Bartleby of the Big Bad Bayou

by Phyllis Shalant

  Side by side, Bartleby and Lucky Gal settled onto their plastrons and basked on the edge. Bertha lay down in the grass beside the fountain and soaked up the sun, too. The dog didn’t say much as Bartleby and Lucky discussed their memories of swamp life. But Bartleby could tell by the way she kept her ears cocked that Bertha was listening.

  Later, when the dinner guests arrived, Bartleby didn’t hide. He followed Lucky Gal to the center of the fountain and crawled onto the pedestal that held the spouting fish. There seemed to be even more human hatchlings at the tables than there’d been the night before.

  Eagerly, Bartleby watched the diners. The mothers and fathers ate hungrily from their plates, but the boys and girls only seemed to pick at the food. Some of them stuffed bread in their pockets when they thought no one was looking. Others bounced up and down in their chairs as if they couldn’t hold still. Bartleby felt like bouncing, too. Inside his shell, his body twitched as he waited on the platform for them to finish eating.

  A skinny boy was the first to jump off his chair and run to the fountain. “Princess! Rocky!” he called. He held up a piece of bread and pulled off a crumb. The other human hatchlings in the garden turned in their chairs and stared.

  On the platform, Bartleby and Lucky Gal rose on their webs and stretched their heads forward. The boy pulled back his arm and threw the crumb in a wide arc. Before it even landed, Lucky dove in.

  She’d already begun swimming when Bartleby started after her. He lowered his head in the water and paddled hard. He didn’t care about the bread, but he did want to win. He didn’t take a breath till he was nearly side by side with her. But when she saw him, Lucky began stroking even more furiously toward the bobbing crumb.

  “C’mon, Princess, hurry!” Bartleby heard the boy call.

  “C’mon, Rocky, you can beat her!” another one shouted.

  “Awesome! It’s a turtle race!” a third voice piped.

  Bartleby glanced up for a moment. It looked like all the human hatchlings had gathered at the fountain. Some of the mothers and fathers were right behind them. Bertha was wedged in between a boy and a girl, barking, Wufff; wufff, wufff. It meant, “Go, go, go!”

  But Bartleby didn’t really mind the noisy crowd of humans. In fact, he liked them. And they all seemed to like him, too. They admired how strong he was, how handsome, and how fast he could swim. He felt... important.

  Lucky Gal didn’t pay attention to the cheers. She kept on swimming without letting her attention slip from the prize for a single moment. To catch up, Bartleby had to pull harder with his webs.

  Neck and neck, the two turtles streaked through the water. When the crumb was just a few strokes away, Bartleby took a breath and dove beneath the surface. He wanted to snatch the bread from underneath the water. But when he got there, Lucky had already snapped up the morsel. She held it between her jaws for a moment before she gulped it down.

  The humans began clapping their hands.

  “Princess rocks!” a boy shouted.

  “Turtles rock!” another hatchling added.

  Bertha was still barking, Wufff, wufff, wufff!

  Chef Jerry came into the garden and joined the crowd. “What’s all this ruckus?” he asked.

  “Princess and Rocky just raced for a bread crumb—and Princess won,” a girl replied.

  Chef Jerry got a broad grin on his face. “Well, then Rocky needs a rematch.”

  Bartleby perked up his head. He did need another chance. He’d been foolish to let himself be distracted by the humans. In the bayou, a slip like that could have cost him his life.

  “I’ll throw another crumb,” a boy shouted as he ran around to the opposite side.

  “Bartleby, come on—get ready!” Lucky Gal’s webs were patting the water and her tail was wriggling.

  “All right.” Bartleby swam up beside her. Seeing Lucky so excited and happy, he found he didn’t mind losing the first match to her. But the next time, he was planning to win!

  24

  The Red Streak

  Each night it seemed to Bartleby that Chef Jerry’s restaurant got busier. The human hatchlings jostled for places to stand around the fountain and argued over who would throw the first crumb. Chef Jerry had to keep the restaurant open later to serve all the diners. And Bartleby and Lucky Gal began having not just two crumb races, but six, or eight, or ten—until finally, all the humans went home.

  Bartleby was no longer frightened when Chef Jerry came to the fountain with a pot in his hands. The man called Bartleby and Lucky his “star athletes”—whatever those were. And the pot held the choicest pieces of fish and the freshest greens from the man’s kitchen. There was always more than the turtles could eat, so they saved their leftovers for Bertha. Even though Chef Jerry fed her big bowls of food, she always had room for one more mouthful.

  Afterward, Bartleby and Lucky Gal would bask on the ledge of the fountain while Bertha stretched out on the grass below. They talked less and less of the swamp, and more about which of the boys and girls who came regularly were their favorites, or whether crawdad or trout was tastier.

  But when Bartleby napped, he still dreamed of bayou country. He would see flashes of a small, clear pond surrounded by finger-leaved ferns and purple-flowering vines. He glimpsed a funny palmetto tree with leaves that looked like a turkey’s tail, and a slender young willow that reminded him of the one at his old swamp. Sometimes he saw Seezer and Grub lying together on a sunny mud bank—with just enough room for him to fit in between them. But the dream always ended suddenly with a streak of red that blurred everything else. Then Bartleby would awaken with his heart pounding against his plastron.

  One morning, he was dozing on the warm, wide fountain rim when he thought he heard something.

  Quag-quog! Quag-quog!

  Bartleby opened his eyes and looked up. All he saw was a fast-moving cloud.

  Quag-quog! Quag-quog!

  Could it be? Bartleby stood on his webs and stretched up his neck. As the cloud came closer, he could see it was actually a great white bird. His throat began to quiver. “Billy?”

  “Quag-quog! Quag-quog! Bartleby! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  The bird began gliding down toward the fountain. Suddenly Bertha jumped up and pushed Bartleby into the water.

  Gruff, ruff, ruff, mrrrrrrUFF! she barked in her deepest voice. It meant, “Stay away from my turtle, big bird, or I’ll turn you into a pile of feathers!”

  The bird flapped its wings, and rose out of reach.

  “Bertha, wait! That bird is my friend,” Bartleby grunted loudly.

  But Bertha continued to growl. The whites of her eyes were showing. Grrrrrrrr, errrrrrr. It meant, “That skinny-legged bird has an awfully sharp beak.”

  Lucky swam up beside Bartleby. “Don’t worry, Bertha. It won’t harm us.” She poked her snout in the air. “Billy! Welcome!” she grunted.

  Under Bertha’s watchful gaze, the egret landed on the high, white fence that surrounded the garden. He twisted his long, graceful neck and cocked his head.

  “Quag-quog! Quag-quog! You don’t know how glad I am to see you! Though I never expected to find you both together.”

  “Oh Billy, it’s good to see you, too,” Bartleby exclaimed. “I want to hear everything that is happening in the bayou.”

  Lucky Gal chuckled softly. “I suspect that will take all morning. I’ll leave you two friends to talk while I bask.” She slipped back into the water and swam toward the pedestal.

  “First tell me why you were looking for me. Is something the matter?” Bartleby asked.

  “Many creatures at Friendship Hole have volunteered to hunt for you. But only we birds can search as far as the city.” As if to demonstrate, Billy spread his brilliant white wings.

  “Friendship Hole?” Bartleby asked. He felt a bit confused. “What is that?”

  “It’s what we’ve named the gator hole that Seezer dug for us when our swamp dried up. The hole is now a wonderful pond. Many of your old frien
ds live there.”

  “He made it big enough for everyone?” Bartleby whispered.

  Billy bowed his head. “It’s the best gator hole I’ve ever seen—and the deepest. Full of sweet, clear water from under the ground.”

  “He did it! Seezer finished the gator hole!” Bartleby was so excited he fell back into the water.

  Quag-quog! Billy called in a mournful voice. “In spite of our beautiful home, there is bad news.”

  Bartleby thought of the red streak that always ended his dreams. Suddenly he could hardly speak. “Has something happened to Seezer?”

  “Happened? Not exactly. But since you left the bayou, he’s suffered greatly.” Billy tucked his head down against his chest. “He says he can’t forget the terrible things he said to you. He’s certain you will never forgive him.”

  “But I do forgive him! I said some awful things as well,” Bartleby cried. He splashed the water with all four webs. “Hurry, Billy. Fly back and tell Seezer that I am sorry, too.”

  “Quag-quog. I’m afraid it’s too late for messages now. Seezer stays in his cave at the end of the pond and won’t come out. He refuses to eat a bite, or let anyone but Grub draw near. But perhaps if you came, you could persuade him.”

  Bartleby glanced back over his carapace at Lucky Gal. She seemed to be asleep on the platform under the fish. “I can’t leave right now. Perhaps sometime in the future ...”

  “There’s no time—Seezer is growing weaker each day.”

  “But he has Grub and Number Four to care for him. He doesn’t really need me anymore.”

  Billy drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “You have my sympathy, Bartleby. It’s sad to see you imprisoned in this garden.” He shot a sharp gaze at Bertha. She was lying quietly in the grass beneath the fountain, but her eyes were open and her ears were twitching.

  “I’m not a prisoner!” Bartleby protested. “I could get out if I wanted to.”

  Billy pecked under a wing. “I see. Living in the city must be very nice—especially near a human feeding station like this one. I’ve heard the pigeons say the bread crumbs are very tasty. But I could never stay. Quag-quog! I’d miss the smell of kudzu flowers, and the sound the breeze makes in the trees. I’d be lonely for my family and friends.”

  “Lucky Gal and Bertha are my friends, too,” Bartleby said. But he couldn’t help edging his head in.

  “Quag-quog! It’s just as well that you are satisfied with your life. Without wings, you’d never be able to find your way to Friendship Hole. It is too far and too well hidden.”

  “I found my way here from New York, a place that is many rivers away. Surely I would be able to find Seezer’s hole,” Bartleby replied. But an ache was spreading above his plastron.

  “Yes, but on that trip Seezer was there to help you. Many times, he’s told us the story of your journey together.”

  Bartleby didn’t answer. Maybe Billy was right. Maybe he would never see his friend again. The ache moved up into his throat.

  “I must go now,” Billy said. He waved his powerful wings and began to rise.

  “Wait!” Bartleby scrabbled back up on the edge of the fountain. “Will you tell Seezer we met? And that I wish him well?”

  “Quag-quog! I don’t think that’s a good idea. If he finds out you’re alive, but that you refuse to come, it might kill him.”

  25

  The Perilous Plan

  There were no turtle races at Chef Jerry’s that night. Even though the boys and girls begged and wheedled, Bartleby refused to come up from the bottom. Lucky Gal tried to entertain the hatchlings by diving for crumbs. Bertha pitched in by doing her best tricks, which were Shake Hands, Roll Over, and Speak! But in a little while, the boys and girls trudged back to their tables with their heads drooping like wilted flowers.

  When the garden was finally empty, Lucky swam down and nudged Bartleby’s carapace. “I saved some bread crumbs for you.”

  Bartleby had never heard her voice sound so gentle. “I’m not hungry,” he murmured without lifting his head off the stones.

  “But you didn’t eat any of the dinner Chef Jerry brought us. Without food, you’ll become weak. Only a mighty turtle can survive the challenges of life in the bayou.”

  What challenges? Bartleby thought. I’m a pet in a fountain. But he only said, “I’m tired. Please leave me alone.”

  But Lucky Gal settled down right beside him. “I couldn’t help overhearing what Billy told you this morning. You must go to Seezer right away.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Bartleby heaved a sigh so deep it created a stream of bubbles. “It’s too far. I’d probably get eaten by the Claw, the Paw, and the Jaw before I found it.”

  “Phish! You traveled a much greater distance to get here from New York. Seezer needs you.”

  Bartleby didn’t answer. He pulled his head in. But Lucky Gal poked her snout under the front of his carapace. “Persistence is a good trait—but you are downright stubborn,” she chided. “Tomorrow we must figure out a way for you to go. Good dreams, Bartleby.”

  But dreams were the problem. Bartleby’s brain hurt from trying so hard to dream of a way Lucky could go with him to Seezer’s gator hole. Yet nothing would come! Over and over, he kept seeing the same things—the sparkling water, Seezer and Grub on the mud bank, and the red streak. And each time he saw it, that streak became more terrifying. Was it fire? Blood? Bartleby was beginning to hate anything red, even though it was the color of his own ear patches.

  When he was sure Lucky Gal was asleep, he paddled up to the surface. The lights at the restaurant were off, but the moon lit up the fountain like a lantern. Bartleby swam to the place with the crack that looked like Seezer, and floated beside it. After a while, he felt more peaceful. His head and limbs began to grow heavy.

  Pretty soon he saw Seezer turning round and round, digging his gator hole. He saw the alligator garfish rolling in the water, pretending to be a reptile. He saw Chef Jerry wearing his rubbery foot coverings and carrying his fishing branch across the riverbank.

  He opened his eyes. Suddenly he understood what the red streak was. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

  In the morning when Chef Jerry’s truck clanked into the driveway, Bartleby swam to the surface. He’d seen the vehicle many times, but today he watched carefully as the man got out and opened the part of the truck that carried things. The back door dropped down so Chef Jerry could remove the crates of vegetables and other foods he’d brought to cook. Then the man lifted a basket of eggs out of a pile of straw in the truck bed. “Not one cracked,” he commented as he surveyed them.

  Lucky Gal paddled up behind Bartleby. “What are you watching?”

  “My plan,” Bartleby whispered. “The thing that will help us get to Friendship Hole.”

  For a long moment Lucky Gal was silent. Then she drew her head up higher. “Good! I was hoping you’d decide to escape,” she said finally. “But you know I can’t go with you. You’ll have to walk a great distance to find the woods. With my damaged web I’d slow you down—and there isn’t any time to—”

  “But we don’t have to walk,” Bartleby interrupted. “Look!”

  Lucky peered over the fountain wall. “At what? All I can see is the red truck.”

  “That’s how we’re going to return to the riverbank,” Bartleby said.

  Lucky Gal stared at him as if he’d got gnats in his brain. “You may be clever, but no turtle can make a truck go.”

  “That’s true, of course. But think, Lucky—how did you get here?”

  “Chef Jerry caught me on the riverbank and brought me in the truck, but—”

  “Don’t you see? I came that way, too.” Bartleby paddled around to face her. “Last night I realized something—humans must be creatures of habit just like other living things. If I’m right, then Chef Jerry must keep returning to the same fishing place. All we have to do is hide in the truck and wait for it to take us back to the riverbank. Then i
t’s over the levee and into the woods—and we already know you can do that.” Bartleby took a long, deep breath. “I think I can find the way to Friendship Hole from there.”

  Lucky Gal began treading the water so fast she was spinning in circles. “Let’s go! What are we waiting for?”

  “Hold on!” Bartleby reached out his webs to stop her. As gently as he could, he stroked her orange ear patches with his long nails. “It will be dangerous. Are you sure you want to go with me?”

  “Of course. I’m still a bayou turtle at heart. Besides, I’ve gotten used to having you around. Without you this big bowl of turtle soup would be lonely.”

  Bartleby was happy, but he was also afraid. If something happened to Lucky, it would be his fault. He vowed to himself to be extra careful. “We’ll know Chef Jerry is going when we see him put his fishing branch into the truck. But we’ll have to figure out how to get inside it—and to get out of this fountain.” Bartleby looked over the ledge and gulped. “It’s a long way down.”

  “I have an idea.” Lucky began splashing with all four webs. In an instant, Bertha came galloping across the garden. She lowered her big head over the fountain.

  Lucky Gal paddled up to her. “Bertha, Bartleby and I need your help.”

  Yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh. Bertha wagged her tail.

  “We have to go back to our home in the bayou,” Bartleby explained. “It’s very important.”

  Bertha’s tail stopped wagging. She pulled back her head and barked. Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh!

  “Shhh, Bertha! Chef Jerry will think there’s something wrong,” Lucky whispered.

  Mrrph, mrrph, mrrph, Bertha whined. It meant, “Something is wrong.”

  Bartleby paddled closer to the fountain wall and held on to the side. “Our alligator friend Seezer is very sick.”

  Grrrr, grrrr, Bertha growled. It meant, “I don’t like alligators!”