by Shelley Katz
"But some of them stayed," said Maurice. What Lee had said was scaring him. He too could feel the threat of the land, but he could also feel the pull of Rye, floating in the middle of the water, smiling up at the sky as if he owned it.
"Yeah, some of them, stayed," answered Lee. "Of course, by that time they were as crazy as their cattle. No, you can't beat this land, and the ones who think they can are the ones who do the worst. You take a man like Mr. Whitman. He's used to a fight, but that's the problem. This land doesn't fight you—it just doesn't give a shit. You can't win against it, because it doesn't care whether you live or die. All you can do is roll with it." He turned to Maurice and tried to capture his eyes. For a moment, he was successful.
"And that's how you lick it?" asked Maurice. He could hear the fear in his voice, and was ashamed of it.
"No, you can't lick it," said Lee. "It'll get you just the same."
Maurice turned back out to the water. If he could just keep his eyes on Rye, then the heat, the insects, even the fear would seem bearable.
"You're wasting your breath," said Maurice with assurance. "I'm not afraid."
"This is the five-P.M. weather forecast from Miami. The National Hurricane Center is issuing the following warning for Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and the Everglades. Tropical Storm Bertha, centered at twenty-four degrees north, eighty degrees west, moving north, northwest at six knots, maximum speed a hundred knots at the center, with winds of gale force in a two-hundred-mile radius, is due to strike the Florida coast at eight A.M. tomorrow... Repeat..."
Rye shut off the shortwave radio and looked around to see if anyone had heard it. Lee and John were wading in the water a hundred feet off, checking for signs of the alligator, and the rest of the boats were much too far away. Maurice was sitting next to him on the deck of the Saurian, but Maurice could be controlled. Rye pulled his knife and severed one of the wires connecting the radio.
"Rye, you can't do that!" Maurice thought of grabbing the knife away from Rye, but it was too late to do any good, and he was too shocked to move anyway.
"Wrong," said Rye. "Not only can I, but did I. No storm's gonna interfere with me. I got plans."
It crossed Maurice's mind that perhaps Lee was right about Rye being crazy. "You can't just will a storm away," he said, hoping to bring Rye back to reality.
"We'll ride it out," answered Rye. He pocketed his knife and hid the severed radio wire from sight.
"Ride it out? That boat wouldn't last ten minutes."
"Then we'll sit it out somewhere." Rye was whispering, but there was so much intensity in his voice that it had the same affect on Maurice as a shout. Rye paused to make sure no one heard him; then he continued, "I ain't interruptin' this hunt on account of a little blow."
"It sounded like more than a little blow to me."
"They always exaggerate," Rye snapped.
Maurice was stunned into silence. There was a desperation, a hungriness in Rye's voice that Maurice had never heard before. It was the sound of a man who was out of a job, or going to the hospital for an operation. It was the way he too must have sounded ten years ago, when Rye hired him.
Maurice touched Rye's arm as if calling him back. "Rye, it's just an alligator."
"It's more than that," Rye answered, and again Maurice heard the desperation.
"I think we'd better tell Lee," Maurice said firmly.
"So you've turned on me too!" Rye said; then his voice softened. "I'm askin' you as a friend."
Suddenly Rye broke into a radiant smile. He looked so relaxed, so full of confidence, that Maurice wondered if he had really heard fear in Rye's voice or if it hadn't just been a reflection of his own feelings. "Sometimes you go too far," he said, knowing he would go along with Rye on this, as he had on everything else.
"But that's what you like about me."
"One day you're going to go too far."
"That could be," said Rye. "But don't you worry, that day is a long way off."
Lee felt like he was going to explode. So far he'd been able to keep under control by staying busy. It was only at night, when there was nothing to do, that the pressure mounted and he felt that if he didn't at least talk to someone, he'd do something he would regret. But Lee couldn't talk to anyone. He'd never whined on anybody's shoulder before, and he wouldn't now. Besides, he knew,that no one could really understand.
Even in the late-aftemoon light, Sam could read what Lee was feeling in his eyes, and it scared him. When men like Lee exploded, they spread around a lot of broken glass. He resolved to talk to Lee, no matter what, but he wasn't able to get him alone until after dinner, when most of the others were playing cards or fishing off the shore.
Lee was sitting on a log at the side of his tent, flicking his knife into the earth.
"Haven't played that since I was a kid," said Sam, as he sat down. "Mind if I try?"
Lee shrugged and handed the knife to Sam. Sam had thrown badly as a kid, and age hadn't improved him any. The knife hit a stone and ricocheted back at his feet.
Sam handed the knife back to Lee and looked out at the setting sun.
"Sun's stayin' out later and later," he said. "Before we know it, kids'll be out of school and it'll be the Fourth of July. Too bad we didn't plan this hunt earlier on. Should be just about time for Thompson to make his annual threat to quit unless we air-condition the jail-house. When I was a kid, I used to look forward to summer. It meant church barbecues and fishing for crabs with pieces of bread and mooching around outside till late. But I guess I'm just getting old, because all summer means to me now is heat. Jesus, I wish to hell we'd planned this hunt earlier on!"
Sam wiped his face and hands on a handkerchief and glanced over at Lee. It was as if Sam hadn't been talking at all. Lee was staring down at the knife, which he turned over and over in his hand. Suddenly Lee threw it into the ground, with such force that Sam was startled.
"Anyone I know?" asked Sam.
Lee smiled at Sam. It bothered Lee that Sam could read him so well, yet at the same time he welcomed it. He hadn't said more than a few words to anyone in the two days since they'd left, and while he'd never considered himself much of a talker, he'd become spoiled since Cindy. Lee felt a great sadness come over him. He had tried not to think about Cindy since he'd left. There was too much regret mixed in with the sadness.
Sam pulled the knife out of the ground and held it in his hand. "I don't suppose you can get Rye to stop," he said.
Lee laughed bitterly.
"I didn't figure you could," said Sam.
Lee handed the knife back to Sam. The need to talk was strong in him, and he wished it would go away. It was a weakness that he hated.
"I'm not sure that I want to stop any more," Lee said finally.
Sam tried not to look too interested. He didn't want to stop Lee from talking, and knew that any sign of interest would be just the way to do it. He was glad to find the knife in his hand. He aimed it at a spot on the ground and threw.
"No, I'm not sure at all," said Lee after a pause. "Then again, I'm not exactly sure what I want to do. When I came out here, I had every intention of gettin' that man."
"Getting him?" Sam avoided looking at Lee by retrieving the knife.
"Well, not killing him," answered Lee. "Just shaking him good."
"It doesn't look like he needs your help."
"No, he seems to be doin' that job pretty good all on his own, but..." Lee hesitated, hoping that he could stop the conversation right there, but he knew it was too late.
"But?" Sam insisted.
"That ain't enough. I want to show him I'm better than he is."
"I think down deep he knows it."
"Down deep ain't good enough." Lee's voice became very intense, and his eyes flashed with anger. "I want to force him to it. I want to have him scream it out to me."
"But you don't want to kill him?"
Lee could see from Sam's face that he had frightened him. He took the knife back from Sam and folded it
up and spoke with an honesty he rarely ever granted himself. "I don't know. Sometimes, well, maybe sometimes I do."
"You up to telling me?" asked Sam.
"It isn't because of her," answered Lee. "Or at least that isn't all of it."
"So you know about Rye and Lizbeth?"
"I know some of it," said Lee. He didn't ask Sam what he knew, but the question was implicit.
Sam noticed that the men who had been fishing were walking back to the campfire. It was becoming too dark for them to see. He hoped that none of them would notice his absence and come looking for him
"I probably know a good deal less than you," he said, turning back to Lee. "I remember she was sweet on him for a time, but he went away to Miami. People said it broke her heart, and after that she never was the same. But I myself remember very little about it. It was long ago, and I was more interested in baseball than Rye Whitman at the time. Probably no one knows the real story, except him and her, and she's... well, you know."
"Yes, sir, I certainly do." Lee could hear the bitterness in his voice, and he laughed to cover it. But his hands betrayed him by opening and shutting the knife.
"You thought of asking him?"
Lee shook his head, then added, "I doubt he even suspects that I know."
"Well, if you want an answer, he's the only one who can give it to you."
"An answer to what?" asked Lee.
"Whether you're his son. There is something of a resemblance, you know."
"I don't look more like Rye than anybody else," said Lee.
"Maybe. But you look less like Aaron than almost anyone else."
"That proves nothin'."
"But it raises some questions," said Sam. He could see that Lee was coming close to cutting himself on the knife, and he reached over and took it from him. "And what if he is your father? What then?"
"I told you," said Lee. "I don't know."
"It puts a responsibility on your shoulders."
"On my shoulders?" Lee flared. "I'd say you got that backwards. On his shoulders is more like it."
"And you plan on putting it squarely where it belongs, is that it?" Sam asked with sarcasm.
"I told you, I don't know what I plan to do."
Sam stood up. It was almost completely dark, and the flashing embers of the fires were the only things Sam could see of the camp. He could just barely see Lee's face right next to him. "That's too bad," he said. "I'd rather you did know what you're going to do. It's not thinking a thing out fully that gets a man into trouble. Being a lawyer, I've got some experience with that kind of thing. You take murder. They've got this thing called premeditated murder, but if you ask me, that's a load of hogwash. All it means is murder's occurred to a person. Hell, murder's occurred to us all; that doesn't mean anything. I've talked to a lot of murderers in my day, and most of them couldn't plan their own dinner. Their minds are all mixed up with a million alternatives, until that moment. No, sir, murder is never premeditated. A man never knows what he'll do until it's already done."
Sam touched Lee's shoulder. It was a gesture of fondness and concern, but Lee hardly felt it. He had slipped back into his own private anger, and he didn't even look up as Sam walked away.
Chapter 8
The next morning, there was more mist than usual. It wasn't until ten o'clock that Lee could see the sky was filled with clouds. They weren't thin, wispy clouds, either, but thick and heavy, piling up on themselves, shading from pale gray to gun-metal and, on their underbellies, black.
Lee wheeled on Rye, who was dozing in the back, and yelled, "I thought you said you listened to the weather forecast yesterday."
"That's what I said," answered Rye.
"Well, you can't have listened real good, because that looks like a storm ahead."
Lee leaned over Maurice and pulled out the radio. He didn't need to ask what had happened: The severed wire explained itself. Rye flashed a smile at him, part sheepish, part brash. Lee put down the boat pole. His movements were slow and calculated, as if he were watching himself. Rye could see the power behind Lee's anger, and felt himself flinch.
Just then a shock of wind ruffled past the men. The heavy clouds stirred and started moving through the sky. Lee knew it was the first sure sign of trouble, and it stopped him as nothing else could have.
"You got any idea what a storm's like out here?" Lee hissed.
"I'd say I'm about to find out," said Rye.
John had been staring at Rye, stunned. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed Rye's throat. "Why, you crazy bastard!" he screamed.
Lee pulled him off Rye. "We ain't got time for that now," he said, pushing John back into his seat. He watched for a moment to make sure John stayed where he was, then looked up at the sky. He was thinking fast now, checking the clouds, reading the water, the winds, the movement of the birds. Finally he said, "We'll make a try for Sand Fly Hummock."
"What do you mean, a try?" screamed John. The blood had drained from his face.
Lee kept his voice even and calm. "Exactly what I said. If that storm catches us on one of those unprotected hummocks, you can forget any ideas you might have about comin' back alive."
John was hysterical. "But there's a chance we won't make Sand Fly in time, isn't there? That'll mean we'll get caught in the water? And the storm would be even worse on the water."
"That's right," Lee answered.
"I don't think we should risk it."
"Up to you," said Lee. "You can get off here, if you want. We'll be back later to fish for the pieces." Lee turned from John impatiently. There wasn't much time left, and he'd wasted enough on him already. He called to Maurice, "There's rope under your seat next to the gas tanks—get it out. We'll be needin' it soon." Then he turned back to John. "If you plan on stickin' around, you'd better warn the others." Lee didn't wait for a response. He looked at Rye, barely controlling the fury that was tightening in the pit of his stomach, and said, "I'll take care of you later!" He watched for a second to make sure John got off the boat, then pushed by Rye and climbed into the pilot's seat.
"I'll be waitin' on ya," Rye growled.
The wind had come up. Rye felt it rushing against his face and flapping at his clothes; it was charged with an electric excitement. Rye laughed in response and yelled, as if to all men; as if to all of the swamp, "I'll be waitin' on ya all!"
The storm was gathering fast. It was only ten minutes since Ben had got the warning, and already the clouds were so thick, so heaped on top of one another, that they blocked out a whole section of sky. The winds shifted and flickered like frightened birds, forcing the water to a chopped and angry green.
Ben tried to keep a steady course, but the growing wind was fighting him for every inch. It altered his course and rocked the skiff from side to side. He did his best to anticipate the shifting, but he was always behind the indecisive winds.
For the first time, Ben realized that they might not make it. He shook off the thought. Bent double, straining his massive frame, he shoved the pole deep into the ooze and tried to propel the boat forward, while Sam worked the engine's rudder in an attempt to control their course. Every once in a while, Ben shouted to Sam to head to the right or the left. He knew Sam couldn't hear the orders, much less follow them. But it helped Ben forget that he was at the mercy of the winds, and that whether they made it or not wasn't a matter to be decided by him.
Within a few minutes, half of the gray-green sky was blocked up with thick clouds, which raced forward like an express train. The shifting winds scattered the boats even farther apart, cutting the men off from one another.
Marris couldn't see any of the other boats, and he hadn't seen the Saurian since they got the warning. He had never felt so exposed and vulnerable, so alone, in all his life. Looking up at the sky, the terror overtook him.
"Dammit, Marris, push!" screamed Thompson.
"The winds—" It was all Marris could manage to say. The enormous winds choked off everything, even his breath, and he felt as th
ough he would suffocate. He was too giddy to even move.
"Marris, you'll kill us both!"
Marris sat transfixed, staring out at the sky in horror. Thompson cut the motor and fought his way to the front of the skiff. He took hold of Marris's shoulders and shook him. "Goddamn you!" he screamed. "Goddamn you!"
Marris stared at him dumbly. Thompson's fury suddenly melted away, exposing the fear below.
"Goddamn you!" Thompson screamed again. "Goddamn you!" He fought to regain control of himself.
Thompson shoved Marris down into the bottom of the boat. As he restarted the motor, he told himself he would just have to do it alone, but he knew he was kidding himself. Even with Marris, their chances were slim; without him, they were nonexistent. Thompson glanced over at Marris. He was sitting rigidly, gazing blankly at the green sky and churning water. He didn't move, but Thompson could see tears running down his face. He turned from the sight quickly.
The Saurian was far ahead of the rest. It was handling the wind well, and by using the motor and the pole, Lee was able to play the wind to his advantage. As Lee turned into a stretch of open water, he spotted Sand Fly Hummock. "I must live right," he said. He cut the motor and jumped into the water.
"What's the matter?" yelled Maurice.
"Nothin's wrong," Lee yelled back. "There's just too many branches and roots. We'll have to push the rest of the way."
Rye cupped his hands against the wind and called, "Need any help?"
"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Lee returned.
Rye, John, and Maurice got out of the Saurian and waded to the back of the platform. The wind was so strong that, even standing right next to one another, Lee had to yell to be heard.
All along the shore of Sand Fly, huge branches were being torn from the trees and sent spinning through the air into the water.
