He
hurled the fish into the buckbrush and sat down in the mud beside
the tackle box. Pulling the last treble hook from the box, he
rigged up another chicken liver bait and launched it into the
bayou.
Lindy Beth sidled up next to him. She held out a clean, red handkerchief.
“Here, let me doctor it for you.”
Gator turned his hand over and let her inspect it. His palm had
turned a dark pink. It was swelling.
Lindy Beth opened the tackle box and pulled out a pint of whiskey
stashed in the bottom. After cleansing the wound with whiskey,
she tied the damp handkerchief around his hand.
The two of them sat on the blanket and watched the poles. Neither
spoke until Gator brought the whiskey bottle to his lips and tipped
it back. “Pain killer,” he said, winking at Lindy
Beth.
She cozied up next to him, stroked his arm, told him she was sorry.
They kissed with a lot of tongue. He slipped his hand under her
sundress and fondled her. When he tried to push her down onto
her back, she resisted.
“Gator, stop it.” She blushed. “Just a few more
weeks, that’s all.” She placed his hand on her ripening
belly. He shrugged and pulled his hand away.
She leaned back on an elbow and played with a dry strand of her
hair. “Remember when you used to say I was sweeter than
bees’ honey? Remember how you’d say, ‘L.B.,
you’re so sweet ya gimme a toothache’?”
Gator scratched the stubble on his chin. God, he was tired of
her nonsense. Sometimes her whining put a poison-ivy rash all
over him.
“Gator, why don’t you say them things anymore?”
He took another swill of whiskey, stared out over the bayou. The
sweet, warm taste of sour mash rushed down his throat and coated
his stomach before his blood pumped it right back into his face.
An amber flash of light glinted off the bottle when he tipped
it toward the sun. He grinned. “Darlin’, you know
you’re all sugar plums dancin’ round in my head.”
Lindy Beth kissed him on the cheek. She rolled onto her side and
flipped through the worn pages of her romance book. Then she gasped
and sat up abruptly. “Gator, look!” She pointed to
the hill behind them.
Gator turned and gazed at the charred remains of his old house.
The debris lay a good fifty yards up the sloped bank, half hidden
behind leafy sweet gum and hickory trees. He’d wondered
how long it would take Lindy Beth to notice it. Over the years,
the red brickwork had weathered down to a scaly pink, and most
of it was caked with black soot left over from the fire. In the
center of the place, charcoaled timbers lay scattered like black
pick-up sticks. When the wind blew just right, fine ash floated
down the hillside and slammed into the boggy musk of the bayou,
blending into an acrid funk that made his nose twitch. The bricks
were the only thing left standing, and the fire had even dimpled
them in spots. The insurance man had called the dimples spalling.
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