Stork Bite

by Simonds, L. K.

  “There’s a time to fight,” Gramps said. “But this ain’t the time.”

  David’s mother pressed her lips. Looked at Gramps.

  “Isn’t the time,” Gramps said.

  She reached across the table and laid her hand on David’s. “Today is a crossroads for you, son. Are you going to meet the wickedness in the world with anger and frustration, or will you find another way? There are already too many angry people in the world.” She slid the cup and saucer back to her and sipped the cooling tea.

  “We believe in you, son.” David’s father put his arm around him. “Maybe we have protected you too much, but only to give kindness a chance to take root.” He put his heavy warm hand on David’s chest. “In here, where it counts.”

  David believed his family had tended him like a beloved garden, trying to grow only good things. Up until that morning, David had believed he was a kind person. A good son. But when push came to shove, he did not choose peace. Or kindness. Nor did he choose to overcome evil with good.

  The storm dragged behind it a cold wind that did not let up. David sat in the car for a long time, waiting for the night to grow deeper. Waiting to wake up from the nightmare. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. Nothing changed.

  The stars came out, and the moon rose large and bright above the pines. There was plenty of light for driving and plenty of light for anyone he passed to see him. He shrugged off the wet tarpaulin and made his way to the trail to see if it was passable. The track was deeply rutted and soft with mud, so he paced off a path between the trees to the highway. He returned to the car and opened the cargo box. He took out the wool jacket and put it on over his own lightweight jacket. It was heavy and roomy, and David felt warmer right away.

  He lifted the white cloak and ran his fingers across an embroidered patch on the left breast. He held it up to the moonlight. It was dark and round with a white cross in the middle. Had the man’s wife sewn it on? He imagined a woman—a mother?—now a widow, stitching the patch by the light of a kerosene lamp. Maybe she didn’t know what it meant. Or maybe she was all for it.

  Before he thought about what he was doing, David slipped the cloak over his head. He stretched out his white-clad arms in the moonlight. He laid his right palm over the patch, as if to pledge allegiance. He felt the same as he always had, and he knew then and there that the robe was not enchanted at all. It was merely cloth and thread, and all the hate and fear it carried came from the man inside. He grabbed the hood and closed the cargo box.

  Despite the motorcar’s sorry condition, the engine caught on the second crank and ran smoothly. David got under the wheel and eased the vehicle between the trees and brambles until he reached the edge of the woods. There he stopped and picked up the conical hood. Slid it over his head. Aligned the eyeholes.

  David breathed in the rotted potato smell of the man. He made himself eat the stench in deep, slow breaths, as if he were swallowing sin itself. As if he were a scapegoat onto which the rancid hood transferred everything that might bring harm to his family.

  He drove out of the woods onto the road and looked to the right, where the highway cut through the pines all the way to the Red River. Then he turned left, away from the river. He straightened the wheel, opened the throttle, and clutched. The tires slipped and caught, slipped and caught again. The Runabout flew down the highway, carrying him toward the wilderness of Caddo Lake. Carrying the day’s sin and death far, far from home.

  Chapter Four

  David stood on the ferry landing on the north shore of Caddo Lake, studying the choppy water. Wondering how deep it was. The ferryboat itself was half a mile across the lake at Mooringsport, whose buildings rose white above the dark shore. Here and there, welcoming lights glowed in windows, despite the late hour. White-frothed waves broke around the dark timbers of oil derricks between the town and David. He could not hear the waves, only the wind flapping the cloak around him. How he must have looked, standing alone, aglow with moonlight like haint.

  He walked back to the Runabout’s cargo box to see what was left. Inside a valise were wadded clothing, two bottles of Tennessee whiskey, and an oilcloth bag. The bag held several paper-wrapped portions of cornbread and ham. David pinched the cornbread and put some in his mouth. Although he had not eaten in many hours, the bread was no more appetizing than sand. He wrapped it again and put it back in the bag. A rope lay coiled in the bottom of the cargo box. David did not touch it, fearing he would find it dark and greasy with blood, like the gloves.

  He put one bottle of whiskey in the oilcloth bag with the cornbread and ham. He slipped off the hood and cloak and stuffed them into the valise and closed it. Then he closed and latched the cargo box, checking and rechecking the fasteners until he was satisfied they would not open of their own accord. He cranked the engine, got under the wheel, and backed the Runabout away from the landing far enough to get up a head of steam.

  Oh, how he wanted to turn the car around and go home! How he longed for the comfort of his bed. For a hot breakfast at the kitchen table. Might he still go home and hope for the best? Did the Runabout have enough gasoline to make it back to the Red? What if it ran out of gas on the road? For all he knew, the car was running on fumes.

  He had to rid himself of the man’s car. Here. Now. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t go home later. He had time.

  “Slow down, Big Man. You’ve got all the time in the world,” Gramps said when David hurried through a chore. There was time to think things through and sort them out. Time to make a plan, or at least come up with a story he could stick to.

  David clutched and started the Runabout forward. The car picked up speed and bounced wildly when it hit the bump between the road and the ferry landing. David felt himself lift off the seat entirely, and the car came down hard and veered left. He straightened the wheels and threw himself out the side. He tumbled and scrambled to his feet in time to see the car belly flop onto the lake.

  The Runabout nosed over amid bubbles and smoke. It quickly drifted away from the landing, its cargo box riding high like a buoy. David watched with panic as the cargo box disappeared and reappeared among the waves.

  “Mooringsport!” he cried.

  David saw himself shrugging off the wool jacket and stepping out of his boots. Diving into the cold, black water and swimming to the car. Climbing onto the cargo box until it filled with water and sank.

  And then it was gone.

  David paced back and forth across the landing, watching for the cargo box to reappear. It did not. He strained to see moonlit waves breaking against anything other than the oil wells.

  Nothing.

  David collected his things and made his way toward the railroad trestle, coming to a large open space where the trees and brush had been cleared to bare dirt. “The bridge,” he said aloud.

  The area had been cleared for construction of a new drawbridge. David and Gramps had made plans to watch it being built. The bridge was to follow a new design that raised a horizontal section between stanchions. Gramps had sketched the design on paper for David to see. “Vertical lift,” Gramps said. “It’s right clever.”

  They had made plans to visit Caddo Lake every Saturday after construction began. David had imagined himself leading the bridge-building crew. Directing the work. Shouting orders. Standing tall.

  David crossed the clearing and came to the railroad trestle. The timbers angled out from the tracks into the rough water. He knelt and laid his palm on the cold, smooth rail. No vibration. He started across, hurrying in long strides that skipped crossties. The air over the water was noticeably colder, and the wind gusted with fresh enthusiasm. He reached the middle of the lake and stopped. Knelt and again laid his palm on a rail.

  All quiet.

  David stood and looked to his left, where Twelve-Mile Bayou, shining silver-black, snaked southeast through dark bottomland. He looked to the right, where Caddo Lake stretched to a distant tree line. He turned around and looked at the railroad tracks b
ehind him, glinting in the moonlight. David dropped to his knees and closed his eyes. The haversack slipped off his shoulder and swung down between the crossties.

  In that moment, he did not believe he would lay eyes on his family again. Not until he was gathered to his people at death, as old Father Abraham had been gathered to his people. David imagined Abraham as a very old man with a long gray beard, walking slowly into mist shot through with light, as the morning sun illuminates white fog lying in bottomland. He imagined Abraham’s people appearing within the mist and moving toward him. Gathering around him to welcome him home. But would David be gathered to his people when he died?

  He opened his eyes. He heard the wind again. He felt the cold. He stood and hurried the rest of the way across the lake, reached the south shore, hopped down, and crawled under the tracks into the tight space where the trestle met the bank.

  The roar of the morning train overhead woke David abruptly. Dirt and pebbles showered him until the train passed and the trestle stopped its shaking. Nothing else smelled like a locomotive. Sparks and metal and oil and power.

  David wiped his face with his palms and looked around, stupefied and innocent in the moment before he remembered. The sun was bright beyond the black timbers of the trestle. It was Sunday morning, and everyone was in church. Everyone except his family, who would be searching for him. He could hardly bear to think of them hoping to find him when there was no hope. He rolled to his side, tucked his knees to his chest, and slept again.

  David woke a second time with the ham and cornbread on his mind. He raised himself under the low crossties and ate all the food, even though the bread was dry and the ham was going rank. He drank all the water in his small canteen and was still thirsty. He crawled to the water’s edge, hidden within the timbers of the trestle, only to find the water covered with shimmering rainbows that ran up the timbers with each wave. The water had been spoiled by the oil wells and wasn’t fit to drink.

  Despite his thirst, David returned to the space where the trestle met the bank. He opened the haversack and emptied its contents. The man’s money clip was stuffed with banknotes and bore the same symbol as the red wax stamped on the envelope. There were some forgotten venison strips his mother had packed, but he was too thirsty to chew them. Instead, he put a few pebbles in his mouth, as Gramps had taught him.

  David took the folded banknotes from the clip and slid them into his boot. He used his knife and fingers to dig a hole at the base of the first timber. When the hole was deep enough, he laid the bottle of whiskey in it. He slipped the leather pouch and money clip into the oilcloth bag, wrapped the bag around itself, and placed it in the hole on top of the bottle. He raked the loose soil on top of it all, smoothing the dirt with the flat of his hand over and over again, until the ground appeared undisturbed.

  Chapter Five

  Thirst drove David into the open as soon as it was dark. He tracked westward along the shore, sampling the water along the way until he reached a place where there was no taste of petroleum. There he drank his fill and filled his canteen.

  Late in the night, David reached a clearing on a low, broad point. The brush and trees he had been picking his way through gave way to a vast lawn on which stood a two-story house. It was a fine place with a deep porch that wrapped all the way around it. A colossal white dog lay on the porch at the front door. There’d be no getting around him.

  A few pirogues had been pulled onto the grass at the water’s edge. David watched the dog for a long time, but the animal did not stir. David didn’t know if the dog cared about the boats or only about the house. One thing he knew for sure was that the dog knew he was there and was waiting to see what David would do next. Dogs were patient that way when they wanted to be.

  David considered whether or not he could get the boat off the shore before the dog reached him, if indeed the dog did care, and he decided that he could. He shouldered his gear and marched quickly and with feigned confidence toward the nearest boat, watching the house in his side vision. The dog’s head came up. He issued a low woof, but he did not growl or get up. David pushed the boat into the water, stepped in, and looked back toward the porch. The dog watched him paddle into the lake. He was a good dog, and David wished he could bring him along.

  The lake was flat calm, all the previous night’s wind spent. Sound traveled a long way on such a night, but the only thing David heard was his paddle breaking the water’s surface and occasionally scraping the side of the boat. The moon was just coming up behind him. The passing of a day had lopped a corner off it, but it still cast plenty of light and made a pretty white stripe across the water. Ahead of him, the bald cypress left the shore and marched into the shallow water. David paddled on until the open lake gave way to a labyrinth of sloughs and channels.

  He passed under a bough from which hung an old boot. “Trotline,” he whispered.

  David paddled to the cypress and felt around its sinewed trunk until he found a slimy line under the water. He cut the line, then clenched the knife between his teeth and pulled. The first snood came up with a fair-size channel catfish. The fish had been on the line too long and was in a sorry condition, but at least it was alive. He continued pulling the boat along the trotline and brought up two more catfish, both dead. He cut them loose and tossed them in the water. A few empty snoods later, he was at another cypress, from which he cut the other end of the line. The line lay in a tangle in the bottom of the boat, and the catfish flopped half-heartedly at his feet.

  David paddled along in the shadows. The trees became thicker, and the water was so shallow in places that his oar hit the bottom. When the first solid ground presented itself, David stepped out of the boat and pulled it ashore. He killed and cleaned the catfish and wrapped it in the paper he had saved from the ham. Then he lay down in the boat and fell asleep.

  Chapter Six

  The summer when David was twelve years old, he found a book about the Caddo Indians in the library on Texas Avenue in Shreveport. He read from it to Gramps during the drive home, describing the dome-shaped grass huts the Caddo constructed and the tools and weapons they used. At one point, David opined that the Caddo Indians were “simple, primitive people.”

  “Why don’t we build a Caddo house?” Gramps said.

  “Think we could?”

  “You said they were simple.”

  “The people, not the huts.” David was sorry the minute he heard the words come out of his mouth.

  “No difference in meaning,” Gramps said.

  Using only axes and knives, which were the closest they had to the tools used by the Caddo builders, David and his grandfather hacked down pine saplings and stripped them of their branches. They spent many days of trial and error assembling the long poles into a framework for the hut. Gramps finally agreed to use leather straps to tie the poles at the top because they could find no grass or bark or reeds strong enough to hold them. They wove river cane between the poles to hold them in place and support the grass thatch.

  By the time they got to chopping and bundling sheaves of switchgrass, then tediously fastening them to the hut’s frame, David had grown weary of hut building. He begged Gramps for time off to play before summer ended and he had to go back to his studies. Gramps insisted they finish the project, even if it took the rest of the summer. Which it did. By late August, David and his grandfather had sweated their way through building an off-kilter but waterproof Caddo hut in which they could both stand upright.

  The hut became David’s home away from home that fall and winter. He decorated the interior with his arrowhead collection and wheedled some old blankets from his mother to lounge on. He even dug a firepit in the center, as the Caddo had done. He and Huck spent many winter evenings in the hut, warm and cozy beside a dancing fire that threw their shadows onto the grass wall.

  A spring storm knocked the hut whopper-jawed, and Gramps told David not to go inside anymore. Later that year, another storm flattened it altogether.

  By the time David
had been on Caddo Lake a fortnight, he had found a permanent campsite on which he was building a squatty Caddo hut. He dug a firepit deep in the loamy soil to keep the flames from threatening the grass thatch overhead, and he lined the pit with rocks to catch and radiate the heat.

  Every afternoon, David went out in the pirogue, paddling aimlessly amid fiery red and yellow foliage that, at evening light, looked as if the entire forest had been set ablaze. From time to time, he came across signs of human activity but none of the humans themselves.

  In one place, an abandoned houseboat listed with half its deck underwater. Inside, David found some fishing line and hooks, a rusted tin cup, and a cast-iron pot, nasty with old grease. In another place, a dilapidated duck blind hung precariously between two dead cypress. David climbed the makeshift ladder of boards nailed to one of the tree trunks but found nothing of use in the blind.

  A wood stork started hanging around camp, and David named him Old Gourd because of his cobbed head. David didn’t know if Old Gourd hung around because he had taken a shine to the catfish offal David threw his way, or if the old bird had been ostracized by a colony of storks that lived in a nearby myrtle. Either way, David was glad to have the company, even if he was a bird.

  David marked each day’s passing with a notch on one of the hut’s poles. On the first day of November, he scratched an “N” beside the cut. The white man had died on October 18, a Saturday. By the time November rolled around, David’s memory had rendered all the messy, troubling details of that day into four impartial words, “The White Man Died.” Like a headline in the Shreveport Journal. The story under the headline—how David made it home again—had not been written. Nor did David seem to be any closer to writing it.

  Days passed—another month’s worth—and David scratched a “D” beside the notch for December. He sat back on his heels and studied the notches marching down the pole. Whereas they had been marching away from a day—The Day the White Man Died—they now marched toward a different day—December 20. His birthday.