by Mike Blakely
“Yeah!” Adam said.
“I didn’t run off with the money. I just went to buy my new bateau from Charlie Ashenback. Come on down to the lake and look at it.”
Both of them fumed. Adam threw his hat on the ground.
“You used our money to buy your bateau?” Cecil shouted.
“No! I just used my own money for the bateau. I’ve got your money in my pocket.”
“Well, let’s have it. I want to see what you sold those hogs for. And I’m going to ask that little bitch from Longview what her daddy paid, too, so don’t try to short me.”
Now we were all about equally mad. “You don’t have to talk about her like that, Cecil. She hasn’t done anything to you.”
“I’ll bet she hasn’t done anything to you, either, and if she did, you wouldn’t know how to do it, anyway. Now, give us our money!”
I looked at Adam as I scooped the money out of my pocket. “Here’s your cut,” I said, getting ready to count out his share. “Oh,” I added, after putting the first coin in his hand, “would you loan me enough to buy a paddle?”
“Hell, no, he’s not going to loan you any money!” Cecil shouted.
“Hell, no, I’m not going to loan you any money!” Adam echoed.
He probably would have if Cecil hadn’t said anything. There wasn’t a greedy bone in Adam’s body. I counted the rest of his share into his palm as Cecil watched.
“Is that all you sold those hogs for? Is that our whole share? Damn, Ben, that farmer took your shirt!” He held his hand open.
“Cecil,” I said, before giving him his share, “I don’t suppose your would loan me the money for the paddle?”
He answered by thrusting his open palm at me. I put the money in his hand in one lump sum, but I knew he was going to count it.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a damn minute. How come Adam got more than me?”
“Well,” I said, “the truth is I already bought that paddle. I thought one of you would be my friend enough to loan me the money.”
“That does it!” Cecil said. He kicked his hat toward the hog pen, and Buttermilk went after it again. “I’m about to kick your ass, Ben!”
“Oh, settle down,” I said. Then Cecil’s fist hit me right in the forehead and knocked me to the ground. When I looked up, he was standing over me with his fists waving in front of him. Buttermilk was jumping around with excitement, wagging his tail.
“All right, Cecil,” I said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
He rushed me when I got up, but I ducked his wild punch and hit him in the lip with the top of my head. I pushed him away and got my fists up. His lip was bleeding.
“Damn you, Ben, I’m really gonna kick your ass now!”
“That’s right, Cecil,” Adam said. “You show him!” Adam loved a good fight, even if he wasn’t in it.
Cecil rushed me and I slipped in a quick punch to his nose that buckled his knees and landed him on his rear end.
“Cecil!” Adam yelled. “What are you doin’, boy? Git off your ass and git him!”
Now, old Buttermilk didn’t know too much English, but git him was his favorite phrase. He took two springs toward the pen and landed among the hogs before Adam even realized what he had said. A great surge of pork crashed against one side of the fence, and logs flew as if they had been blasted. I tried to jump in the way of the last two hogs left in the pen, but with Buttermilk behind them, they thought little of running over me, their scissorlike teeth gnashing in my face.
“Damn it, Adam!” Cecil yelled as he got up. “Don’t ever say git him when Buttermilk’s around!”
The dog had caught one of the pigs by the ear and had it almost immobilized.
“Ben, fix the hog pen! Adam, go catch that hog!”
Adam sprinted for the pig Buttermilk had caught and I started stacking the logs back. By the time we got the single hog back in the pen, the mayhem had started down at the pearling camps. All five remaining pine-rooters had stampeded the tent city. We could hear pots and pans clanging, women screaming with terror, children shrieking with joy, men swearing, dogs barking.
If not for Buttermilk, we never would have recaptured any of them. The steady diet of mussels and garbage had slowed the hogs down a little and made them easy for the dog to catch. People tried to herd them, shoo them, and tackle them, but Buttermilk was the only successful hog-rassler. With his help, we managed to catch three, but two escaped to the woods.
There was a big panic for the first few minutes of the hog scramble, then everyone in camp pulled together to catch the strays. Many grown men ran from popping tushes while their wives stood their ground with shovels or frying pans. Nobody blamed us boys. I guess we and our hogs had done the camp more good than harm over the long haul.
When all the hogs had been tied or run into the woods, a group of men helped us carry the caught ones back up to the pen. Billy Treat was among them. He had pulled his supply wagon up at the pearling camp about the time the stampede broke out.
“Hey, no hard feelings,” I said to Cecil when we got the last tush hog in. “I’ll pay you back for the paddle.”
He had dried blood all over his mouth and chin. He smirked and waved at me in a peculiar way as he walked off.
“What was all that about?” Billy asked, coming up behind me.
“Nothin’,” I said.
“I thought you two were friends.”
“I thought so, too.”
Billy grunted. “What was the fight over? Girls or money?”
The men were returning to their camps, leaving Billy and me alone at the pens. When I looked at him, I couldn’t help grinning a little. He was sharp, that Billy Treat. You had to like a guy like that. “A little of both,” I said.
He grimaced. “Well, don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”
We stood there together for a few quiet seconds, looking out over the camps and the boats and the lake.
“I heard you bought an Ashenback.”
I nodded,
“Well, where is it? Let’s see it.”
I felt better almost instantly. I was dying to show off my bateau. “Come on, I’ll show you,” I said. I forgot all my troubles as I walked with Billy toward Esau’s place. My partners and I had lost two hogs, but they hadn’t cost us anything but time and a little sweat. Now that I had the Ashenback, I wasn’t worried much about money. I had my mind on my bateau, and that girl, Cindy, from Longview.
To make conversation, I asked Billy how the business was going, and he told me all about it. He mentioned Carol Anne’s name several times, but it barely fazed me. It seemed as if I hadn’t been in love with her in a long time.
“I bet she moves like a skipping stone,” Billy said, examining my bateau.
“Yeah, you want to try her?” I asked.
But before he could answer, I heard a voice as sweet and smooth as wild honey call my name.
“Hi, Ben,” Cindy said, strolling by on the lakeshore.
I felt myself blush. “Oh, hi,” I replied.
“That your boat?”
I nodded.
“I still want that ride.” She stopped and flipped one side of a mussel shell over with her bare toe. “See you at our party tonight.”
I watched her walk down the shoreline until I heard Billy whistle quietly.
“That’s who the fight was over?”
“Yeah,” I said, groaning with embarrassment.
“I’d fight you for her myself if I was fifteen years younger.”
I scoffed, because I knew Cindy had nothing on Carol Anne.
“My God, Ben, why are you turning so red?”
“I don’t know.” I cringed and waded into the water next to my bateau. “Shoot, I don’t know anything about girls,” I said.
“Yeah, neither do I. I guess that’s what gets us so all-fired interested in them. They’re a mystery, and no man can resist that.”
I glanced up at him and caught that sparkle in his eye, like when he tal
ked about pearls. “You must know something about them,” I said, a little accusingly. “You sure got you one.”
He was looking at the sky. “All I know is to behave like a gentleman. That’s all there is to it, Ben.” He smiled, still looking skyward. “That throws them. They don’t encounter much of that.”
I looked to the north to see what he was staring at, but found nothing in the sky where his eyes led.
“It’s a rare thing, Ben.”
“What is?”
“True love. Rare as a pearl.”
I felt awkward listening to him philosophize. Fourteen-year-old bayou boys don’t have much use for that kind of talk. But nobody was listening, and he had complimented my bateau, and besides, I idolized Billy. I decided to humor him a little. “How rare is that?” I said.
He looked at me suddenly, as if stunned to think he might have gotten through to me or something. Then he stroked his chin and dredged deep into his reservoir of philosophies. “Have you ever seen the moon through a rainbow?”
I wrinkled my face. He was looking at that place in the sky again.
“Rainbows don’t come out at night,” I said.
“No, but sometimes you’ll see the moon in the daytime.”
“But if there’s a rainbow, that means it’s been raining, so there are probably some clouds in the sky. They would cover up the moon.” It was a strange conversation, because I didn’t really even know what we were talking about.
“True. But a rainbow also means there’s some sun shining. That means clouds are clearing. Conditions would have to be just right, Ben, but it could happen.” His gaze fell from the sky and landed on me. “It might happen one day out of ten thousand. That’s how rare a pearl is. That’s how rare true love is. It’s one in ten thousand. Like the moon through a rainbow.”
Suddenly I wasn’t embarrassed anymore. I was thinking higher thoughts with Billy Treat. I was imagining the full moon through a rainbow. It was like a pearl! I turned to that place in the sky over the lake. I could almost see it there, perfectly round and shimmering through the bands of light-borne color. When I looked back at Billy, he was walking toward his wagon.
“Just remember you’re a gentleman,” he said, looking over his shoulder and shaking a warning finger at me.
But Billy had misjudged me. I was no gentleman.
The party drew almost everybody in the tent city to the camp of Cindy’s parents. The hogs were roasted and carved on spits over banks of orange coals. Catfish fried in huge iron kettles. The fiddlers and banjo-pluckers circled the campfires. Pots of brewing coffee filled the air with a fine, rich aroma. With all the campfire and tobacco smoke, the mosquitoes found few opportunities to probe for blood, preying mainly on the men who went to sip whiskey in the dark.
Cecil and Adam avoided me, still mad about the hogs, envious of my bateau, and jealous over Cindy. Most of the other Port Caddo kids went home after dark, so I was left to shift for myself. After I ate some pork and cornbread, I didn’t have much to do, but I kept wandering around, hoping to bump into Cindy, and yet avoiding her wagon for fear I would bump into her. I was about ready to give up and go home when it finally happened.
When I saw her coming, I fought an urge to turn and run. I could face Cecil Peavy in a fistfight every day of the week, but I was sure scared of girls.
“Hi, Ben,” she said in her cheerful, self-assured drawl.
I returned the greeting and looked away, nervously only risking glances at her. Our conversation consisted mainly of her asking me questions and me grunting affirmative or negative.
“Daddy said to tell you those hogs was good eatin’.”
I shrugged modestly. “A little tough. We should have fattened them longer.” I was wondering when she wanted her boat ride, but I wasn’t about to just come out and ask her. That seemed so forward I was afraid she might slap me.
“When are you going to give me that ride in your boat?” she asked, as if reading my mind.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Why not right now?”
Now? In the dark? Alone on the lake with Cindy? I was dumb- . founded. It wasn’t a bad idea, though. It was a very dark night. I wouldn’t have to worry about looking stupid if she couldn’t see me. Not a bad idea at all.
“Well?”
“All right,” I said. “Come on.”
That Cindy was a natural talker, which was lucky for me because my brain could hardly form a single word. She talked about everything from pearls to watermelons as we walked to my bateau on the lakeshore. She waded in ankle-deep and got in the bow, holding my arm to steady herself as she stepped in. I waded deeper and climbed over the gunnel to my seat in the stern.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t care. Just paddle around.”
I slid my bateau out onto the lake with a powerful stroke of the paddle. Cindy’s voice flowed like running water—a strange and beautiful sound to a boy from the bayou. The lights from the party came at us like skipping stones, leaving long trails as they clipped the wave tops. The sounds of the people droned with the singing bullfrogs. Out on the water, a warm breeze blew just stiff enough to keep the mosquitoes off of us. I didn’t know how much Cindy knew about boats, so I stayed in water shallow enough to wade in. I didn’t want her falling out and drowning.
“Do you like me, Ben?” she asked suddenly, in the middle of a soliloquy on something unrelated.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you think I talk too much?”
“No.”
“My brother says I talk too much. Sometimes my daddy says I talk too much, too. I like you, too.”
I made a big circle in Goose Prairie Cove and let Cindy talk all she wanted. When I figured she had had enough of a ride, I took her back to the shore near Esau’s place and helped her out.
“That was fun,” she said. “You can take me again some time, if you want to. Do you want to?”
“Sure,” I said, pushing the bateau onto the shore.
She held my hand as we waded to dry land and I felt a delirium I had never experienced. I wanted to grab her right there and put my hands all over her just to see what she was made of, but I remembered what Billy had said.
We stopped together a few steps from the water and turned toward each other. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked, smooth as honey. I didn’t get to answer, because the next thing I knew, her lips were on mine.
I never have put much stock in beginner’s luck. That Cindy from Longview had done some kissing before. I know girls come by some seductions naturally, but she had practiced on somebody else before me.
I remember thinking how foolish I had been to misinterpret that peck Carol Anne had given me on the forehead weeks before. That was nothing compared to what Cindy was doing to me now. Even when I closed my eyes, I saw stars. But like everything else in the summer of pearls, it was too good to last long.
“Ciiindyyy!”
I heard her mother’s long, siren call from the camp party. Cindy’s lips broke from mine. She had both hands on my face, but my arms were paralyzed against my sides. I was afraid to move them, thinking that if I went to grabbing at her, I might not be able to stop.
“I have to go,” she said. “Mama’s callin’.” She turned and ran like a sprite toward the camp lights. “See you tomorrow!”
It was all very overwhelming. She wanted to see me again. Tomorrow. I hadn’t done anything stupid. I hadn’t scared her off or made her mad. Maybe Billy had something. Maybe I really could learn to be a gentleman after all.
I left a good portion of who and what I was right there on the lakeshore that night. I can still show you the spot where it happened, and I can almost recall the feeling that numbed me for days and nights afterward.
There are moments you anticipate in life. Many of them disappoint you when they finally come. Others exceed your most fanciful expectations. That first kiss of mine at Goose Prairie Cove changed me. It confused and enlightened me. It ful
filled me, yet left me desperately longing.
Life was going to get complicated again, but I knew one thing for certain after that night. Ben Crowell was going to become a gentleman. He wouldn’t be fourteen forever.
16
HENRY COLTON GOT HIS FIRST LOOK AT THE GOOSE PRAIRIE PEARL CAMPS from Port Caddo Road. It was midmorning and getting hot. He stopped in the shade of a pine and mopped his neck with a handkerchief as a few hopeful tourist pearl-hunters walked past. He thought Chicago had been hot when he left, but this place was suffocating. He suddenly understood more clearly the lure of a hunt that drew its participants into the water.
He sat at the base of the tall loblolly pine to observe the activities down at the lake. He knew virtually nothing about pearl-hunting. Dozens of wagons and scores of tents dotted the lakeshore for as many miles as he could see. Hundreds of campers milled about on the shore, and. hundreds more appeared as heads bobbing on the lake surface.
The coach from town rattled by him. It made a constant circuit of the pearl camps for those who didn’t want to walk to or from Port Caddo. He shook his head in amazement. He had seen people get this excited over gold and silver, but never over pearls. He checked his pocket, as he had done a hundred times each day since leaving Chicago, to make sure the little coin purse was still there. It was.
After watching for a while, he figured out that no one mode of pearl-hunting predominated. There were almost as many methods as pearl-hunters. That was a relief. It would be easy to fit in. This job was going to be a regular holiday.
Colton finally got up and sauntered down to the lake. He sat down on a drifted log and continued his observations. The men and boys who came out of the water had mud between their toes and under their toenails, so he knew the waders were feeling for the mussels with their feet. A pair of men about fifty yards out in the cove were throwing their mussels into a skiff. Another fellow, without a boat, opened his with a knife as he found them.
Colton caught some familiar motion in the corner of his eye. Looking to his right, he saw a dark-skinned man—the man whose movements had attracted his attention—loafing in the shade of a mulberry with a couple of companions. The man looked to be Indian, but had short hair. There was a shack there. Something familiar about it, too. No, he had never been to Caddo Lake before, but that shack represented something he knew well. What was it?
