The
woman had no sense at all. Ask her a simple question, and what
do you get? An earful of nonsense, that’s what. A question
as simple as, “Is the house empty tonight?” Question
like that ought to be easy enough for a slobbering retard to figure
out, but Lindy Beth’s screwed up answer got Shelby and Gator
Jr. dead. And the stupidest part of it all was that she had no
clue what she’d done.
Gator opened the tackle-box and started rigging the poles with
slip sinkers and treble hooks. The big hooks were harder for the
catfish to swallow into their gut, and three times as many barbs
made it easier to snag their bony lips. Stinky cheese, chicken
livers, chunks of soft dog food--all of them made for excellent
bait. Bottom-feeding channel cats were a lot like Lindy Beth.
They would suck up just about anything.
Lindy Beth hummed Rock-a-bye Baby while she spread out an old,
green army blanket. She tried to sing the words to the lullaby,
but her terrible voice and tripping tongue couldn’t string
them together. So she hummed and hummed and deedle-dee-deed until
her voice became a swarm of marsh gnats buzzing in Gator’s
ears and he yelled at her to hush up.
Kneeling on the wool blanket, Gator reached into the chest pouch
of his faded denim overalls and pulled out a plastic container
of chicken livers. Feed them your guts first. They always go straight
for the guts.
Within a few minutes, both lines were out. The cork pole handles
were shoved into the soft, clay mud to support the rods that leaned
slightly toward the bayou. Gator looked at his watch, then popped
the top on a can of Bud. Hopefully destiny would arrive at just
the right moment. Breaking up with someone takes careful planning.
It would be a shame if things were interrupted.
Lindy Beth pulled a romance book from her sundress pocket and
fought to keep the pages from turning in the wind that had kicked
up. The breeze pivoted the wooden rowboat at the water’s
edge. Gator pulled the anchor out of the boat and threw it onto
the bank just to be safe. If he fell asleep in the sun, the boat
would only drift out the length of the anchor rope.
“When are you gonna paint that thing?” Lindy Beth
pointed at the dry, gray wood of the rowboat. “The planks
are getting rotted. It leaks, you know.”
“Don’t need painting.” Gator replanted one of
the pole handles into the mud. “And it don’t take
on much water. Tight as a tinderbox, that boat be.”
The pole closest to Lindy Beth jiggled. “I got one!”
she said. She leaned forward, but couldn’t get to the pole
before it stopped jiggling.
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