights, and a grisly curling iron incident whose memory causes strong men to turn pale to this day. Butterbean Shirley McCall's momma didn't raise no fool. I came to Carterdale prepared for anything and everything, up to and including the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I would have borrowed my Uncle Jerry's old army surplus bazooka, but Lulu packed the suitcase so full of clothes, I couldn't find room for the shells.

Aunt Sister was staying with some Cantrell relatives at their house, but we didn't meet her there. Instead, we drove straight through to the old sausage factory some two miles outside of town, where Hairdo Voodoo was being held that year. Hizzoner the Mayor had decided, in the wisdom gained from ten years of experience, to keep the contestants as far away from Carterdale as possible, while still being within a reasonable distance of food and drink. I'm sure that the Great Fire of '89 had something to do with his decision, though I'm still not convinced that the destruction was deliberate. Desiree Benbow's moonshine still has been known to blow up from time to time. I'm sure she didn't mean to do it, even if her baby girl Darla got disqualified that year because she was caught spiking another woman's hair gel with Nair.

Anyhow, the sausage factory was packed to the gills with hairdressers from all over Flathead County, along with their family members. I have rarely entered a deadlier place, and I include the Mass Panic Roadhouse on Route 4. The air inside that factory reeked of permanent solution, hairspray and pure unadulterated malice. I took hold of Lulu, just in case somebody decided to do her a mischief, and checked to make sure my hide-out pistol was loose in my boot. Dolly managed to spot Aunt Sister right away, and went yelping off to greet her.

Lulu gave me one of them looks. "Butterbean," she says, "you behave yourself around these women, or I swear to God, I'll smack you so hard you'll be coughing up bones."

She didn't have no call to say that, really. Lord knows, I love that woman more'n peach butter on biscuits. There was that one time, I'll admit, when I'd had a few too many longnecks at Whisper Haggard's barbeque, and I woke up with lipstick all over my face and a purple G-string in my pocket. I still had all my clothes on, though, so it couldn't have been too bad. Never did find out who belonged to the G-string.

Aunt Sister was all a-flutter, fussing over her model like a momma hen with one chick. You see, the contest goes like this: each hairdresser brings one model, whose hair has been simply washed and dried. At 7 p.m. exactly, the hairdressers and models retire to individual booths where magic is made with switches, teasing combs, mousse, gel, bobby pins and enough hairspray to poke another hole in the ozone layer. At 10 p.m. exactly, the gussied-up models are brought out before the judges, who then determine the winner and declare the new Miss Hairdo Voodoo of Flathead County. Sounds simple, don't it? Son, you have no idea. Those hairdressers were not above slipping ipecac into a rival's Coke or worse, just to scuttle their chances. Underhanded or bold as brass, there was malice afoot, or my name wasn't Butterbean Shirley McCall.

Dolly pointed out this itty bitty woman to me and Lulu. "That's Madame Gootch," she says. "She's won the competition every year since it started. Madame is one of the swamp Gootches from Backwater Slough."

Well, Madame Gootch looked like ten pounds of poison in a five pound sack. She had the evil eye, all right. Her model was a scrawny thing packing an impressive head of hair. I reckon that hair must've weighed more'n her and Madame Gootch combined. It was a right strange color, halfway between white and gray. The girl kept her mouth closed, and looked around with these beady little black eyes. Gave me the heebie-jeebies for some reason.

Aunt Sister fixed Madame Gootch with a look that should have put her six feet under. "That old buzzard ain't gonna win this year, by thunder. Not if I have anything to say about it."

You should know that before the Hairdo Voodoo contest got started, there was one place in Flathead County that everybody went to to get fancy hair for weddings, parties, dances and funerals. Many a young girl was taken there by her momma in a rite of passage every bit as meaningful as a boy's first deer hunt. I'm talking about a girl's first big hairdo, proudest moment in her young life, when she knows for sure that she has become a woman. Well, the place to go used to be Aunt Sister's Curl Up n' Dye Coiffures in Hogbend, right between RX Drugs and the Layaway Funeral Parlor.

However, Aunt Sister hadn't won the competition yet. Business had fallen off in favor of Madame Gootch's Cut n' Curl over in Backwater Slough. Sister was mad enough about it to chew barbed wire and spit nails. She was sure that Madame Gootch had some kind of influence over the judges. I didn't see how that could be the case, since the judges were from out-of-state and presumably had no ax to grind. Swamp woman Gootch didn't impress me as the kind who would resort to bribery, anyway. No sir, I figured her for a hands-on cheater who operated with extreme prejudice.

My attention got distracted 'cause Lulu was about to pitch a hissy fit. She reckoned I was eyeballing other women. Could I help it if the place was wall-to-wall females? Besides, I was so nervous, you could've stuck a chunk of coal in my ass and gotten back a diamond. I recognized any number of Cantrells in the crowd. Aunt Sister had called in reinforcements from around the county. She was really determined to win the crown. Lulu had to stop and make kissie-face with nieces, aunts, cousins, grandmommas and what-not every five seconds. Must've been every living Cantrell woman in the place, from Carterdale and beyond, come to support Aunt Sister in her hour of need.

Madame Gootch from Backwater Slough had no idea what she was up against.

Then again, neither did I.

The factory whistle blew, announcing the beginning of the competition. Aunt Sister retired with her model (one of her grand-daughters, Oralinda), and the wait was on. The Cantrells had brought coolers full of fried chicken, tater salad and nanner puddin', so we had a tailgate party in the parking lot. I couldn't eat much, on account of having this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. How to describe it... well, have you ever been out in the woods alone, turned a corner and come face to face with a pissed-off grizzly bear? Wait, boy, I ain't done yet. Now suppose you snatched up your gun and shot point-blank at the bear, only all you hear is a loud click instead of a boom. The way I felt was exactly the way you'd feel in that split-second when you and the bear realized that you'd forgotten to load the damned shotgun shells.

Oh, shit, indeed.

Ten o'clock couldn't come soon enough for me. Lulu was having the time of her life, since Cantrell family reunions had been banned by state law back in '75. Dolly was running around, screeching happily at the top of her lungs. Hizzoner the Mayor had probably run off to hide in a concrete bunker somewhere until the all-clear was blowed. I wished I could've joined him. There are few things that put the frightener on ol' Butterbean, but a concentration of Cantrells is one of 'em. Lord knows I love Lulu, but my in-laws and outlaws are best taken in small doses.

All of a sudden, from inside the sausage factory there came an awful hollering that damn near made me swallow my teeth. We ran in and found a herd of hysterical hairdressers. Aunt Sister had this disgusted look, like she'd found a cat turd in her cornflakes. The last time I saw such a look, it was on my momma's face after I'd been foolin' with her pressure cooker and accidentally blew a jar of green beans all over the ceiling. Man, I got a switching that day that still gives me twinges when the weather changes.

Aunt Sister says, "I told you that ol' swamp buzzard was cheating!" She was hanging on to a blue-tick hound that was baying fit to bust, and jerking hard on the leash.

Sure enough, there stood Madame Gootch. Ten pounds of poison in a five pound sack, and I wouldn't have messed with her for all the tea in China. Beside her, that scrawny girl with the gray-white hair had fixed her beady little black eyes on the hound. She opened her mouth and hissed, showing a bunch of pointy teeth which reminded me of something, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Her hair had been teased and sprayed until it was a positive danger to air traffic.

Madame Gootch sniffed, which she was well able to do, having nostrils so big you could've crammed a cannonball in each one, and still had room left over for gunpowder. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sister Cantrell," she says in her swampy voice.

"Oh, yes you do!" hollers Aunt Sister. "This here's my husband's second best hunting dog. Everybody knows animals can suss out hexing, which is what I reckon you been doing all these years, 'cause I am the best hairdresser in Flathead County, bar none. I would've won if you hadn't taken unfair advantage with your witchy ways. Quit lyin', you no-count Gootch, and admit that's what you done."

The scrawny girl was still staring at the hound, who was going plumb crazy. Aunt Sister was having trouble holding it back. The girl hissed again, and I suddenly got a notion.

"Butterbean," Lulu says to me, "something ain't right."

I resisted the urge to turn around and say something to her like, "No shit, Sherlock." Discretion is the better part of valor, especially when it comes to dealing with Lulu.

The judges stumped over, somewhat the worse for wear after stuffing themselves with lunch provided by Carterdale's church ladies. "What the hell are y'all doing?" one of them asked. "Sister Cantrell, if you are the author of this trouble, I'm going to disqualify you right now. And for the love of God, would somebody please hush that dog?"

The Cantrell women drew up in a mass and inhaled sharply, sort of the way a rattlesnake gives warning just before it strikes. The judge kind of petered out at that point and wandered away, muttering something under his breath. The other two judges, not being utter morons, also took themselves off. Hairdressers stood around in a circle, giving that swamp woman the stink eye, but also standing clear of Aunt Sister. Nobody wanted to commit themselves yet, for all that the envy against Madame Gootch was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Madame Gootch's face had turned the color of clabbered milk. She kept looking at the dog, and back to the girl, and fingering something hidden in her pocket.

Lulu got caught up in the moment, as usual. "Ah hah!" she says, swooping down on Madame Gootch. "What's this?" She reached into the swamp woman's pocket and pulled out a little sack, tied around the neck with black thread.

My hair stood on end. I got a sickening feeling, somewhat like the time I stepped barefoot on a worn-out electric cord. Zap! From my heels to the back of my neck. Aunt Sister let go of the dog. Lulu screamed and dropped the sack, which spilled all over her feet. All hell broke loose.

The scrawny girl took off, one step ahead of the dog. That blue-tick hound chased her from one end of the sausage factory to the other. I tell you, I've never seen such an exhibition in my life. Aunt Sister had Madame Gootch by the nose, Dolly had hold of Aunt Sister around the knees, and the rest of the Cantrells were clustered around Lulu, who was having the biggest conniption fit ever seen in Carterdale. See, that sack was full of some kind of hexing powder that made hair grow all over poor Lulu's feet. Looked like she was wearing fur slippers.

If you ain't guessed yet, let me tell you that the scrawny girl weren't no girl at all. She was a possum, hexed into human form by Madame Gootch's swamp magic. How come she used a possum? Well, there ain't too many critters in Backwater Slough, and 'gators and snakes don't have hair. How come she didn't use a regular model like everybody else? Boy, I have no idea. Maybe her powers required it. Did she put some kind of glamor on the girl, to make the judges vote for her? Could be. Please don't ask me no more questions. I don't believe in hoodoo.

Anyhow, the dog smelled the truth. I know that hound dog, by the way. He nearly had his nose bitten off by a possum when he was a puppy. The way I figure it, he was out to pay off an old grudge.

Round and round they went, the scrawny girl getting smaller and more hairy by the minute. That hound treed her on a walkway before too long, and by then she was all possum again. Mind you, a possum with the finest fluffiest coat I've ever seen, even if it was a bit odd, what with the pompador and all. It sat up there, swelling and hissing, while the blue-tick hound howled fit to beat the band.

Meanwhile, the three judges were trying to restore order, which they couldn't have done with a full riot squad and the National Guard, besides. I doubt even an Act of God could've kept Lulu from trying to get at Madame Gootch. I heard her holler, "Butterbean, get over here and hold this old biddy down while I kick her to death!" No sir, not me. Something else was a-brewing. That ass-pucker feeling was getting stronger by the minute. Zap! From heels to head.

Remember what I said before about hell breaking loose? That weren't nothing compared to what happened next. Cantrell consternation struck again.

A big ball of lightning rolled in through an open window, which made everybody's hair stand straight up, if it was capable. We had itty bitty sparks flying off every metal object in the room, including fly zippers and bobby pins. Suckers bit! I grabbed Lulu and ducked under a table. Everybody else in the room scattered for cover, too. I ended up crammed in there with Lulu, Dolly, Aunt Sister, the dog, and some strange woman who - according to Lulu - kept praying and squeezing my ass everytime she said "Jesus!" which only went to show that some people ain't no better than they ought to be. Frankly, I was too busy worrying to notice.

Madame Gootch took the opportunity to make a run for it.

That ball lightning flew around the room and smacked into a locked electrical box on the wall. All of a sudden, the sausage making machinery came to life. It had been turned off on account of the competition, you know. There wasn't much equipment on the first floor where we were, 'cause that's where trucks dropped off their loads of hog meat. Just conveyor belts. The main part of the processing happened on the second floor.

Madame Gootch went flying towards the door. Right about then, she slipped on a pool of hair gel and went skidding along until she landed on a conveyor belt. Up she whizzed at a good clip, and got dumped in the grinding hopper. It happened too fast for us to do anything. Next thing we know, there's dreadful curses coming out of that hopper. A big green hand, all scaly and clawed, reached out and hooked onto the edge. Something started coming out of there, and whatever it was, it was seriously pissed off.

I don't mind telling you that I was shaking like a poodle crapping peach pits. Lulu shoved me out from under the table and says, "Butterbean, deal with this! And don't get yourself killed, or I'll put a knot on your head that a calf could suck on."

Well, I was so used to jumping everytime Lulu said, "Frog!" that I was on my feet and running up those stairs before my brain caught up with my body. It was nice to know that I had Lulu's confidence. On the other hand, if I had my druthers, I'd rather have stayed under the table and been known as the kind of person who couldn't catch a cold if it had handles.

Madame Gootch kept pulling herself out. I saw this head rising from the hole that would've given me nightmares for life, if I hadn't wiped the memory clean out of my mind. Anyhow, the machinery was groaning mighty fierce, which I can understand, because taking on a swamp witch like that would give anybody a bellyache. I pulled out my boot pistol and let her have it. More's the pity, 'cause my hands were shaking so bad that I missed.

There wasn't nothin' else to do but engage the enemy hand-to-claw, as it were. As I was commending my soul to God (and wishing I'd told Lulu about the two hundred dollar emergency stash buried in a mason jar in the backyard), something hit me in the back of the head. It was a bottle of water. I looked down and saw Aunt Sister.

"Sprinkle her! Sprinkle her!" says Aunt Sister.

Now why would I want to make a Methodist out of the swamp witch? I hollered down as much, and Lulu shouted back, "Just do it, Butterbean, or I'll come up there knock you for a loop!"

Okay, I know better than to argue with Lulu. I took the bottle, opened it, and chucked the contents into what was passing for Madame Gootch's face. Much to my surprise (for I didn't believe baptism would to any good at this point), Madame Gootch roared and fell back into the hopper. Some truly horrendous noises came forth, and I was afraid the sausage grinder might explode, but it didn't. After a few minutes, the sounds stopped, and everything was normal again. Well, as normal as Carterdale gets, anyway.

I came down to find Aunt Sister jumping up and down with glee. "I knew it!" she says. "I knew that weren't no Christian woman!"

Turns out that bottle contained holy water 'specially blessed by some televangelist. I later talked to Meemaw McCall, who knows a bit about hexing, and she asked me if it was sea water. It was, and she told me that monsters and witches can't bear the touch of salt. This makes no sense to me, as swamp water is brackish, but I don't argue with Meemaw. Aunt Sister paid twenty dollars for that bottle of water, by the way. I ain't never told her she could have saved her money and just took some salt packets from Hardees for free.

Furthermore, after we went and fetched the judges out from under the podium, they declared Aunt Sister as the new Miss Hairdo Voodoo. I don't think their decision had anything to do with Oralinda's hairdo, which had gotten fairly squashed during the excitement. No, it was probably the sight of all them Cantrell women giving them looks which could've curdled milk. Hizzoner the Mayor crawled out of his liquor bottle long enough to announce that the Hairdo Voodoo competition was canceled from then on. I don't blame the man. I hear his wife wants to sponsor an agricultural fair, on the presumption that vegetables don't shoot each other, conjure monsters, or ruin a whole day's sausage production.

I don't know about that. I've heard stories about killer tomatoes in Dryland that would curl your hair, so to speak.

A fellow from over in Backwater Slough later told me that Madame Gootch wasn't really a swamp monster, but she was a witch. Seems she'd conjured up a real swamp monster and sent it to the competition in disguise. All it had to do was sprinkle possum girl with magic powder to make the winning hairdo.Why? Because the real Madame Gootch couldn't do hair worth a damn. She had to use hoodoo 'cause her shop (which she had inherited from her momma) was about busted for lack of custom. Her relations thought she went over to Carterdale for the contest every year, but she really took a side trip to Brookfield to go to a line dancing contest. Fancied herself quite the belle of the dance floor, I understand. She ran off after the news came out. I saw a picture of her once, and I tell you, boy, the swamp monster was a damn sight better lookin'. Madame Gootch would've done better to study beauty spells.

Lulu's unfortunate foot condition came about 'cause she wasn't a possum, I guess.

Following a talk with Aunt Sister and Dolly, Hizzoner the Mayor agreed to pay for Lulu's treatments. I am pleased to report that her little pink toes are just about fur free. She still blames me for the whole mess, of course. I had to buy her four new pairs of shoes before she'd tell me where she hid the remote control.

Aunt Sister is currently queening it up in Hogbend. I understand there's a waiting list for Curl Up n' Dye coiffures.

Now I really must be getting home, son. It don't do to leave Lulu alone for too long. There's no telling what she'll get into next, and poor ol' Butterbean will have to hump right along just to keep up with her.

THE END

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