by Gwen Roland
From intersecting bayous more boats joined the regatta of death. The dip and pull of the handmade paddles and oars left brief marks in the water, each one a signature of the man who carved it. The Cheners, who normally would be joking and talking, bent silently to their tasks.
One after the other the boats unloaded their burdens to men and boys on the bank. The soft thud of shovels, along with an occasional grunt or soft-spoken directions, broke the silence along the bank. Periodically, a wagon creaked down the path from York’s bearing two or three coffins, which were unloaded near open graves. As bodies arrived, they were placed directly into coffins, which were then lowered into the ground to be covered with fragrant earth and leaf mold.
Even C.B. came out to help. Without meeting anyone’s eye, she busied herself gathering small bouquets of honeysuckle for the graves where the unidentified children lay. When she had done all she could, she remained near the dead children and held Sam Junior tightly.
She stiffened and looked away when Roseanne arrived with York and Mary Ann Bertram. A moment later she was surprised to feel a hand on her arm. It was Roseanne’s. No one else could hear what words were spoken, but it was clear that forgiveness had been asked and granted in the shadow of so much sorrow.
“Well, that’s ten poor souls so far,” murmured Mary Ann. “At least they have a resting-place. We’ll never know how many had already sunk or gone downstream before Sam could catch them. How sad to think of people waiting for them at docks and not knowing something’s happened.”
“Once news gets around about the sinking and the steamer is identified, I suppose we’ll be meeting some of their relatives,” Roseanne added. “Adam is mailing all the personal papers that had addresses on them. They’ll be a comfort to some, anyway. Look, I think this is the last one.”
They turned to where Val and Sam met the final boat in the procession.
“Tie up to this little cypress; it’ll hold till you unload,” Val directed. “Here you go, Sam. Me, I’ll get the other end.”
Together they worked the corpse onto the bank. Within minutes it was laid out in the coffin and placed in the last open grave.
“What are we waiting for?” Mary Ann looked over the assembled crowd a few minutes later. “All the graves are covered, and the preacher’s here.”
“Adam sent Fate to get Loyce because his boat is faster,” Roseanne said. “That was a while ago, so they should be here most anytime.”
Mary Ann scanned the scene again, but there was no sign of Fate’s boat coming down the bayou.
“Loyce! Loyce!” Fate’s voice tore through the hushed crowd, not from the bayou but from the woods path.
Heads turned to the sound of his boots pounding the trail. A second later he broke into the clearing, glancing wildly around the crowd.
“She’s gone!” he panted. “I thought maybe she decided to try to walk down here with Drifter, but I didn’t see them along the path. There’s no sign of them anywhere.”
28
Drifter opened one eye. Pain radiated from the other one, which stayed shut and felt heavy. She inhaled a questioning sniff. A smell, like the snake on the plank walk but stronger, made the fur stiffen on her neck. She looked as far as she could see from where she was lying on the kitchen floor next to the stove. The room was empty. She listened. There was no rustle of dress and apron. No wooden rockers on the porch floor. She sniffed again. Loyce was gone, and all that remained was the faint scent of her almost overpowered by the snake smell.
Drifter drew her legs under her full belly and pushed up. Near the sweet potato that had fallen on the floor, her nose picked out the last pure spot of Loyce’s scent and followed it toward the door where the danger smell blended with it. The combined scent led her off the porch, down the plank walk, and to the water’s edge. She looked with her good eye, but if there was something to see, she missed it. Her nose was her true guide. She drew in rapid sharp breaths. There were willows that smelled like rain. The fishy water flowing past the dock. The rot of a lost shrimp net snagged under the logs.
Suddenly, there it was—a faint curl on the breeze. Drifter had not been in water since the day Fate had pulled her from it. In fact, she avoided the dock, boats, anything that brought water to mind. But at that moment she dove in without hesitation, heading toward the opposite bank and Loyce’s scent. Her webbed paws paddled effortlessly, barely disturbing the current, which dragged her slightly downstream. When she reached the bank, her swollen body became heavy again, and she was breathing hard by the time she scrambled to the top. Not stopping to catch her breath, she snuffled the ground, the bushes, the air. There it was! Mixed again with the danger smell.
She paused for a heartbeat when she heard a familiar put- putting in the distance. Fate. The noisy human whose arrival always brought joy to Drifter and vexation to Loyce. Loyce!
Drifter turned away from the sound of Fate’s motor and set to the trail again, single-mindedly forging ahead, sometimes catching hold of one or the other or both smells at once. Since she tracked by scent, not sight, a puddle or log across the path could throw her off. Then thorns and vines snatched her, blocked her way, and wound around her head, her feet. She backed up, pulled loose, or chewed her way through, always looping back to find the trail once more. The afternoon light in the thicket dimmed as evening came on, but it didn’t matter because her nose held the trail, which was now mostly the danger smell.
Suddenly, there was a new pain, sharp like a thorn low on her stomach. She bit at it but caught nothing. She went on. Another pain, again nothing there. She slowed, her body getting heavier with every step, sinking on her short legs. The pains were coming faster, and she realized they were deep inside her. Exhausted, she collapsed, struggling to breathe.
Night fell, and despite the pull of the scent, she couldn’t make her body move. Finally, a mighty wave of pain washed over her, followed by three more. Instincts set her tongue to licking the four little bundles. Only when they were clean and nursing did she groan and give in to sleep.
Loyce breathed shallowly, willing herself to stay conscious. Her efforts were hampered by a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth. She remembered being dragged along the walk to the dock, then picked up and dumped into a boat. Her heart pounded, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pull in enough air and soon drifted into unconsciousness.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when she woke to the gentle bump of land under the boat bottom. By then she was curled into a tight, protective bundle but had straightened her neck enough to breathe. There was a sucking sound of boots in mud as the small boat was pulled up an incline. Then, with a grunt, the man picked her up like a sack of cornmeal and threw her over his shoulder. Hanging upside down didn’t disorient Loyce as much as it might a sighted person, but the posture hampered her breathing again and made blood rush to her head.
She was slipping out of consciousness again when his feet sounded on a plank walk. He kicked open a door, and fetid air closed around them like a sour blanket. She was dumped onto a cot. Loyce could feel the rope supports beneath a bare moss mattress. Years of sweat, soot, and unwashed maleness made her gag.
Fear. She could name it, even though she had never felt it before. Her sheltered life had kept it from touching her. Even the night of the snake on the plank walk, Drifter, Fate, and Adam had rushed to save her before she was even aware of the danger. Now there was no one to see, hear, or come to her aid.
Cold, prickly beads of sweat popped out of her skin. Blood thrummed in her temples, making it impossible to think. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. The useless words ran circles in her mind. She was not only blind but paralyzed by terror.
Slowly, her senses returned. First she heard rummaging, followed by the clink of a lamp globe. That meant it was dark enough for her to lift her chin and point her nose away from the stink of the bedding without her movement being detected. The longer she could feign being out, the more time she had to think.
&
nbsp; How far was she from home? In what direction? Were there other people nearby? If so, would they come to her aid, or would they alert him if his prisoner tried to escape? Escape from where? Who was he? How could she leave if she didn’t even know where she was? Panic rippled through her at the realization. That’s exactly what he had in mind!
Loyce willed control over her terror. Pay attention! That’s what she was good at. She lay still and listened, thinking back through the day. It had been near noon when she went to the kitchen. It felt like several hours had passed since she was taken, so the day must be nearing its end. Yet even to her acute ears, no mothers called children to supper. No dogs barked greetings to returning fishermen. No cows lowed for their calves after milking. There was no clunk of boats against docks and houseboats. No sounds of human occupation except for the man’s panting, as if breathing through his mouth.
He continued to rummage. She heard a fuel can rattle against a woodstove, then smelled the coal oil. Where does he buy supplies, she wondered. The stranger wasn’t one of their customers, and his movements didn’t sound like anyone she had ever heard described. More rummaging, then the thud of something heavy landing in a skillet was followed by the smell of rancid grease splashing on the stove.
Something sharp poked her between the shoulders. Her surprised yelp broke through the feigned unconsciousness.
“Gonna have some gator chunks ready in a minnit,” her captor said, followed by more panting. “Might’s well keep your strength up, since you gonna be here the rest of yo’ natural life. My name’s Pank, and I know you’re Miz Loyce Snellgrove, blind girl from Bayou Chene. Blind girl that’s gonna keep ol’ Pank company for a good long time.”
He started wheezing and repeated, “A good long time.”
Loyce sat up on the side of the bed but said nothing. Listening seemed to be the better choice. First she had to calm her pounding heart so she could hear him.
“I figured it ought not make no never mind to you what a man looks like,” he huffed. “And it ain’t like you was ever going to see the sights, so to speak, or even be missed very much. But for me you’ll do jus’ fine. I been needing me a pot washer and a ball licker, and you don’t need to see to handle either one of them chores. Yo’ daddy, he’ll be jest as glad to be rid of you, probly, and Bayou Chene’ll git along just fine with one less net maker. They won’t even be looking for you long.”
He wheezed off into a laugh and then continued.
“You ain’t even my first choice. I had my eye on that little yellerheaded gal with them shiny dresses. I like me a woman what can dress. Used to watch her all the time, especially after she had that young’un and used to pull that titty out for the world to admire. I thought I had her that day she and that runt rocked overboard. Would have been so easy for me to let him drown and then fish her out. See, everbody woulda thought they both drowned and never woulda even wondered about not finding her body. Well, she fooled me first by somehow getting back up to the deck. I was considering whether to just go on over there and pull her into my boat before she knew what was happening, but then that old busybody had to show up with her baby.”
More wheezing. Pondering his loss? Trying to catch his breath? Loyce couldn’t tell.
“But you’s better anyways since I’d had to keep an eye on that one all the time. She’d been more trouble than she’s worth. Many’s the time I heard that mouth going on and on whiles I was watching.”
The reference to C.B. gave Loyce an idea. How many times had she laughed at C.B.’s outrageous stories of encounters with unsavory circumstances? The bluff, the brash talk that had helped her skirt danger and turn events to her advantage. Loyce sucked in air to steady herself and project her voice with authority.
“I might not be able to see what a man looks like, but how he smells is mighty important to a woman, particularly a blind woman. If you treat me like a coonhound, you’ll have to watch where you put your hands ’cause you just might get bit. But if you treat me like a lady, I could make life mighty sweet for you.”
She couldn’t believe the words came out of her mouth! It sounded just like something C.B. would say.
“Whoohoo, look who’s got a tongue in her head.” Pank slapped a hand on something, maybe his thigh, and a wave of stench floated through the cabin. “Don’t expect me to be jawing with you alla time, Miss Priss. I ain’t used to it and don’t truck with it.”
“If you want some female company, you’ll have to get used to it,” she replied with more spirit than she felt. “That’s part of the bargain between a man and a woman.”
Bargain? Now that sounded more like Roseanne! She had even added a sniff, to accentuate her moral superiority over her listener.
“What bargain? I ain’t making no bargain!” His retort dragged out on another wheeze. “You gonna do what I say, and no bargain into it.”
Despite the threat, Loyce thought she detected a hint of interest in his voice. He liked being referred to as part of a pair. A man and a woman, him and her. She pushed down the sour taste in her throat and forged ahead. If she could just keep him talking! Maybe she could convince him to bring her home. Perhaps she could persuade him she would never be able to identify him. He might believe the lie.
“As for the romance you have in mind, you can bet your rank underwear that taking the time to procure my full cooperation will be to our mutual benefit. That means you’ll court me like a lady. You’ll bathe and wear clean clothes.”
Now that sounded like something Roseanne would say in C.B.’s voice. The effect on Pank was not what she had hoped.
“Like hell I will!” he spluttered, and a crash that could have been a chair turning over drowned out the rest of the words.
He stumped across the room, and she counted the steps, four. The room was even smaller than she had estimated. She held her breath against the rotten tooth smell. He was either very short—not even as tall as she—or he was bending over. She couldn’t say right then what difference it would make, but she wanted to find out.
As if to ward him off, her hand grasped the collar of her jacket, Roseanne’s worsted one with the double row of military buttons. As she expected, he clamped a hand over her wrist. He was short, extraordinarily short. In fact, standing up, he seemed to be the same height as she was sitting on the side of the bed! He must be a dwarf? Or a midget? She had heard the words but had no frame of reference about the difference between them.
She could discern that he had the most powerful grip she had ever felt. Just like her senses of hearing, touch, and smell were highly developed, extraordinary muscle strength might compensate for his lack of stature. Was there a way this new information could work in her favor?
Loyce thrust out her chin. Despite the proximity of his reeking mouth, she sniffed once more for good measure and pushed on with Roseanne’s haughtiness.
“I’m a young woman, and I can tell from your voice you are not an old man,” she spoke, as if she already held the high hand. “We could be together a long time. You might well be right that neither of us could reasonably expect better in life. So, we might as well make the most of our lot. If you will meet me halfway, I’ll make every effort to be a good woman for you. Make a list of what you expect from me, and I’ll do the same.”
Order. That’s right—make order out of this chaos, she told herself. That’s what Roseanne would do. If nothing else, it could buy her some time.
“What you mean, make a list? Even if I could write, who’d read my list? Not you for damn sure!” He broke off into laughter that turned into wheezing again.
Did he have a breathing problem that she could use to her advantage? She must keep him talking and moving around the cabin. It was the only way for her to learn anything.
“I guess you got me there, Mr. Pank,” she admitted. “Unless it’s in braille, I can’t read a thing.”
“What you mean by braille?”
“It’s a way of writing using raised dots on paper. Just for blind people.”
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“Well, maybe you’ll just have to show me how to do that, in case I need to make you a list!” he said. “And I ain’t Mr. Pank. Just Pank. Pank Neeley.”
“Neeley? O’Lamp Neeley’s family?”
“She was my ma.” Pank’s voice rose over the sound of the sizzling where he was turning the chunks of alligator meat.
“You must be the one who disappeared years ago. You shot a woman.”
“Wasn’t my fault. I was aiming at that no-good man she was walking out with on a Sunday. They was just too far away, and I missed. There was talk about calling in the law for a trial and all, but I didn’t stand for that. I just took off. Went to Texas for a while, but that place is too dry. Missed my swamp. Came back here a few years ago—can’t rightly say how many. I keep up with the doings around the post office by peeking through the brush from the Indigo Island side. So swampy no one even looks that way—they so used to not seeing nothing there. I can keep up with pert near ever’thing. Like when you come back from that school. And when that pretty yeller-haired thing came along. I keep my eye out.”
“What about your mama?” Loyce forged ahead, willing the conversation forward. “Don’t you know she grieved for you until she died? And that you have a fine little nephew named Wuf? Wouldn’t it be better just to show yourself and see what happens? So much time has passed—maybe no one would ever say anything, or if they did, the law might rule it was an accident?”
“Not s’long as Lurleen’s family is still around there. I s’pose they are, huh?”
“Yes, but no one ever talks about it. That was so long ago.” Loyce tried changing the subject from dead women, wishing now that she hadn’t brought it up. She cast around for a cheerier topic.
“What about those alligator chunks you were bragging about? I was just fixing to eat when you yanked me out of my kitchen. Haven’t had a bite since breakfast. What time is it, anyway?”
