by Ginny Rorby
I’m so focused on trying to see where the gator is that I nearly jump out of my skin when Andy swings down from his perch. He grabs the pole and pushes us toward the rotting dock.
“So what d’ya think?”
“Can we go now?”
“What d’ya mean go? We just got here.”
“Didn’t you see that gator?”
“Sure, but he’s not going to bother us. Come on.” Andy hops across to what’s left of an old dock and holds out his hand.
About every other plank is missing, and where the dock ends there is a double row of equally rotten boards set side-by-side on top of what looks like ankle-deep mud. Where the mud ends, the boards zigzag through knee-deep weeds. One in a million, ha! I’m with the other 999,999 who are afraid of everything out here. I can already imagine feeling the first of the bloodthirsty ticks waiting to crawl up my bare, saw-grass–cut, chill-bump–covered legs.
I fight down the urge to beg him to leave right this second, hold the duckling steady against my stomach, and take his hand. His palm is warm and calloused like my dad’s, and I’m suddenly and oddly homesick.
I step across to the dock and follow Andy along the plank walkway, holding onto a belt-loop of his jeans. I will myself not to think about what is living beneath each termite-eaten plank. One thing Floridians know practically from birth, even city kids like me, is to never turn over a log or board—the dark, damp places where coral snakes and scorpions like to hide.
The walkway parallels the side of the shack, makes a right turn, and ends at the remnants of steps. The shack, like the dining hall and the cabins at the Loop Road Environmental Center, is perched on concrete blocks, which makes me think the water must get a lot higher than it is right now.
“Does someone live here?” I can’t imagine.
“This is a hunting camp. It belongs to someone, but all the camps out here are left open for anyone to use.”
That’s big of them, I think to myself. What’s to lock? What’s to steal?
From the front of the cabin, an overgrown trail meanders a short distance to the edge of the woods and ends at a plywood outhouse that someone has decorated by painting a quarter-moon on the door. It’s a facility I’m in desperate need of. I get as far as the door, but I’m afraid to open it.
“Go in the woods,” Andy suggests, putting the cooler on a makeshift picnic table: two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood set between two decaying tree-stump stools.
I glance at the dark tangle of trunks and vines behind the outhouse. “No way, and I can’t go in there either unless you’ll check it for things first.”
He comes, opens the door, steps inside, and lets the door smack shut behind him.
I wait.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Peeing,” he answers.
“I was first.”
“Not through the door, you weren’t.” The door swings open, and Andy comes out carrying a very large, colorful snake.
I scream and run from him down the trail, holding the duckling against my stomach.
“It’s only a corn snake,” Andy says, as if that will make a difference.
“Don’t come near me with that thing,” I plead. “I hate snakes.”
Andy stands stock-still. “I hadn’t planned to,” he says. “I don’t want to scare the snake.”
“Very funny.”
“Why do you hate snakes?”
“They’re slimy.” I shudder. I have no intention of telling him how my brother stood on a ladder in our laundry room, which shares a drop-ceiling with the bathroom, and pitched a snake into the shower with me. He still loves to tell his friends how I took the shower curtain and rod down with me and looked like a cat in a sack trying to get out the door.
“No, they aren’t.” He drapes it around his neck but keeps a good grip on it right behind its head. “I’ll hold her head. Come touch her.” He holds its tail out to me.
“No way.”
“She’s not slimy. She’s dry as a bone and cool to the touch.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to touch her. And how do you know she’s a she?”
“I don’t think I know you well enough to go into that.”
“Whatever.” I shrug. “I still don’t want to touch her.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What was she doing in there, anyway?”
“People bring these snakes out and leave them to keep the rats under control. So use the head, then let me put her back.”
Gators. Rats. Snakes. What was I thinking, coming out here with him?
If he’d been my brother, he would jump at me with the snake, so I just stand there until he steps off into the weeds and gives me a clear path to the outhouse. He speaks softly to the snake and rubs it under its chin. The snake’s forked tongue flicks in and out, which makes my skin tingle with disgust.
Still, I don’t trust him, and I scoot by, jerk the outhouse door open, and back in. I close the door, then shoot right back out again. “There’s a huge spider-web in there.”
“It’s way up in the corner.”
“But the spider?”
“She won’t bother you.”
“I can’t sit there with a giant spider above my head.”
A clear expression of boredom crosses his face. “Pee in the woods then.” He strokes the snake and lets its tongue touch his cheek.
I shiver at the thought of a snake’s tongue against my cheek, and I know Andy thinks I’m acting like a sissy, but I can’t help how sickening this place is. I’m from the city, for God’s sake. Why would he think this world of snakes, rats, outhouses, and alligators is an easy adjustment? Tears threaten, so I whirl, snatch the door open, and duck, even though the web is in a corner high above my head. I let the door slam, then look for a lock just in case he decides it would be fun to pitch the snake in here with me. There isn’t one. Just a knothole that I can put my finger through to hold the door closed.
The spider, which is about the size of my hand, moves up the web on its long, hairy red legs. I sit kind of sideways over the smelly hole so I can watch it. The duckling waits on the dirt floor, preening its matted belly, wet from my sweat.
“Do you want to see inside the cabin?” Andy asks after he put the snake back in the outhouse.
“Sure.” I’m trying to sound brave. The airboat ride was fun—until I killed the duckling—but enough is enough. I just want to go back right now to the Loop Road camp, which is luxury compared to this place. Maybe I could continue to pretend I’m sick for the rest of the day, and tomorrow leave for home without ever seeing another inch of the Everglades.
The cabin has a screened-in porch with most of the screens punched out and a door that sags on its last rusty hinge. When Andy tries to straighten it so it will swing open, the door comes off in his hands. He shrugs, carries it across the porch, and neatly leans it against the wall. The hollow-core wood door to the cabin is warped and rotting from the bottom up. Andy has to shoulder it open like a cop breaking into a suspect’s house.
It’s pitch black inside. I’m pressed so tight on Andy’s heels that my nose brushes his shoulder.
“What’s that awful smell?”
“Just a little mold and mouse piss.”
A claustrophobic chill sweeps over me. I draw my head in like a turtle, ducking at the sound of feet scurrying across the plywood ceiling.
Andy, with me in lockstep, crosses to the sink, smacks the swollen wooden window with the heel of his hand to break the seal, then props it open with a broom handle. A roach, startled by the sudden flood of light, lifts off the floor and flies toward us. I plaster myself against Andy’s back, squeezing a peep out of the duckling in my shirt. The roach hits Andy in the chest. He brushes it off and stomps it.
“I hate roaches.” I turn and start for the door, but Andy catches my hand.
“It was a palmetto bug. Come on, don’t be such a chicken.”
“Roach, palmetto bug, whatever. I hate them both,” I
snap. “And I’m not a chicken. This place is disgusting.”
A cracked porcelain sink is set in an unfinished wooden counter. Above it is the open window, and on either side of the window are bare plank shelves lined with mismatched plastic plates and a couple of bloated, deadly looking cans of pork and beans.
In the center of the room, another table has been created out of two more sawhorses and a split and peeling sheet of plywood. Four rusty metal folding chairs sit at different angles, as if the occupants had left suddenly. I imagine a fight over cheating at cards and the players leaving to shoot each other in the yard.
In the far corner are two pairs of bunk beds, head to head. Each has a mattress that looks as if it’d been dragged here from the Dade County dump. A filthy pillow lies at the head of each bunk. Towels and army blankets are stacked along a wooden bench attached to the fourth wall of the cabin.
“It’s nothing fancy,” Andy says. “But . . .”
I burst out laughing.
For a second he looks hurt, then he starts laughing too. “It is only a hunting cabin,” he says, lamely, as I wipe tears from my cheeks.
In contrast to the rest of the camp, there’s a relatively new wooden swing hanging from a limb of a huge old cypress tree by chains that are beginning to rust. After Andy kicks a picnic-table stump and it crumbles, releasing a swarm of red ants, he takes the cooler to the swing. I pull my shirttail out, catch the duckling, and put it on the ground.
We sit side by side, each eating from our own small bag of potato chips. Half a bar of cheddar cheese waits on Andy’s knee to be divided, and an open bottle of Gatorade is jammed in the space between our thighs. I loan Andy my Swiss Army knife to cut the apple into quarters.
“This is a nice knife.” He turns it in his hand. His fingernails are dirty, and the cuticles chewed and ragged. “I forgot, there’s Spam, too.”
“Yuck,” I say. “What is Spam, anyway?”
“Ham and something. Salami, I think. Read the can.”
“I don’t want to even get that close to it.” I make a face.
“You’d feel different if you were hungry.” Andy hands me a chunk of apple and one of cheese.
“Well, I hope I’m never that hungry.” I crumble a chip and scatter it at my feet for the duckling.
“It’s good fried.”
“I doubt it.” I take a bite of cheese, then one of apple. They taste good together. “Got any cups?”
“For what?”
I tap the lid of the Gatorade.
“We either have to drink after each other, or . . .” He grins. “I bet there are glasses in the cabin.”
“Tough choice.” I take a sip from the bottle, wipe the lip, and hand it to him.
He takes it, but just keeps looking at me.
“What?”
“Let’s end the germ problem right now.” He takes my chin, turns my face, and tries to kiss me.
My stomach does a flip-flop, but I turn my head sharply. “Who said you could do that?”
“I like you,” Andy says.
“Well, I might not like you.”
“Don’t you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I smile.
“Well, decide. I only give airboat rides home to people who like me.” He takes a long drink.
“Just turn the bottle,” I say.
He wipes the rim and hands it back to me. “So, Emerson, what do you do all day in Miami?”
I take another sip and shrug. “Nothing much. School. Swimming practice. Homework. Play on the computer. You know.”
“Sounds like a full and rewarding life.”
“What do you do? Gig frogs?”
It came out as a put-down, but before I can apologize, Andy smiles. “School. Gig frogs. You know.”
“What is a gig, anyway?”
“A long pole with a miniature pitchfork at the end.”
I nod and think of all those cute little green frogs. “Doesn’t seem like much of a meal. Their legs are so little.”
He looks at me blankly; then it dawns on him. “Not the little green ones. They gig the big bull-frogs and pig frogs.”
A picture of a frog run through with tiny, sharp tines, its legs kicking, comes to mind, and I change the subject. “Where do you go to school?”
“Naples. Maybe you could come back over someday. Go to a game or a dance with me.” He smiles, then adds, “I don’t really gig frogs, you know.”
When I was little, Mom signed me up for ballet, tap and piano lessons, but I don’t know anything about dancing with someone. “A game would be fun, but I don’t really know how to dance.”
“I’m not a very good dancer anyway. Maybe a game, or a movie.”
“Sure. I guess.” I have a big picture of my parents driving me all the way to Naples and back for a date with Andy, but it’s nice to think about anyway. As good-looking and nice as he is, I bet he has lots of friends—especially girlfriends. I take another sip of Gatorade and wipe the rim. I’m just passing it to him when I see the duckling round the side of the cabin.
“Come here little duck, duck.” I get up, patting my thigh.
I’ve only gone a few feet when Andy says, “Oh my God.” I freeze, afraid he’s seen a rattlesnake or something.
“What?” I cry when he runs past me. “What?” I run after him.
When I catch up, he’s standing on the dock, hitting himself in the forehead over and over with the heel of his hand.
My heart is thundering. “What’s the matter?”
He drops to his knees on the dock, folds himself in half, locks his hands behind his neck, and starts to rock. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I can see past him now and bite my fist to keep from screaming. The airboat is gone.
6
My first thought is that it had been stolen, but when Andy sank to his knees on the dock, I see the curved top of the propeller cage arching over the water. One blade sticks up like the arm of a drowning victim, and a few final air bubbles rise to the surface and pop in the rainbow of gas that encircles the cage.
I don’t realize I’m crying until he glances at me. For a moment I see the look of anguish in his eyes, then he blinks it away and slips off into the water. I immediately think of the gator. It’s still down there somewhere, but Andy wades around, collecting the things that were floating: the pole, the gas can, the Pan Am flight bag, and a single flip-flop. He dumps them at my feet and looks up. “I’m sorry.”
Tears stream down my face. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
“Can’t we tip it over like a canoe and empty the water out?”
I knew that was a stupid question almost the minute I said it, but when Andy snorts “no,” it makes me mad. “How did this happen?” I cry.
“I washed it this morning and took the stern plug out so the water would drain. I put the plug on one of the trailer’s tires.”
“And you forgot it was there?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why didn’t it sink when we put it in the canal?”
“It takes a while to fill through that little hole.” He’s standing chest-deep with both hands on the dock, his head down. “And as long as we were moving, water couldn’t get in.”
I glance at the cabin. There are no power or phone lines. My parents gave me the Tracfone for my birthday, but I didn’t bother to bring it. In fact, I’ve never used it. There’s no one to call. “Did you bring your cell?”
He snorts again. “I don’t have a cell phone. Even if I did, there are no cell towers out here.” He takes a deep breath and looks up at me. “I’m gonna have to walk out.”
My turn to snort. “You’ve got to be kidding? How far is it?”
He shrugs. “’Bout ten miles, I guess.”
“Oh.” I’m suddenly hopefully. “That’s not far.” He could go get help and be back in a couple of hours.
Andy gives a short, bitter laugh. “Not on a city sidewalk, it ain’t.”
“Two days, maybe.”
“Two days!” My throat closes.
“Maybe three. The water’s still pretty high.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You can’t.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as it looks.” He dips his hand in the water and lets it pour through his fingers.
“Andy, I can’t stay here by myself. What happens when it gets dark?”
“You can sleep in the cabin.”
A shudder runs through me. “There are rats and roaches in there.”
“There’s nothing out here to hurt you if you stay in the cabin after dark. You may see or hear raccoons, a skunk, or a possum, but nothing dangerous. Plus, you got your buddy there.” He nods toward the duckling, which is snuggled against my foot, its head tucked between its shoulder blades. Every few seconds it makes a little peeping sound, as evenly spaced as hiccups.
“Why can’t we wait for them to find us?”
“Who’s them?”
“Your parents.”
“This is Saturday. Dad won’t be back until Monday afternoon. Mom left early this morning to help with a baby that’s due this weekend. Who knows when she’ll be back? There’s no one to miss me.”
“Well, I’ll be missed. They’ll be getting back pretty soon, and Mr. Vickers will come to check on me. He’ll call my parents as soon as he finds me missing.”
“Even so, Sarah, how long will it take anyone to guess where you went? Did you tell any of the other girls you were going out on the airboat with me?”