3 A Brewski for the Old Man (20 page)

“Have to be here. We lost them when they went around that point.” The voice belonged to the tattooed man.

“What does it matter? Just tourists likely, if it was wardens they wouldn’t have run away.” “Have to be somewhere hiding.”

“Well, we can’t get any closer, too shallow. Let’s forget about it and go back to camp. It’s time to get out of here.”

“I want to know who’s sneaking up on us. Bet it’s that cocky bastard from this morning. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“We don’t know that it’s him and who’s ever out here probably ain’t got nothin’ to do with us.”

“How’d they get here and why? They didn’t put their canoe in by our camp. Least not while we was there. You don’t accidentally wind up here — you have to know what you’re doing to find this lake if you aren’t coming in from our camp. They came here on purpose. How many times we been around this lake? You ever see anyone out here in the last three years?” Another voice joined in with, “He’s got a point.” “You only stick up for him because he’s your brother. I always get the dirty work and I’m always the odd man out.”

“You’re odd all right.”

“Okay, I’m taking you back. I’ll drop you two off and then I’ll come back and look for them.”

We waited some minutes more and then Tully motioned me into the canoe. I was trying to guess how long it would take for the men to make the trip to their camp and back. How long did we have to escape? Electric motors are quiet but slow. Maybe we could paddle as fast as they could go in a boat with an electric motor. But we couldn’t paddle fast enough to cross the lake to the stream before they got back, couldn’t paddle fast enough to go around the lake or any other improbable scenario I was coming up with to get us out of there without passing the men who stood between us and safety.

Tully motioned me to follow him as he pulled the canoe towards open water.

The jut of land protected us from them but I felt as if their eyes were boring into my back. Once at the water, we entered the canoe and paddled hard, focused on speed and distance.

We couldn’t go back the way we came. Even I knew this. The men were between us and the stream leading us out of the swamp. And dusk was falling.

We couldn’t sneak by them in the dark; we’d never find the mouth of the stream in the dark and no way would we want to show a light. If we were at the mouth of the stream at this moment, could we get out before blackness overtook us? And did I want to try slipping through those narrow banks with unseen danger waiting for us on either side in the night? Being the smartest of species wasn’t a help in this situation. We had no advantages out here; this was where brute strength and the size of your teeth won.

My nervous heart trembled and I wanted to ask a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, what’s going to happen to me? I wanted to ask where we were headed and what we were looking for, but our roles had changed. We weren’t two equal adults. Not by a long shot. Out here I was following his lead, a neophyte at the feet of a master. He would tell me what I needed to know and I would listen. Until then I would keep my concerns to myself. I needed my strength for the paddle.

Tully steered us around the end of a cypress tree. There was a small narrow cut of water into the land. We nosed the canoe into the bank. I scrambled out without being told and reached down to pull the canoe up onto the bank.

Tully opened the duffel and handed me a thin blanket, a bottle of water and a power bar. The light of day disappeared.

Before long another light appeared and a bright shaft danced through the bushes and cypress at the edge of the lake. “Spotlight,” Tully said. “They’re looking for us. We can’t show a light but we don’t need to.”

Night came swiftly. A full moon hovered over top of us, making me feel exposed. Although the humid air was still full of warmth, new sounds chilled me with their strangeness.

I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. A chorus of peepers and frogs covered my hushed question. “Are there still panthers out here?”

“A few, I suppose.”

“Did you ever shoot one?”

“Naw. Why’d I do that? Can’t eat them.”

“So, there’s panthers. What else?” I meant, of course, what else is there to kill me besides men and panthers.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed, “you’ll be fine.” A bull gator sounded. It had been a long time since I’d heard that sound but I recognized it; only now, instead of excitement, I felt fear and dread. “Yes,” I replied, “we’ll be fine.” We fell quiet, with me thinking about what being fine meant. Heaven only knew what Tully was thinking about.

Somewhere up above us an owl called out, “Who, who.” I wanted to answer him, “Me, me,” wanted to say I was there, wasn’t forever lost to the world.

And then in the dark some huge creature screamed in agonizing death.

Tully answered the question I hadn’t asked. “Gator. They must have left a hook set. They won’t take him ’til morning. Can’t take a gator in the dark.”

“Hook?”

“You take a steel hook, a great big whopping steel hook, and you spear some chicken on it. Gators only like dead things. They get you, they gonna pull you into the water and drown you before they eat you.”

“A comforting thought and one I’ll surely keep in mind.” A soft laugh. His strong arm snaked around my shoulders and pulled me to him. I let it stay. “Anyway, you take a rope and put it on a pole you’ve stuck in the water and then suspend this hook from it over the water. It has to be high enough off the water to make the gator jump for it, so’s he sets the hook, you know?”

I nodded. I was so hoping I wasn’t ever going to need this information.

“Anyways, then you tie the rope to a big old tree. The blood drips in the water, let’s the gator know it’s there, and that old gator snaps up that chicken, hook and all.” His left hand flashed out in front of us and snapped shut in a fist. “Then the gator goes into this death roll. Gator will always do that. Roll over and over with prey in its mouth.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just does. Maybe it’s to kill whatever it has hold of. Maybe it’s to break off bits of whatever it’s got in its mouth. Don’t know. Anyway, that’s how a gator does it. And as it rolls over and over the rope, see, the extra rope you’ve put over the pole, wraps around him. He trusses himself up like a Christmas turkey.” “And then it dies?”

“Nope. Then you have to kill it. That’s the tricky part.”

“I can see it might be.”

We listened some to the night sounds, life and death in the dark, strange and foreign to me.

“How do you kill a gator?” I asked.

“You shoot it.”

“What’s tricky about that?”

“Well, there only one spot you can hit a gator that’s going to kill it. Shoot it anywhere else and it’ll ricochet off and kill you or one of your buddies. Or maybe you’ll just make the gator madder.”

“I wouldn’t want that. That wouldn’t be a good thing, would it?” “Nope.”

“Won’t the gator just die?”

“It could live for days.”

“Oh. So when I get this gator all roped up and ready for dinner, where do I shoot it?”

He let go of me and placed his right index finger low down on the back of my head and to the side. “Right here at the edge of that bony plate. Bullet will go right into its tiny little brain. Only thing that will kill it. Some fellas will tell you to shoot it in the eye. Doesn’t work.” He tapped his finger on the back of my head, “Shoot it right there.”

“Good to know,” I told him, nodding to let him know I’d taken it in.

“’Course there’s one other tricky thing.”

“Only one?”

“Only one important thing.”

“What’s that?”

“How to tell if it’s dead.”

I wasn’t going to ask why that would be tricky. Dead is dead, isn’t it?

“How do you think you can tell if it’s dead?” he asked.

“If it passes on a beer?”

“No, that would be how you tell if your old man is dead. A gator’s a little different.” His arm went back around my shoulders and he hugged me to his side. I’d wait ’til tomorrow to correct this new and nasty habit.

“Hard to tell if a gator’s dead. One time Zig and I took a gator, had it in this big old aluminum boat Zig used to have. Goin’ along nice as you please, maybe an hour after we took it, when this damn beast rears up its big head, bucking and twisting on its back, its feet going like sixty, those big old claws scratching at the sides of the boat as it flipped itself over to its belly.”

He was laughing softly to himself, remembering, until the laughter set him coughing, choking and gasping for breath. He hawked and spit into the darkness. I asked, “What did Uncle Ziggy do?”

“Well, Zig and I kinda had this discussion when we took it. Zig always likes to take good strong tape and wrap it around the gator’s mouth to prevent nasty surprises like the one we were having but I’d told him it was a waste of time and tape, so old Zig wasn’t too happy ’bout now, what with the gator going crazy, tossing his head until the rope came free and there was nothing left to stop it doing pretty much anything it wanted. Don’t know why Zig was worried, the business end of the thing was facing me and its smile didn’t warm my heart. Now Zig, well he just got real excited like your Uncle Ziggy does, and he didn’t think too clearly. He pulled out this big old hand gun and shot at the gator. Wasn’t close enough to get under the armored plate so the bullet just bounced off and put a nice big hole in the boat — just ’bout the waterline.”

“Oops.”

“Big oops.” He was laughing again and I was smiling a bit myself, two fuck-ups on their day off.

“Zig got him with the second shot. That one stayed in the gator but I tell you I was expecting the bullet to go right through and put a hole out the other side of the boat.” Tully was collapsing with laughter. “Funniest damn thing you ever seen, that gator going crazy.”

“So how do you tell if a gator’s dead?” Why was I asking? Guess because we’d come this far, it was only natural to want to know the rest.

“Well,” he said, “me, I always poke them in the eye.”

“Does that work?”

“So far.” He gave a hoarse chuckle and added, “’Course even dead they can still hurt you.” I didn’t rise to the bait.

Layers and years of sophistication and independence were sanded away by fear in the night. I leaned into the shelter of my father’s body, a solid barrier between me and the unknown. Tomorrow I could win back my cool indifference and urbane contempt but at the moment I was a child again in my father’s arms and happy to be there. With his protection came a twinge of guilt at the selfish thought that whatever danger came for us it would have to get through Tully before it got to me.

The world lightened around us, false dawn, not quite real. Hundreds and thousands of noisy raucous voices, more birds than I would have believed to exist, called and answered across the ragged bloody sky.

Somewhere in the night our bodies had curled together for warmth and safety. I stayed still, reluctant to wake him. Finally Tully awoke, turned away from me, stretched and yawned, sat up, hawked and spat into the bushes. He rose to his feet, shaking his legs and pulling the legs of his jeans down over his boots. He looked down at me and grinned. “Morning, little girl.” When had he taken to calling me that?

“Morning,” I answered and tried to smile. My bones hurt. From the way Tully was limping as he walked back and forth along the edge of the hammock, searching every clump, every tree, I figured a night on the ground had been even harder on him. I pushed back the blanket and got to my feet. “See anything?”

“Nope. Let’s get started.”

I folded the blanket, stuffing it back in the duffel that had served as our pillow.

“We’ll be across the lake and gone before they’re up,” he said as he righted the canoe.

I looked at my watch. We’d be back at the truck before seven. I slipped into the bushes for a pee, pushing the wet branches from in front of me cautiously, watching for snakes and bugs and trying my best to stay dry. Everything was sodden like we’d had a rain, the whole world dripping with dew.

When I came back, the canoe and Tully were gone. Panic, full out and complete, set me dancing with anxiety. “No, no,” I moaned. A low keening wail escaped from my throat, fear no longer keeping me quiet but making me want to scream into the sky.

Tully burst from the trees, in a crouch with the rifle ready. “What?” he growled.

I swung to face him. “I couldn’t see you. I thought you were gone.”

He lowered the gun. “You thought I left without you? That’s stupid. I went to have a look around.”

“You did before,” I accused. “You left me before.”

“One time.” He held his forefinger in the air. “Once.”

“You left me behind at a bootlegger’s.”

“Keep your voice down. Sound carries on the water.” I was still upset, still angry and frightened after all those years, but I lowered my voice and I whispered, “I woke up and you were gone. There I was all alone with those strange old men playing cards. Who takes a kid to an illegal poker game? Who forgets they brought a kid with them?”

“I wasn’t used to having a kid trailing along behind me. I came back for you as soon as I remembered.”

I was five again and couldn’t let it go. “It was a Sunday night. Ruth Ann was waiting tables at the Rookery and you were supposed to look after me. You took me with you to a floating card game at a bootlegger’s. It was late, I fell asleep on the floor on someone’s coat in that little room next door.” My voice rose, but caution fought it back to a lip-curling snarl. “I woke up when the guy came for his coat. You were gone…I was five years old.” I poked my chest with a forefinger to make sure he knew who I was talking about. “You left me.”

“Yeah, well I’m sorry ’bout that. Like I said, I forgot. Anyway, your mother made me pay for it. I didn’t get to see you for nearly a year and she wouldn’t let me move back in.” He frowned at me, head to one side, while he dug deep into the past. “I went to your school once, called to you when you came out of the school gate. You turned around and ran away like a rabid dog was chasing you.” Hurt and indignation at being treated this way furrowed his forehead. Tully didn’t get it.

“Is it any wonder? I wasn’t going to give you another chance to leave me behind.”

“You didn’t tell your mother I was at the school though, did you?”

The “no” came out reluctant and slow.

He looked pleased. “I guessed you hadn’t or she would have called and given me hell.”

“Sorry I acted like a fool just now.” I hate to apologize more than anything in the world. “Guess I’m a bit jumpy.”

He just headed away with me on his heels. When we got to the canoe he said, “Stands to reason you’d be nervous.” He put the rifle in the craft and tossed the duffel in after it. “You ain’t used to sleeping rough.”

He squatted down beside the canoe and stared across the marsh before he said, “My life and my existence are like this.” He reached down and wrote in the water with his finger. “Like writing my name on water — gone as it happens.” He looked up at me. “Only thing I leave behind is you and the ones that come after you.” He stood. “You’re the only good thing ’bout me. I’ll never let you go.”

He motioned to the canoe and held it while I entered and then he pushed the canoe through the reeds and out into the water of the narrow channel.

We were nearly through the reed bed back on the lake. The stream split, going either side of a small treed hammock covered with dense plantings — a small rookery where birds roosted for the night. The trees hanging down to the water were dripping with white ibis and stilt-legged herons. As we broke cover and glided towards the rookery, a cloud of birds rose in the frail light, circled and swept over head. Hundreds of birds, calling harshly to others, lifted into the air while behind them, in ragged stick nests, their young screamed out to their parents.

“That’s cut it,” Tully said. “If they’re watching and they’re smart, they’ll know we’re here.”

We swept around a bend while behind us the flock disappeared below the trees, settling back into their nests.

Tully steered us close to the bank, sheltering beneath low-hanging shrubbery, the only cover available at the edge of this marshy area.

I looked over my shoulder, questioning. He put a finger to his lips. He reached out and grabbed the branches and pulled the canoe deeper into the cover. I did likewise, hunkering down into the canoe, letting the grasses spread back along the edge of our craft.

I listened hard, harder than I ever had in my life but there were no voices, no soft sounds of an electric motor, no splashing against gunnels. It was as if even nature held her breath. We stayed like this for some time, waiting until Tully said, “Okay,” and then we pushed away from the shore. “Maybe we got lucky.”

Maybe. But then again, maybe not.