Lost in the River of Grass (6 page)

“Tough choice.” I take a sip from the bottle, wipe the lip, and hand it to him.

He takes it, but just keeps looking at me.

“What?”

“Let's end the germ problem right now.” He takes my chin, turns my face, and tries to kiss me.

My stomach does a flip-flop, but I turn my head sharply. “Who said you could do that?”

“I like you,” Andy says.

“Well, I might not like you.”

“Don't you?”

“I haven't decided yet.” I smile.

“Well, decide. I only give airboat rides home to people who like me.” He takes a long drink.

“Just turn the bottle,” I say.

He wipes the rim and hands it back to me. “So, Emerson, what do you do all day in Miami?”

I take another sip and shrug. “Nothing much. School. Swimming practice. Homework. Play on the computer. You know.”

“Sounds like a full and rewarding life.”

“What do you do? Gig frogs?”

It came out as a put-down, but before I can apologize, Andy smiles. “School. Gig frogs. You know.”

“What is a gig, anyway?”

“A long pole with a miniature pitchfork at the end.”

I nod and think of all those cute little green frogs. “Doesn't seem like much of a meal. Their legs are so little.”

He looks at me blankly; then it dawns on him. “Not the little green ones. They gig the big bull-frogs and pig frogs.”

A picture of a frog run through with tiny, sharp tines, its legs kicking, comes to mind, and I change the subject. “Where
do
you go to school?”

“Naples. Maybe you could come back over someday. Go to a game or a dance with me.” He smiles, then adds, “I don't really gig frogs, you know.”

When I was little, Mom signed me up for ballet, tap and piano lessons, but I don't know anything about dancing
with
someone. “A game would be fun, but I don't really know how to dance.”

“I'm not a very good dancer anyway. Maybe a game, or a movie.”

“Sure. I guess.” I have a big picture of my parents driving me all the way to Naples and back for a date with Andy, but it's nice to think about anyway. As good-looking and nice as he is, I bet he has lots of friends—especially girlfriends. I take another sip of Gatorade and wipe the rim. I'm just passing it to him when I see the duckling round the side of the cabin.

“Come here little duck, duck.” I get up, patting my thigh.

I've only gone a few feet when Andy says, “Oh my God.” I freeze, afraid he's seen a rattlesnake or something.

“What?” I cry when he runs past me. “What?” I run after him.

When I catch up, he's standing on the dock, hitting himself in the forehead over and over with the heel of his hand.

My heart is thundering. “What's the matter?”

He drops to his knees on the dock, folds himself in half, locks his hands behind his neck, and starts to rock. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

I can see past him now and bite my fist to keep from screaming. The airboat is gone.

6

My first thought is that it had been stolen, but when Andy sank to his knees on the dock, I see the curved top of the propeller cage arching over the water. One blade sticks up like the arm of a drowning victim, and a few final air bubbles rise to the surface and pop in the rainbow of gas that encircles the cage.

I don't realize I'm crying until he glances at me. For a moment I see the look of anguish in his eyes, then he blinks it away and slips off into the water. I immediately think of the gator. It's still down there somewhere, but Andy wades around, collecting the things that were floating: the pole, the gas can, the Pan Am flight bag, and a single flip-flop. He dumps them at my feet and looks up. “I'm sorry.”

Tears stream down my face. “What are we going to do?”

“I'm not sure,” he says.

“Can't we tip it over like a canoe and empty the water out?”

I knew that was a stupid question almost the minute I said it, but when Andy snorts “no,” it makes me mad. “How did this happen?” I cry.

“I washed it this morning and took the stern plug out so the water would drain. I put the plug on one of the trailer's tires.”

“And you forgot it was there?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why didn't it sink when we put it in the canal?”

“It takes a while to fill through that little hole.” He's standing chest-deep with both hands on the dock, his head down. “And as long as we were moving, water couldn't get in.”

I glance at the cabin. There are no power or phone lines. My parents gave me the Tracfone for my birthday, but I didn't bother to bring it. In fact, I've never used it. There's no one to call. “Did you bring your cell?”

He snorts again. “I don't have a cell phone. Even if I did, there are no cell towers out here.” He takes a deep breath and looks up at me. “I'm gonna have to walk out.”

My turn to snort. “You've got to be kidding? How far is it?”

He shrugs. “'Bout ten miles, I guess.”

“Oh.” I'm suddenly hopefully. “That's not far.” He could go get help and be back in a couple of hours.

Andy gives a short, bitter laugh. “Not on a city sidewalk, it ain't.”

“How long will it take?”

“Two days, maybe.”

“Two days!” My throat closes.

“Maybe three. The water's still pretty high.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“You can't.”

“I'll be fine. It's not as bad as it looks.” He dips his hand in the water and lets it pour through his fingers.

“Andy, I can't stay here by myself. What happens when it gets dark?”

“You can sleep in the cabin.”

A shudder runs through me. “There are rats and
roaches
in there.”

“There's nothing out here to hurt you if you stay in the cabin after dark. You may see or hear raccoons, a skunk, or a possum, but nothing dangerous. Plus, you got your buddy there.” He nods toward the duckling, which is snuggled against my foot, its head tucked between its shoulder blades. Every few seconds it makes a little peeping sound, as evenly spaced as hiccups.

“Why can't we wait for them to find us?”

“Who's them?”

“Your parents.”

“This is Saturday. Dad won't be back until Monday afternoon. Mom left early this morning to help with a baby that's due this weekend. Who knows when she'll be back? There's no one to miss me.”

“Well, I'll be missed. They'll be getting back pretty soon, and Mr. Vickers will come to check on me. He'll call my parents as soon as he finds me missing.”

“Even so, Sarah, how long will it take anyone to guess where you went? Did you tell any of the other girls you were going out on the airboat with me?”

Tell the AABCs? After they make sure I didn't steal any of their junk, they'll be happy I'm gone.
I bite my lip, then shake my head. “Didn't you tell someone?”

“No. Remember? It was our little secret. And what makes you think it will occur to anyone that you might be in the missing airboat, if they even notice it's gone?” Andy hitches himself up on the dock and sits with his legs dangling in the water. He seems unconcerned that the gator has resurfaced and is watching us—just his eyes and two nose-holes above the surface.

“The way I figure it,” he says finally, “they may miss you pretty soon, unless they think you've gone for a walk. When they do realize you're gone, they won't know where to start looking. They might think you've been kidnapped or something. It won't occur to anyone that we might be together until one of my parents gets home. In all likelihood, that will be my father late Monday. Best guess is they'll find the boat trailer Monday evening, but too late to start searching. And even then, they won't have a clue which direction I went, or that you're with me. Once they start searching, it could take a week to finally locate us if we stay here. You saw how overgrown this place is. You can't even see it from the air. There's a north-south levee. If I start walking now, I can be on it by Monday, and out by Tuesday morning.”

I begin to tremble. Everything he says makes perfect sense. “Maybe the owners will come out to hunt.”

“It ain't hunting season, and they haven't been here in months, maybe even years.”

“That swing looks pretty new.”

“So you think they'll come out to visit it?”

“Don't be mean. I can't stay here alone for a minute, much less for a couple of nights. No way.”

He sighs and shrugs. “There's only one other choice then. You have to come with me.”

“Are you crazy? I can't swim through that.” I point to the pond scum that has drifted in to encircle his legs. “And there are alligators everywhere.”

“The gators ain't gonna bother us, and there's no swimming involved. This is the deepest water we'll see. Except for a gator hole once in a while, the water's only a few inches to a foot deep.”

“What about water moccasins? Mr. Vickers told us they're aggressive. One swam right at us when we were at Shark Valley.”

“We just have to keep our eyes open.”

I feel totally exhausted and out of arguments. I put my face in my hands. “I can't stay here alone,” I say. “Please, Andy, I can't.”

He stands and puts his arms around me. His wet shirt feels cold against the sun-heated skin of my arms. “Then you have to come with me. Those are our only choices. There's no food. We can't last a week or more on swamp water and a can of Spam.”

“We can build a fire,” I say suddenly. “They'll see the smoke.”

“Well, that's a good idea,” he says, and strokes my hair. “Of course, we'd need dry wood and dry matches.”

“In the cabin?”

“It's been raining almost every day since June. Nothing's dry in that cabin, and there's nobody to see a fire, and if there was, they'd think it was some fisherman cooking dinner. Nobody knows we're missing. You have to remember that. Do you really want to sit here 'til we hear the first airboat or see the first search plane—days, even a week from now?”

“Maybe it won't take that long. We could wait until we hear a plane, rub sticks together like they do on
Survivor
and burn the whole cabin down. They'd see that, wouldn't they?”

“What's
Survivor
?”

“A reality show.”

“Is that something on TV?” His tone is curious.

“Don't tell me you've never seen it.”

“We don't have a TV.”

“If you've never seen it, how do you know that we can't stay right here and survive on berries and stuff until we're found?”

He rolls his eyes.

“I don't think you should make fun of my idea if you've never seen the show. About twenty people get left on an island where they have to fend for themselves for thirty-nine days. They get fires started by rubbing sticks together . . .”
I think. Or do they?
I can't remember. Weren't the first competitions always for flints and a machete?

“Sarah, even if you could start a fire by rubbing wet, green sticks together, which you can't, this place actually belongs to someone—remember? As bad as it is, they might not like us burning it down.”

The duckling stands and stretches on one leg, then steps up on my foot and nestles down again. I pick it up and bring it close to my face so the tears I can't control fall and bead on its back.

 

…

Andy goes back to the cabin for the cooler, my backpack, and my shirt, which I left hanging over the back of the swing. I can hear him opening and closing cupboards, but when he comes down the path, all he has is the can of Spam and a butcher knife.

“There's nothing of any use to us in there except this.” He holds up the knife.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Just in case.” He looks toward the gator at the far end of the pond, then at me. “But if you're staying, I'll leave it, and the Spam, with you.” He holds the knife out to me—handle first.

“Andy, please, let's wait until tomorrow. Maybe someone will come by—a fisherman or a frog-gigger.”

“No way that's going to happen, Sarah. Have you seen or heard a single airboat all day? We're miles from where the Indians take the tourists.” He hands me the Spam, sits on the dock and slips into the water. “I want to get a few hours in before dark.”

Dark!
The backs of my knees tingle like they do whenever I see someone else's blood. I stare hard at the Spam for a moment, then glance at the gator.

“He's just waiting for us to leave so he can haul back out,” Andy says.

“If something got you, no one would ever know what happened to me.”

“You should come with me. I'll get us out. I promise.”

I think about the few times my family has gone to the beach. Even there, with them on colorful towels nearby, I never went in the water past my knees because it was too silty to see the bottom. I couldn't stand the thought of what I might step on, or what was just beneath the surface looking up. The difference is that at the ocean, I'm pretty sure it was only my imagination; here the danger is real. The gator floats ten yards away, watching.

“I can't,” I say. My whole body trembles.

“You have to, Sarah.”

I shake my head.

He takes the duckling off the top of my foot and puts it in the water, then takes the backpack out of my hand, unzips it, and drops the Spam inside. He swings the pack around and sticks his arms through the straps.

“It's best this way,” he says and holds a hand out to help me off the dock. “You'd never make it here alone.”

I know he's right and hate him for it. Hate him so thoroughly I can't speak. I kick my foot like a child, sending the flip-flop spinning.