Johnny Gator

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  She laughed and realized she hadn’t for so long. “You look like you’re nine-tenths,” she joked. “Me, I’m only half. My mama married a Texan with roots trailing all the way back to the Alamo.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he told her. “What do you do for a livin’ when you’re at home?”

  “I’m a teacher,” she said. “Seventh grade social studies at one of the middle schools over in Dallas.”

  For self-protection, Nola had pushed away all thoughts of school since the robbery but mention of her occupation sparked the memories of that infamous event. She had been on her way home when she stopped by the supermarket for groceries, Nola recalled.

  Sunlight filtered through the windshield on the way from school to the market. A stack of exams sat beside her purse in the passenger seat, ready to grade. Nola had scribbled a short grocery list on the back of an attendance sheet and once inside the store, she decided to pick up something readymade for her supper. Her nose led her to the deli department where she chose a fried chicken breast, one buttermilk biscuit, and a container of three bean salad.

  Her pulse increased and her breathing sped up as the bad memories began to suck her into the darkness until Johnny’s voice pulled her back.

  “Hey, girl, don’t go there,” he said.

  With effort, Nola focused on his face. “I’m not going anywhere,” she replied. Defense mode came naturally these days.

  “You’re thinkin’ ‘bout what happened to you back there,” he said. “It’s over and done so you shouldn’t, cher.”

  Great advice if she could heed it. “I try not to but sometimes I do.”

  His brown, work-worn hand reached across the table and grasped hers, his flesh, cool, and dry. “Let go, Nola. Don’t hold onto what’s past. Life’s hard enough without hangin’ onto the bad things.”

  Some undercurrent in his tone made her think he’d suffered his share of negative events, and her instinct proved true. Before she could gather words to answer, Johnny added, “I know what it’s like to have something you don’t deserve happen to you and change everything. You got to roll with the flow and take what comes.”

  Just what she needed, she thought, some kind of grassroots Cajun philosopher. But his words provided a tiny measure of comfort. Nola nodded. “That’s true and I’m working on it.”

  His face split in a wide grin. “Good, that’s good. Mind if I sit on your porch and smoke? I like a good cigar after a good meal.”

  Nola stood and gathered up their dirty dishes. “Sure, and I’ll wash these, then join you outside although I don’t smoke.”

  “The fresh air will do you a world of good, cher.”

  “It will if the skeeters aren’t biting.”

  “I’ll show you how to keep them away,” he told her.

  She dredged up an answer from the past. “Merci beaucoup.”

  His eyes lit up at the French and he grinned. “See you on the porch, cher.”

  Hands deep in warm, soapy water, Nola pondered the man and his presence. He had her trust, she realized, which was nothing short of miraculous. She liked his genial demeanor and his accent reminded her of happy times with her grandparents. More than anything, she wanted to know him.

  As soon as she finished the kitchen chores, Nola joined him and they sat talking till dusk about nothing of any importance. A sweet relaxation crept over her tense body and when he rose to go home, she said, “Come back and see me, okay?”

  Johnny looked back at her and nodded. “Oh, I will, Nola. You can count on it.”

  Nola gazed at him and knew he would.

  Chapter Two

  As promised, Johnny Loutrel returned. The next morning he brought her a bouquet of white swamp lilies with the stems wrapped in wet newspaper, and she asked him if he’d like to stay for coffee. Nola brewed it strong, the way she liked it, and he pronounced it to be perfect.

  After that, he showed up almost every day, sometimes morning, sometimes afternoon, but he always brought something. Once it was a jug of sweet Muscatine homemade wine, another time a mess of crawfish, okra from his garden, and a pair of muffuletta sandwiches. Johnny—who loved it when she called him Jean Batiste—brought a pair of homemade mosquito traps. Made with an odd combination of water, brown sugar, and some yeast housed in empty two-liter soda bottles, the damn things actually appeared to work because the number of mosquitoes dwindled to almost none.

  By the end of the first two days, they were good neighbors, and after a week, they were fast friends. They ate the fish he caught and used the other things he carried to her. Johnny told her stories, sang songs, and sometimes brought his guitar. He didn’t play traditional Cajun music but country-western tunes and folk music.

  When the last days of spring shifted into summer, Nola made up her mind she would stay past fall. Although her body had healed, her invisible scars remained. Johnny provided good company, and she saw Aunt Ronnie at least once a week. She’d been to town several times and even visited a supermarket, although she had broken out in a cold sweat and almost hyperventilated. No way could she handle going back to the Dallas metro area yet, if ever, and she knew she wasn’t up to handling students.

  ****

  “So the school district sent me a contract for the coming year,” she told him. They sat on her porch as dusk fell. A giant crane flew graceful against the darkening sky as she watched, waiting for his reaction. Johnny sat on the top step, below where she rocked back and forth, content.

  “Did you sign it, boo?” he asked. Although they had yet to kiss, he called her many endearments, both Cajun and American.

  Nola let out a long sigh. “No,” she told him. “I didn’t. I don’t want to go back, not now anyway.”

  “You’re staying then.” His voice remained soft and level.

  “Yes. I like it here.”

  Johnny laughed. “Even with the mosquitoes, snakes, and gators?”

  “You took care of the skeeters,” she said. “The snakes have stayed out of my way and so have most of the alligators. I know they must be there but there’s just one I see on a regular basis. He’s good-sized and beautiful.”

  “Is dat right?” Sometimes his Cajun accent intensified. “You think gators are beautiful?”

  Truth was, she did. “Yes, I do that one. He has the most amazing eyes,” she said. “You know, they’re a lot like yours, emerald green.”

  His hands stilled from whittling a piece of wood, but he didn’t turn around. “Aren’t you afraid of a big gator like that?”

  “No,” she replied. “In fact, I keep thinking how much I’d like to pet it but I don’t dare. Haven’t you seen it around?”

  A long minute passed before he answered. “Might’ve. A few gators here, not many, not like at home in Louisiana.”

  His hesitation combined with an odd note in his voice prompted her to ask, “Is something bothering you, Jean Batiste?”

  Again, he took his time to reply. “No, cher,” he said but without his usual savoir faire.

  Something had shifted but she had no idea what. “Aren’t you pleased I’m going to stay?”

  “Mais oui,” he said. “I’m glad, yes.”

  “I mean, I don’t know yet how I’ll handle the financial end of it, although for now I have savings in the bank. I might consider teaching, I suppose. It would be different in a much smaller school district.” Aware she babbled, Nola couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m looking forward to watching the seasons change here. Fall and winter should be different but beautiful.”

  Johnny said nothing. The muscles in his back rippled as he sheathed his knife and stood. He handed her the piece of wood he’d been carving. She cried out with delight when she realized it was a small alligator. “Thank you!”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome. I been making it for a while, not just because you mentioned the gator today.”

  In the month she’d known him, he’d always been whittling but she had never paid attention to what. “It’s cute,” she told him. “It’s v
ery artistic.”

  Standing a few feet away, he grinned, a brief flash, and then the expression vanished. “I’m no artist,” he told her. “I paint, though, or did once. Not much anymore.”

  Intrigued, Nola asked, “What did you paint?”

  He spread his hand out wide. “Caddo,” he said. “I painted the lake, nature, critters, all of it. I had a show once, over at Shreveport.”

  “I’d like to see your work someday,” she said. “Maybe you could bring a painting over or I could come see them. Do you have a studio?”

  As she spoke, she realized he always came to her place and had never invited her to his.

  His green eyes met hers and held steady. “No, cher, I just use the spare bedroom. It’s not a big deal, really.”

  “Can I come see your work sometime?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Probably not, although I wish you could see the paintings, tell me what you think. I don’t know if they’re any good or not. But there are things you don’t know about me, things you’re better off not finding out, so unless I bring a painting here, no.”

  He’s talking in riddles and I have no idea what he means. Is he married? Did he do jail time? What could it be? “Then will you bring one over so I can see it?”

  With a wry expression, he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

  Confused and more than a little upset at his odd behavior, Nola asked, “What made you stop painting? You sound like you enjoyed it and if you had a show, you must have been pretty good.”

  He frowned. “Something happened to me, something that changed everything about my life and who I was, cher. That’s all.”

  Nola noticed how he’d begun to fidget, hands twitching, feet tapping. He didn’t seem able to remain still, consumed with nervous agitation. “What was it, Johnny?”

  Her voice dropped to a soft croon. She wanted, no, needed, to know.

  When he replied, his eyes had changed from emerald to almost black, dark with inner anguish. “Nothing you want to know about, woman,” he said. His voice became almost a growl. “I shouldn’t have said nothing at all. I gotta go home anyway.”

  How did this happen? Nola had no idea but their quiet, easy evening had turned emotionally volatile. I’m upset, he’s upset, and I don’t have any idea why. She cared enough to try to find out. “You know what happened to me,” she said. Keeping her voice level was a struggle. “I’m not going to judge. You can tell me. We’re friends, right?”

  Johnny muttered a few sentences in Cajun French, too low and fast for her to follow. Then he stepped closer. “We’re neighbors,” he said. “Friendly neighbors—but it’s not what I want, boo. But I can’t have what I do want, not in this world or any other, not now.”

  “What do you want?” Her outcry came from desperation.

  “You, cher,” he said. “I want you in every way a man can want a woman. But I can’t have you and I know it. Don’t you know it tears me up every night and day? I keep coming back for more and wanting more.”

  All the feelings that had simmered for more than a month boiled over. “I want more, too, Jean Batiste. I want you, too.”

  He groaned like a man with a bellyache and wrapped his arms around her. Sweet baby Jesus, he had a powerful grip, and when he locked Nola into his embrace, she gloried in it. She had waited so long for this moment and savored it. When she ran her hands up beneath his T-shirt, his skin wasn’t warm the way she had expected. She stroked the cool, dry flesh and marveled at how rough it was beneath her fingers. Johnny touched her, his hands almost reverent as they moved over her body. He planted one hand behind her head and leaned closer.

  When he kissed her, her world rocked on its foundation. His lips caught hers and held them tight, fastened together with a mighty pull. His urgent hunger matched her own and she kissed him back with everything she had to give, amazed and pleased her absent desire had awakened. Johnny’s mouth called her out and made it impossible to hide the emotions she’d been harboring any longer. Nola had been aware from the first time he showed up that she liked him enough to trust him, but over the weeks her feelings had grown into love. Until now, she hadn’t dared to name it or believe it but the evidence existed in his kiss and her response.

  Johnny kissed until she had no breath but Nola made no effort to end it. Delicious, sweet sensations traveled from her mouth throughout her body. Her limbs went limp, her nipples turned hard, and her pussy grew wet. Every neuron in her system screamed with pleasure and the marvelous anticipation of longing for more. The kiss brought more physical response and emotion than sex with any man she could remember. This packed a punch and the intensity was strong enough to overwhelm all her senses.

  Just when she yielded to it with her total being, he pulled his mouth from hers. He gripped her upper arms and pushed back until they stood separate. Panting, he stared at her, eyes glittering like bright stones. “Cher, I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I don’t want to be but if you knew…”

  “What? Tell me.”

  His passion vanished and anguish twisted her features. “You would never believe me, Nola. And it’s better if I don’t. Believe me.”

  “Johnny…”

  “I need to go,” he said. His body twitched from head to toe and he winced.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  Nola didn’t believe it. She scrutinized him. He leaned forward, arms and legs extended in such a way he appeared to be about to drop down on all fours. If she didn’t know it was impossible, she would’ve sworn his back appeared broader and his face somehow longer. “You look like you’re in pain.”

  He grunted out a few words. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you maybe tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Johnny, don’t leave this way,” she cried. “I’ll worry.”

  “Don’t, cher. Good-bye.”

  Before Nola could say a word, Johnny wheeled around and marched down to the lake where his boat waited. Dusk had shifted into night by then so her visibility was limited, but she would almost swear by the time he reached the shore he was almost crawling. Tears slid down her cheeks but she wasn’t aware until she tasted salt. Understanding just how and why the evening went wrong was out of reach. She still clutched the carved gator he’d made and her fingers tightened on it as she wondered if she would ever know, or if he’d return.

  ****

  In the morning, Nola made coffee so if he stopped over it would be ready, but she drank until the pot ran empty. He never came. She baked a pan of buttermilk brownies because Johnny liked them, and in the late afternoon she warmed up gumbo from the freezer, thinking that somehow it might summon him. It didn’t. The evening stretched out to almost unbearable proportions but Nola went to bed certain he would come the next day. He’d said tomorrow or the next day.

  Sleep refused to come easy and as she lay awake Nola realized she had no idea where he lived or how to get there. I don’t even have his phone number. I could drive down to that little store at the crossroads and ask, I guess.

  So far, she had made two trips to get groceries and both had been harrowing for her. Although the tiny shop out in the middle of literally nowhere bore no resemblance to the giant chain supermarket where she had been robbed, shopping still made her anxious. Although the store owner remembered her grandparents and must know her aunt, Nola had become bashful and said little.

  The obvious occurred to her—she could ask Aunt Ronnie. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I will. He acted so odd and like something was happening to him, I’m worried sick. I still don’t know what changed, what made him uneasy, and why things got so tense. She struggled to pinpoint the moment everything shifted, and after hours of contemplation Nola realized it had been when she talked about the gator. But why would an alligator make a long-time resident of Caddo Lake, a man native to the bayou, uncomfortable. The gator, which she’d nicknamed ‘Bebe’ or ‘baby’, had shown up each day. Nola realiz
ed it hadn’t ever been around when Johnny was and she wondered why. None of it made any sense, and when she finally drifted to sleep it was fitful.

  On the morning after the third day without Johnny Loutrel, Nola swallowed her pride and phoned her aunt. Aunt Ronnie, her tone far too cheerful for such an early hour, answered on the first ring. “Hello!”

  “Hi, Aunt Ronnie,” she said. “It’s Nola. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, child, just peachy,” the older woman replied. “It’s good to hear your voice. Are you getting along all right out there at that old shack?”

  “I’m glad to say that I am. I’ve been cooking and enjoying the lake.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Her aunt sounded like she meant it. “I’ve been fretting over you, hoping you weren’t sitting around, sad and lonely.”

  Now seemed like a good moment to bring up Johnny. “I haven’t been lonely at all. Johnny Loutrel comes over almost every day to check on me.”

  “Bless his heart, he’s a good man.”

  “Yes, he is. Uh, Aunt Ronnie?”

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t come by for a day or two, and I was a little concerned. I don’t have his phone number but I wondered if you knew where he lived so I could check on him.”

  “Whoo-eee!” Her aunt’s whoop echoed over the phone. “You like him, then, eh?”

  I want him to fuck me until my bones melt, so yeah. “He’s a friend.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have a phone that I know about. I can tell you how to get to his place, but it’s complicated and hard to find. Caddo Lake can be treacherous for someone who doesn’t know it well.”

  The comment stung a little. “I’ve been coming here, to Mamere’s and Papere’s, all my life,” Nola said. “I think I can find my way. If I get lost, I’ll ask.”

  The other woman laughed with a dark, smoky, deep sound. “You might get into trouble if you do, but I’ll tell you. Write it down, all right? But he might be out fishing. Sometimes he goes out for days at a time, or so he tells them down at the store.”

  “That could be but I’d still like to check on him.”