by Gwen Roland
“It just beats everything; she’s strong enough to eat but won’t.” Loyce’s voice lifted above the rattle of utensils.
“Seems like she’d be glad to find a home, after what she’s been through,” Fate began, as he scraped another plate into Drifter’s pan, adding a little extra gravy over the biscuits.
“Don’t say she’s found a home—she’s not staying here!”
Loyce popped a wet dish towel near his ear for emphasis.
Fate charged around the table. Loyce sensed his feint and stepped in the opposite direction. He anticipated her guess, and she found herself nose to chest with her agile cousin. Fate grabbed the dish towel and stepped outside her reach. Second nature, he thought. Second nature.
Loyce pretended to ignore his victory and went back to the problem at hand.
“We just need to get her well enough to go somewhere else,” she pondered. “What I set out for her last evening was covered in ants this morning. I don’t think she ate any of it. Starting to look like she might not make it after all.”
As soon as the black dog had gained enough strength to leave the porch, she had followed her nose to the skiff. Fate had upended the odd vessel on the bank to keep it from filling with rainwater. When she reached it, her tail wagged feebly for the first time. Her nose snuffled the ground from bow to stern. She circled the boat two more times before lifting her head to scan the bayou, upstream and down. Then she whimpered and crawled under the skiff, refusing to come out. Two days later Fate attempted to pull her out, but she only growled and backed farther into the gloom.
Sometimes early in the morning or late in the evening, if no one was near, she would creep out and sit on the upended boat, watching the water, ears up, tail moving back and forth hopefully. If another boat landed at the dock or if someone stepped off the porch, she scurried back under the shelter of the skiff.
Morning and evening Fate or Loyce brought a pan of food—leftover bread, gravy, deer ribs, or fish picked clean of bones. Most of the time it was still there at the next meal, minus what the ants toted off. Days passed, and her profile grew sharper as she sat watching the water. Fate described the outline of her ribs to Loyce whenever he saw the lonesome figure sitting on top the skiff.
At night Loyce’s sensitive ears picked up soft whining. Barely audible so as not to draw attention to her grief, sadness seeped out of the starving dog. Loyce listened and remembered her first nights at the school for the blind when she was separated from every smell or sound that was familiar—from everyone she loved.
One night the whimpering was so pitiful, Loyce couldn’t sleep. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she felt for her cloth slippers with her feet. It was a warm night, so she didn’t even cover the cotton gown but padded downstairs and across the porch to the steps. Touching the banister lightly for orientation, she reached down with one slippered foot until it was safely on a step, then set the other foot beside it. She descended in this halting manner until she reached the plank walk, one of three that Adam had built for her years ago. Most often she used only the planks that went out back to the privy and the rainwater cistern. She rarely took this front one toward the dock. There was no call for her to use it unless someone was taking her somewhere in a boat. That didn’t happen often because everyone in the community came through the store and post office on a regular basis. Most days her world was no bigger than the porch.
Her feet shuffled eleven steps before she put a cautious foot out to the right, off of the raised wooden path. She had counted the distance the first time Fate had led her out to bring a pan of food. As usual, scuttling sounds told her the dog was backing under the skiff.
“Hey, you oughta know by now I’m not going to grab you. I can’t see, remember?” she said more gently than usual. “I’ll just sit here and keep you company for a while.”
She brushed the ground in front of the skiff with her foot to make sure it was clear before settling down with her back against the side of the boat. Drifter stopped whining but other than that didn’t seem to notice she had company.
Loyce took a deep breath. It was a good night to sit out; the breeze was cool and smelled like young leaves. An owl hooted. A fish rippled the water. Fate’s little houseboat knocked against the dock; most likely, he had turned over in bed.
“You know, Drifter, there’s a lot to listen to on a quiet night if you just pay attention,” Loyce said, by way of conversation. “I used to be so lonesome missing home that I couldn’t sleep. Then I found that I could busy my mind and figure out what was going on around me just by paying attention to the sounds. A boat’s whistle on the river always meant something, and it wasn’t long before I could tell whether they were coming in to the dock or leaving or passing another boat. I could tell from the milkman’s step on the walk whether his feet were hurting that morning. The clang of the pans told me what we were having for breakfast just as if I’d asked the cook! I think that’s when I noticed music—just lying there, listening, in the dark.”
Not a sound came from beneath the skiff, but Loyce thought she could feel the dog listening. It was a start, and it gave her an idea. She began humming “In the Good Old Summertime.” The bouncy little tune was the most recent one Val had brought back to her from upriver. The second time through the song, she added the words to see how they would go over with Drifter. She thought she heard the slightest thump of a tail at the end.
“Well, if you liked that, here’s one of my favorites because you can play it, sing it, or dance to it.”
She jumped right into “It rained all night the day I left,” tapping out the beat on her thigh as if she were center stage at a dance. The last kneeeeeeee hadn’t faded from her lips when she heard Drifter breathing closer to the edge of the boat. Heartened, she kept going.
“Here’s one you might have heard before, seeing as you came off the river. Val told me it’s an old sailor’s song. He knows lots of versions, but this here’s my favorite.”
She started out low.
Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river.
Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, I’m bound away, ’cross the wide Missouri.
The pure loneliness of the song on the night air set up a longing in the young woman for something she couldn’t name. Loyce sensed that Drifter recognized that longing but that, unlike herself, the little dog could name the person she was missing. Whatever the reason, as the mournful notes faded, she felt Drifter breathing softly on her hand.
In this manner the blind woman and the dog kept company until nearly daylight, when the roosters began to crow from their perches in trees or inside homemade coops. As with the boat whistles, Loyce knew their individual voices, which ranged from the rusty croak of an old gentleman whose sunrises were numbered to the competitive trumpeting of young cockerels.
There was a whole chorus of young cocks across the island that spring. Every morning she listened to them compete. It was as if they knew that only one would be kept as the service rooster. She parsed out each call, knowing ahead of time which one would crow next, getting her bearings for the tail end of the night as it eased into morning.
Sure enough, at the time she knew to expect it, the clang of the stove door told her Adam was awake and stirring up the fire for coffee. She stood and dusted off the back of her gown.
“Well, Drifter, I don’t know about you, but I’m stiff as a poker from this damp ground. You can stay out here if you want, but I’m going in.”
Not a sound from under the skiff.
“Just because we shared a song or two doesn’t mean you’re won over, does it? Have it your way then.”
She listened a second more and then tapped a foot in the direction of the plank walk. One, two, three steps.
“Arggguuu,” rumbled from under the skiff.
She froze, puzzled, thinking it sounded like one of Val’s beehives. Suddenly she was knocked off-balance. Loyce staggered, reaching out with her h
ands in hope of steadying herself, not knowing where to go. She couldn’t step just any which way because she had lost track of the bayou. How close was the dock? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t even remember which way she had turned when the sound startled her.
“Arggguuufff!” The sound was Drifter! Growling like a wild animal.
It had never occurred to her that the mysterious dog might attack. She had nothing for defense, not even that useless cane she’d brought home from school.
This was just the sort of thing that would make Fate fuss at her later on. She could already hear him saying a blind girl wasn’t supposed to go walking around at night. But what difference did day or night make to her? It was just like Fate to break into her concentration when she was trying to flap her hands at the dog, grab the air for balance, and run away at the same time. She fumed, knowing that all of those efforts together were doing her as much good as trying to fly.
Suddenly the growling was interspersed with slapping and thumping on the plank walk. What was that? The violent sounds told Loyce she should jump but didn’t give her a clue about the direction. When things couldn’t get any worse, they did. The plank walk started bouncing from both directions. She felt empty space beneath her slippers as she flew into the air.
“What is it?” Adam’s voice coming from the porch was interrupted by Fate from the bayou side, “Loyce? What the hell?”
Their pounding feet were turning her plank walk into a seesaw.
“Whoa! Are you bit? Where?”
One more bounce, higher than any before, sent her flying upward; her gown billowed out as she changed course and started down. Then she was clamped tight. Fate’s long arms held her higher off the ground than usual.
“No, she didn’t bite me, but she’s fighting with something.” Loyce squeezed out the words through his grip, which was cutting off her air. That’s Fate, making things worse by trying to help, she thought.
“Not her! The snake! That something is a granddaddy of a cotton mouth!” Fate was still yelling, and Loyce pushed her ear into his shirt to soften the sound. “It must have been hunting for an easy meal around the fish traps. If it’d gotten tangled up in your gown, you’d be bit a dozen times by now. You got that black dog to thank.”
Thank! Her face burnt hot, and she pushed against the solid wall of his chest.
“Well, if it wasn’t for that black dog, I’d be safe in my bed right now,” she retorted, feeling braver but not yet ready to put her feet down on the plank walk. “First thing in the morning you find her a home.”
4
For days to come, more customers than usual crowded around the post office and propped themselves against the porch banister. They had rowed and walked considerable distances to hear about the fracas firsthand, and they were not disappointed.
Fate stretched the cottonmouth across the plank walk for everyone to admire. He also stretched his own part in the story way out of proportion for Loyce’s taste. To counter his bragging, Loyce found herself taking Drifter’s part, expounding on the little dog’s courage. Loyce’s declarations prompted Fate to jump in with even bigger plans for Drifter—teaching her to lead Loyce safely around the island.
That’s just the way things get out of hand when Fate’s around, she fumed, rocking harder and jabbing her shuttle in and out of the twine. Before she could figure out how to regain control of the situation, Mary Ann Bertram burst through the back door.
“Adam, do I have to wait till the holidays to find some pecans, or do you have some stashed in here somewhere?” the young woman yelled while striding to the middle of the room.
Loyce listened as Mary Ann’s voice took on a distant quality. Had she pitched forward into one of the barrels? Sure enough, rummaging sounds ensued and then gave way to bundles crashing onto the floor. Next her sensitive ears followed the step of Adam’s boots around the counter. When they stopped in front of Mary Ann’s ruckus, Loyce could almost hear him pondering on the whereabouts of pecans.
“Might be some over there, but they’d be last year’s, not too good,” he offered.
“Don’t matter how good they are. I just need some for a bread pudding I’m making York,” Mary Ann grunted.
“I thought York didn’t like nuts—they hurt his teeth,” Adam said, taking advantage of her help to unpack some of the things she had tossed out of the barrel. He began making little piles of like goods in vacant spaces—tins of spices, paper packets of sewing needles, jars of olives packed tight in salty vinegar.
“He hates ’em, but he loves my bread pudding more than just about anything,” she grunted with the effort of lifting a bucket of sugarcane syrup out of her way. “Nothing will torment him more than to follow the smell of that pudding through the doorway, spoon up a big pile, and bite in to all those pecans.” She stopped long enough to beam at the image.
“What’d he do to get on your bad side?” Adam asked.
The Bertrams were known for going out of their way to win an argument, entertaining everyone else as they tried to out-spite each other.
“Killing my rooster is the latest shenanigan, but he ain’t been fit to live with for a month or so,” she said. “Got broodier than an old setting hen for no reason I can make out. Don’t talk, not that he ever contributed much to conversation before. But now he don’t say a word for or against night or day. Just stays out at the sawmill or his still, working, but he don’t forget to eat.”
“How’d he kill your rooster?” asked Adam. “Not that I blame him—that varmint was gonna take someone’s eye out sooner or later. Just look at your arms.”
Mary Ann scratched thoughtfully at the scabs in various stages of healing but then drew up to her full height and huffed out.
“I was right over in the calf lot and saw it all, so there’s no denying it, even if he cared enough to, which he don’t. Won’t answer me a bit about it. The rooster charged him from behind the sweet peas, which was one of his favorite hiding places, so it wasn’t like York was surprised or anything. He picked up that piece of stove wood he keeps there and walloped him upside the head, knocking him stone cold like always.”
Adam nodded, remembering the times he’d toted that same piece of stove wood in order to get from the boat dock to their door if the rooster happened to be out front.
Mary Ann continued. “That always took the fight out of him for a couple of days, and York knew that. But this time he went right on over and stomped that rooster in the head, over and over, until nothing but the comb was showing above the dirt.”
“Maybe he was worried about you or someone else getting hurt bad,” offered Adam. “Leastways, now you don’t have to arm yourself to get in and out of your boat.”
“He ain’t worried about me or nobody else. Just himself and the price of rubber boots,” said Mary Ann.
Then she triumphantly held up a tin of shelled pecans.
Out on the porch Loyce’s fingers slipped the wooden shuttle methodically through the cotton thread of the net as she listened to Mary Ann’s plan. Whenever Loyce visited the Bertrams, someone had to protect her from the rooster since she couldn’t see to kick at him herself. That was another aggravation of being blind. She had to wait for someone to take her everywhere outside the house or the plank walks. Not that there was anywhere to go.
Getting out and about was what she missed the most about school. Finding her own way through the well-marked halls to classrooms and play areas had been easy; she didn’t have to wait for someone to lead her. Then there were daily outings when teachers escorted groups of students along the sidewalks of Baton Rouge. They would stroll past a French bakery or a flower shop, inhaling the fragrances that sighted people couldn’t fully appreciate. There were field trips, where they learned to swim and ride horses. The music students played concerts for the public and also attended professional musical performances in town.
Loyce worked at not complaining. She knew how lucky she was to have traveled more than most people born and raised on the
Chene. But her world had shrunk considerably in the past year, and it took some getting used to.
Mary Ann’s long stride reached the screen door and kicked it open. She stepped through before the tired spring could pull it back. Loyce felt her stop and bend over, bringing the milky scent of barnyard to the porch. That was followed by the yeasty fragrance of Drifter’s ears being ruffled.
“Well, you still got that little pup!” Mary Ann exclaimed. “I thought Fate was supposed to give her to Alcide?”
“After that snake fracas, she walked right up the steps like I’d called her, which I can tell you I didn’t,” Loyce laughed. “Brazen as anything, parked herself by my foot, and now she’s set her mind to stay there. Been that way ever since she killed that cottonmouth. I sure don’t need a dog, just something else to trip over.”
“Well, whether you want a dog or not, it looks like she’s here to stay,” Mary Ann said. “She’s so stubborn, I’m guessing her last name might be Bertram. If so, you might as well give up and keep her, or it’ll wear you out trying to stay ahead of her. I know ’cause I’m married to a Bertram.”
Loyce listened to Mary Ann’s boots clomp through the breezeway and down the back steps to the woods path, free to walk wherever she pleased. Just then Drifter shifted position, and Loyce felt the comforting weight settle against her foot. She placed the shuttle in her lap and reached for the silky ears.
“Drifter, could Fate have a plan this time that will work? Do you think you could learn to take me a few places around the island?”
All she got was a tail thump, but she thought it sounded promising. The squeak of barrel wood being pried open told her that Adam was still putting away stock on the momentum Mary Ann’s search had started.
5
“Take it easy there, little fella,” Adam murmured as he slipped a hand into the fish cart hanging alongside the dock. The afternoon was hot for late April and made the water feel cold. His fingers closed behind the fins of a small blue catfish. Sure, it took practice to keep from getting finned, but he knew the right mind-set was just as important. Talking to them helped too.
