by Ginny Rorby
“Nothing. I like wearing makeup, and if I do or don’t, it’s none of your business. When we’re out of here, I’ll probably never see you again.”
“I’d like to see you again,” Andy says. He reaches for my hand.
I jerk away. “Well if you call first, I’ll wash my face.”
Andy looks hurt, so when he stands and puts his hand out to help me up, I take it.
We stand by side for a moment, watching the reptiles. Our arms are touching. “I didn’t mean that, you know. I’d like to see you again, too.” I look at him, then lift up on my tiptoes and tilt my head back. He takes my chin in his big hand, leans, and kisses me. It’s a long, warm, soft kiss, and my first. “We’d better get going,” he whispers. His eyes are still closed, his hand cups my cheek.
I nod as heat spreads from my toes to the top of my head.
Andy drops his hand. “We’re losing daylight.” He drains the water bottle, refills it, then we share it until it’s empty again.
“I want a picture of you and the python and the alligator.” I get the camera out, step back and focus, but I’m not sure how to make Andy sharp when he’s close to me, and the reptiles sharp when they are farther away. I choose the reptiles, and hope Andy’s not blurry.
“Let me take one of you.”
He reaches for the camera, but I twist away. “No way. You could blackmail me for life with a picture of me looking like this.”
“You’ll wish you had one one day when you’re telling your grandkids about this.”
“I’ll live with the regret.” I bounce up and down so he can hear my stomach slosh.
Andy fills the bottle one more time, and I put Teapot and the camera in the backpack.
We stand for a moment and watch the python uncoil itself from around the crushed body of the gator.
“Being caught and killed isn’t at all like it looks on TV.”
Andy shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
“It takes so long.”
The python opens its mouth and starts to fit its head over the dead alligator’s snout.
“How is it going to eat something that is ten times bigger than its head?”
“Snakes can unhook their jaws. It will pull itself over the gator like putting on a sock.”
“It could have been one of us, you know.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t.” He slides his arms through the backpack straps. “Let’s get moving.”
After we plow through the muddy perimeter of the hammock, I stop to catch my breath and look back a last time. The gator’s whole head is inside the python’s. I can see the outline of the bulbous tip of its snout poking up through the snake’s skin like knuckles in a glove.
14
Once we’re off the trail and out onto the prairie, we turn south and parallel the trees for a while. It takes us about an hour to round the tip of the island. I’m following right behind Andy, but watching my feet, so I only look up when he stops. In front of us the saw grass is taller and denser than any we’ve seen. It forms a barrier to the east.
“I don’t know why it grows like this,” Andy says. It’s almost an apology.
We stand looking at the golden wall. “I do.”
“You do, huh?” He kind of smiles.
“We stopped at a pumping station yest . . . Not yesterday . . . day before yesterday. It’s caused by the sugar growers. The fertilizer they use gets into the water and fertilizes everything. It’s like the saw grass and cattails are on steroids. We could just keep going south for a while.”
“Look at it. I can’t see an end, and it looks like it curves back to the west. We have to go through it.”
“But how? We’ll be cut to pieces.”
Andy slips the backpack off, hands it to me, then steps to the edge of the stand, turns, crosses his arms over his chest and falls backwards into the grass. He stands and does it again, then again, until he’s flattened the beginning of a path through it. I follow, walking high and dry, holding my arms out for balance.
For another hour we walk blind, no horizon visible, boxed in by the razor-edged grass. Wading has been slow going, but following Andy’s path through the saw grass is harder. I keep losing my balance, falling, and cutting my hands and knees. It feels like I have a million paper cuts.
Every once in awhile the saw grass ends, replaced by cattails that surround a gator hole. We have to cross it, wade through the cattails, and be faced with more tall, dense saw grass. Andy keeps looking at the sun and adjusting our direction.
I’m so tired from the effort I can’t keep my footing for more than a few feet. When I fell the first time, I twisted to keep from landing on Teapot, who was riding in the sling around my neck. After that, I put her in the top of the pack. At least when I fall it’s forward, so I don’t have to worry about squishing her.
It must be about three o’clock when we begin to hear thunder again. Before long, even surrounded by saw grass, we can see the towering top of the approaching storm.Once it blots out the sun, we can’t be sure which direction we’re walking.
I focus on keeping my balance, but look up now and then to track the storm. This time when I glance up, I see Andy put something in his mouth. First the Gatorade; now he’s got food he’s hiding from me.
“What are you eating?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re chewing something.”
“I’m chewing chunks of my belt.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to trick my stomach.”
“How’s it working?”
“Not great. Want some?”
“Yeah.”
At the next gator hole, we rest at the edge of it and, after making plenty of racket to ensure the owner isn’t sleeping on the muddy bottom, let Teapot out to feed. I clean the poop out of the backpack, wash the blood off my hands, and spit out the chunk of belt. I felt so full after drinking all that water, but that was hours ago, and I’ve peed it all away. Now having the flat, leathery taste in my mouth only makes me think more about food, not less. I can’t think of anything else, though not the food I really love to eat, like Chinese and Thai. All I can think about is the breakfast I pushed away at the Miccosukee Indian restaurant. What I’d give now for burned eggs, undercooked shredded potatoes, greasy, half-raw bacon, and fried pumpkin bread.
The sky is growing darker. In the distance, toward Naples, lightning flashes in jagged lines, sometimes to the ground and sometimes between thunderheads like they are at war with each other.
My mother is afraid of thunderstorms and has rules: Don’t take a bath or talk on the phone or stand near a window or under a tree and certainly don’t be in water—the absolute best conductor of electricity. Now here we are, with thunderheads black as tar on the bottom, towering white and puffy on the tops, so high that airplanes headed for Miami International have to fly around them. Though there’s no place to hide, I still have to ask, “What are we going to do about that?” I hitch a thumb toward the monstrous cloud.
“Not much we can do.”
“We shouldn’t be in the water.”
“I know, but where are we not in the water?”
“We could lie in the saw grass.”
“That’s not really out of the water. I don’t think a few inches of grass will make any difference, but we can if you want to.”
If I was home, I’d be happy it was going to rain. I love to watch the hot summer sky turn black with the promise of a cooling rain. It’s so curious to me that as soon as the rain starts, the sky goes from black to gray, as if the clear raindrops contain the color. I try to imagine black raindrops.
Here, where every lightning strike is visible, I feel as wimpy as my mother—and we all tease her when she screams every time it thunders. The storm, coming from the northwest, is nearly on top of us, but the sun is still shining in the southwest sky. The saw grass looks like spun gold beneath the black clouds.
The lightning and claps of thunder are constant. After one particularly loud boom, a
flock of white ibis— maybe thirty birds—takes off and flickers in the sunlight, swirling with indecision. Their white bodies against the pitch-dark sky look like someone drawing circles in a dark room with a burning sparkler. “Andy, look.”
“What?”
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
“That flock of Chokoloskee chickens?” he says.
“I mean the way the sunlight is hitting them.”
“Yeah. I guess. The young ones are good eating.”
We stand and watch the birds wheeling and turning as the rain, like a gray curtain, comes at us across the prairie. I’m filled the hopeless urge to try to outrun it. Impossible even if my feet didn’t hurt so bad I can barely stand. Thunder booms again, and the sky goes white with another flash of lightning. If I’m going to die, at least I won’t be able to feel my feet anymore, and those beautiful birds will be my last memory.
As quickly as we can, we move toward the next thick wall of saw grass. Andy gets there first and launches himself into the stand. I crawl in beside him just as the sky opens and the deluge begins. We turn on our sides, face to face, with Teapot in the pack between us. Andy puts his arm across my shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” he says.
I shiver and nod.
We both cringe when the next lightning bolt strikes. It seems to just miss us. Thunder crashes so loudly, I throw my arms over my head. The raindrops are large, heavy, surprisingly cold, and they hurt. To lie exposed, as we are, is like being hit with pebbles. The blood on my arms and legs begins to dilute until my skin has a reddish wash.
With the rain come gusty winds. I shiver uncontrollably. Andy rubs my arm. “I’m really sorry about getting you into this, you know?”
“I know.” My teeth are chattering. “My father says what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I’m gonna look forward to that, aren’t you?”
Just as I say that, lightning blazes over our heads like a meteor passing. I grab Andy’s arm and squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them a moment later, Andy grins at me. I smack him. “Some things deserve being scared of.”
“I know.”
We both doze off while the storm blows itself out. It’s the sun coming out again and its heat on my arm that wakes me.
Andy saws off two chunks of his belt, one of which I take just to keep my mouth from feeling so dry. We plunge out of the saw grass and start east again.
It’s probably four-thirty when Andy holds his hand up. I close the gap between us.
“What?”
He’s shading his eyes and squinting at the sun.
“Look over there.” He points west.
I’m resting, bent over with my hands on my knees. I glance where he’s pointing. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a plane on the horizon. They’ve started looking for us.”
15
“That dot’s a plane?” Only the sunlight off its wings when it banks catches my eye. “How do you know it’s looking for us?”
“Because it’s flying back and forth. I was watching it before the storm hit.” I’m thrilled. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “What for? No sense getting excited.” “How long do you think it will take them to get here?” He snorts. “Next week.” “Be serious.” “I am serious.” “Well, let’s head that way.” “No. We have to stay on this course. They aren’t going to find us today. It will be dark in a few hours.
Unless someone finds the flight bag, they aren’t going to get this far north tomorrow either. We’ll be on the levee and headed home long before they spot us.”
The ray of hope that the sight of the plane brought drains away, taking what little strength I have left with it. “I need to rest, Andy.”
“I know. Me, too. Let’s head for that cypress stand. There might even be a bit of dry land there to dig another scratch well.”
While we were watching the plane, I’d let Teapot out for a swim and a snack. I guess I turn my head too quickly when I glance around to see where she’s gone, because I’m suddenly dizzy. I put my hand out for balance but tip sideways and fall over.
“What happened?” He comes back to help me up.
“I feel really light-headed.”
“Blood sugar,” he says.
“Thanks, doc.”
“Want me to carry the duck?”
“She’d probably be safer.” I hand the pack to Andy.
We reach the cypress head just before dark. There are no large trees and no dry, open ground, at least not on this side—just plenty of mosquitoes.
I know I used too much of the bug spray last night and after the storm, but when I take the can out of the pack, it feels empty. I shake it, then take the lid off.
“Wait,” Andy says. “Save that for tonight.”
“This is tonight.”
“No. For later, after we’ve found someplace to sleep. Give me your bandana.” We’re waist-deep in a swampy pond surrounded by a dense circle of skinny cypress trees.
“Where are we going to sleep? Is there another rookery nearby?”
“Not that I know of, and I haven’t seen any birds fly by except ones headed in the other direction.” Andy rinses the bird poop out of my bandana.
“What are we going to do now?”
“Rest for a while. If we get on our knees the water will cover us to our chins, and if we put our heads together, I think the bandana will cover both of our faces.”
“What about Teapot?”
“She can get under there with us.”
“Where’s the owner of this hole?”
“This isn’t a gator hole. Too shallow. It’s a natural pond.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, and even if it was a gator hole, it could have been dug years ago. There’s no reason for gators to be in them this time of year.”
“We chased a gator out of nearly every other hole we’ve seen. Why is this one the exception?”
He ignores me and sinks into the black water. “You coming?”
Mosquitoes are biting my ears, lips, and eyelids, which is worse than the thought of being eaten by a gator, though I can’t say I feel the same about being squeezed to death by a python. I sink to my chin in the water, which means sitting on the mushy bottom. I call Teapot, and Andy covers our heads with the bandana.
We stay like that a long time, cheek to cheek with Teapot, her head lodged between her wings, floating at the tips of our noses. Every breath fills my lungs with her wet-pillow smell.
Maybe an hour passes—it’s hard to tell—when Andy suddenly jerks the bandana off.
“What?”
“Look.” He points through the trees at a small sliver of light.
We both stare for a minute. It seems to be moving closer, but I can’t tell if the leaves flickering in the breeze just make it look like it’s coming toward us.
“Do you think it’s a search party?”
“No. I think it might be someone out frogging, or . . .”
“Hello,” I call.
“Shhhh,” Andy whispers.
“Why?”
“It might be a poacher.”
“What would he be poaching?”
“Gators. Bears. Panthers. Orchids. Who knows.”
“Orchids?”
“Keep your voice down. They get big bucks for ghost orchids. Or they could be hunters.”
“I thought the season hadn’t started.”
“It hasn’t. That’s the point.”
“Let’s just sit tight until they’re close enough for us to see what they’re doing.” We cover our heads again. Through the material of the bandana I can see the light getting brighter, coming closer.
“If it’s a poacher, would he kill us?”
“Who knows? They ain’t Boy Scouts.”
Whoever they are, they’re approaching in total silence, no sound at all. By now I think we should be able to hear the pole hitting the side of their boat or at least the drip of water as the pole is pushed into the muddy bottom, brought out, and pushed in again. In
stead, nothing disturbs the never-ending whine of mosquitoes.
“We could tell them our parents will pay a reward,” I whisper against Andy’s ear. “We could call to him, and if it turns out he’s poaching, we’ll tell him about the reward.”
“It’s easier to see gators at night, not quite as simple to catch them. Poachers usually work in pairs, so it’s not likely that it’s just one person in that boat.”
There are the usual night calls: frogs croaking, the barred owls, crickets, Teapot’s sleepy little peeps; none are much comfort as we wait for either rescuers or poachers.
“What if they’re headed right here?” I whisper.
“Shhh. Even whispers carry over water.”
“Then why can’t we hear them?”
The bandana moves when Andy shakes his head.
A few more minutes pass. “Damn,” Andy says out loud.
My heart skips. “Poachers?”
Andy takes the bandana off. “See for yourself.”
The trees are dense, young, and spindly. It takes me a moment to realize that the sliver of light we’ve been watching is the moon rising. Tears come. I can’t help it. I had let myself hope that even if they were poachers, they’d want to help us.
“Are you crying?” Andy asks.
“No.”
“Your face is wet.”
“I can’t take another step, and I know we have to.”
“I feel the same way, but we can’t stay here.”
“You think I don’t know that?” If I ever get out of this . . . The memory of Mr. Vickers standing at the screen door of the cabin, his face full of concern, comes to me. The guilt and regret I suddenly feel are crushing. It had been a tiny little lie, just because I wanted a couple of hours of fun and maybe to make a friend. Now look at us. Up to our asses in alligators. Isn’t that the expression? If I had an ounce of humor left, I might have smiled.
Andy scoops a sleepy Teapot up and packs her away.
It’s a beautiful night, with enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes thinned out once we’re away from the trees. The night is the most beautiful I can remember, and I realize, as I traipse along in Andy’s wake, that I’ve let go of some of my fears. Every step the first day was terrifying. Now, even with the moon, there are stars. More stars than I’ve ever seen in Miami, where sometimes Orion, the Big Dipper, and Venus seem alone in the sky. In an odd way, I’m beginning to feel a part of this place. The birds, frogs, turtles, snakes, bright green chameleons, even small gators fleeing at our approach makes me sad—like I’m a monster.
