by Ginny Rorby
I get my feet under me, only to crumple from the pain. I look frantically for a break in the cattails and willows where I can get down to the water. “Don’t die. Please don’t die.” I fan her, then struggle to stand again.
I keep fanning her as I limp along the levee, looking for a path to the water. A few yards down I find a spot where the willows are sparse. Almost the second I start down the steep, gravelly bank my feet go out from under me. I know the instant before I hit the ground that if I try to break my fall, I’ll have to drop Teapot. I go with the momentum of my body, land on my left shoulder, and slide all the way to the water’s edge on my bare arm.
The pain is excruciating. I lie there groaning. My left arm is twisted behind my back and, since I’ve come to a stop on my side, my full weight is on top of it. It feels broken. I lift my head and look at Teapot lying in the open pack, which I’ve somehow managed to keep balanced in my right hand. I put it down in the shade of the willow that’s behind me. Her breathing is shallow.
I try to sit up without using my left hand, but can’t get leverage. I reach with my right, grab a willow branch, and pull myself up to a sitting position. That’s when I hear the now too-familiar rattle.
The air leaves my lungs in a gasp. I hold perfectly still for a moment before slowly turning just my eyes. I don’t see it and am hoping it has slipped away when the dead leaves at the base of the willow, whose branch I still hold, move. It’s among them—two feet away—watching me, its tongue flicking in and out.
I can’t move or think what to do. Andy is gone. Even if he comes back, I’m not where I was when he ran off. I’m in dense willows, which will make it hard for anyone to spot me. If the snake strikes, there won’t be anything he or anyone else can do.
The rush of blood pumping through my body sounds like a train in my ears. I imagine my skeleton being found by a fisherman one day, mine and Teapot’s, side by side. The muscle in my right arm trembles from holding the willow branch.
If I’m going to die here, let’s get it over with. I squeeze my eyes shut and let go. I hear the branch whoosh back into place and cringe, expecting to feel fangs pierce my arm. When nothing happens, I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The snake is just where it had been, still tasting the air between us. “Go away,” I whisper. “Please, please, please, go away.”
I sit there, letting the minutes seep by. My body aches and my muscles begin to stiffen. The blood on my knees dries and turns black. I watch the snake while I rotate my left shoulder and, though it hurts terribly, it moves and my arm seems to be okay, just badly scraped and bloody. The breeze dies and mosquitoes begin to whine, land, and take advantage of the exposed blood. I watch their abdomens swell.
Teapot’s breathing is almost normal, but she’s still unconscious. The snake looks pretty relaxed, and it occurs to me that it might have gone to sleep. I want to lie down, too—put my head back and rest for a while. And I’m thirsty—terribly thirsty. I close my eyes and try to think about what it will be like when I get home. I can almost smell the line-dried, sunshiny scent of the sheets that will be on my bed.
Fresh rustling in the leaves startles me. I glance at the snake. It’s exactly as it had been. I look a little higher up the slope. A little mouse with huge ears moves toward me, sniffing and snuffling among the grasses and dead leaves beneath the willows.
For the longest time, the snake’s tongue has not appeared, which was the reason I thought it may have gone to sleep, but now its head turns ever so slightly in the direction of the mouse and its tongue slides out—the forked tip flicks the air.
My heart aches for the little mouse, so oblivious to its fate. “Shoo,” I say, and the mouse freezes. The snake is deaf, but the mouse isn’t. “Scram,” I say.
It scurries into a little tunnel of grasses. The snake straightens and begins to slide after it. When it, too, disappears, I put the pack with Teapot on my lap and scoot into the water on my butt. Keeping an eye on where the snake has gone, I gently lift Teapot and hold her so only her feet are in the cool water. Her lolling head rests on my thumb.
Long minutes pass before she blinks and opens her eyes. When she does, I tip her so she can drink, then carefully put her in the water. Though she seems sluggish, she stays upright and bobs against the shore.
I stare at the far side of the canal. To hell with you, Andy. I’ll find the camp without you. I take my boots off. Thank heavens it’s not my right arm that is too sore to lift. I throw first one boot, then the other, as hard as I can, then slide into the water and swim to meet them.
I’d done pretty well. They’ve landed near each other and bump as they float back toward me. I swim as quickly as the pain in my shoulder will allow, checking to make sure Teapot follows.
I catch the first boot and pitch it out of the canal. I hear the splash of it landing in the shallow water on the other side of the berm. The second one gets away from me and I have to chase it down. Once I catch it, my arm hurts too much to swim back against the current, so I pull out on the boulders where I am, put a hand under Teapot and lift her over the edge, then follow on scraped hands and knees.
From this side, which is probably ten feet lower than the levee, I can’t see the roof of the camp, and have no idea where Andy is. Still, I cup my hands around my mouth and shout his name.
Nothing. Just the whispering grasses and a hawk calling as it makes slow circles high above me.
I sit in the shallow water for a few minutes, then put the one boot on, get up, and limp back up the side of the canal until I find the other one.
“We’re on our own,” I tell Teapot. I take a deep breath and squint at the sun. If I keep it on my face, I’ll be headed pretty much southwest.
Since the saw grass here is sparse and grows low, I leave Teapot out to let her swim along beside me, but she gets busy eating so I pick her up and put her in the sling so she can see out.
By the angle of the sun, I guess it must be after four. I’m trying not to think about what will happen if I’m not headed in exactly the right direction. Darkness will come, and I’ll be out here alone. If a whole squad of search planes can’t find us, how will we ever find each other again? Is Andy even looking for me? It doesn’t matter. I’ll find him— and the cabin.
Each time I come to anything I can stand on—a rock outcropping, a small tree, some matted vegetation—I step up and try to glimpse the roof of the cabin. When I come to a good size pond-apple tree, I climb it, shade my eyes and search the horizon, but the sun is all wrong now—too low. There are a couple tree islands a half-mile or so ahead, but is either the right one? I glance behind me to see where to put my foot before climbing down when out of the corner of my eye I see a flash. There it is. The closer of the two islands. “We’re headed the right way,” I tell Teapot.
One of the search planes combs the horizon near where I think we started from. Due west and a little north. The orange Coast Guard helicopter is a bit closer and directly north of me. For the heck of it, I wave, even though it’s so far away I can’t hear its engine.
It takes me nearly an hour to reach a point where I can actually see the camp through the trees. The closer I get, the harder it is to get my legs to work. My dad likes old movies, and I remember seeing more than one where a man who’s dying of thirst in the desert sees a water oasis. He crawls and drags himself toward it, not knowing until it’s too late that it’s a mirage, just sun shimmering on sand. I keep my eyes locked on the cabin, afraid that if I look away, it will vanish like Andy’s fishermen. Each step is an effort in slow motion. When I finally reach the open water of the dredged pond that separates me from the rickety dock, dry land, and the cabin, my legs are like lead.
As close as I am, I can’t move another inch. I sit down in the shallow water and let Teapot out of the sling. Won’t it be something if the searchers, days from now, found me still here, ten yards from the likelihood of food? I lie back in the water and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I lie there; it’s impo
ssible to care. Only Teapot swimming over, climbing onto my chest and snuggling up next to my chin brings me back. I open my eyes. The sky is pink above my head, red and orange in the west. I put Teapot back in the water, sit up, and pull off my boots. I fling them across the pond, swim slowly over, and belly out onto the grass.
When I try to get up, my legs tremble like my arm muscles sometimes do after I carry something heavy. I walk the plank dock to the front of the cabin. It’s dark inside, but by the dim light coming through the screen door I see Andy curled on the floor, moaning and holding his stomach. He’s surrounded by a litter of empty cans: peaches, pears and pineapples. If he hears me enter, he doesn’t look up. I walk over and stand dripping beside him. If it wasn’t for the pain in my feet, I’d kick him. I look instead to see if there is anything he hasn’t eaten.
There are a few cubes left in the bottom of the can of pineapple. Since Andy has pulled every drawer open looking for the can opener, I don’t have to search for a fork. I finish the pineapple, closing my eyes to relish the sweetness, then drink the juice.
The cabin is much nicer than the one we left, which isn’t saying a lot. It’s set up the same, with bunk beds, and windows with rusty metal rods for braces rather than broomsticks. When I pop one open, Teapot chases down and eats a cockroach, then another that has been startled by the addition of light.
The sink is newer, though not cleaner. There are a few more cans of food on the plank shelves along with a Coleman stove. I lift the fabric skirt someone made to cover the pipes under the sink. There is a can of Raid, a trap with the fur-covered skeleton of a mouse caught by the neck, a tin of saltines, and a rusting propane tank, which is light but not empty.
Though the tin hasn’t kept the saltines fresh, they taste wonderful. I break some up and scatter them for Teapot, then inspect a can of Hormel chili. It doesn’t look swollen, although when I wipe the dust off with the hem of my wet shirt, the expiration date is three years ago. I get the opener from the floor beside Andy, open the can, and sniff it. Smells okay.
After studying the stove for a minute or so, I figure out how to attach the propane tank to it. I find waterproof matches in a drawer and after a few tries get the Coleman lit. I empty the chili into a saucepan that I’ve wiped clean with my shirt. In no time, the room fills with the smell of bubbling hot chili.
I take two spoons from the drawer by the sink and go to sit on the floor with Andy.
He’s been watching me. “What happened to your arm?”
“I slid down the side of the levee and landed next to a pygmy rattlesnake.” I should know by now, guilt doesn’t work very well on Andy.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Nothing else.
I look at him for a moment then shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I couldn’t think of anything except getting something to eat.”
I hand him a spoon. “Want some chili?”
“My stomach’s killing me.”
Serves you right.
Teapot comes over and stands on her tiptoes and stretches her neck, trying to see what I’m eating. I break up more crackers for her and crumble some into the chili. When I’ve eaten enough to stop the pain in my stomach, I hold the pot out to Andy.
He shakes his head.
I eat slowly until I finish it all and push the pot away.
Andy crosses his arms over his stomach, rolls back into a ball on the floor, and moans. “I think some of that fruit was bad.”
“You can’t go without food for three days, then stuff yourself.” Even my stomach starts to hurt again, but it’s from the shock of food, not the empty ache I’ve felt for days.
The bedding is filthy, so I lie down on the floor beside Andy. I stare at the water stain on the plywood ceiling for a moment, then turn, put my arm across his shoulder, and fall instantly to sleep.
When I wake the first time, it’s dark. Andy’s on his back, snoring, one arm flung out to his side, the other bent behind his head for a pillow. My last thought before I drift off again is how much more comfortable this is than a tree limb.
The next time I wake it’s because Andy’s tickling my arm. “What?”
He doesn’t answer.
I feel it again and open my eyes. The cabin’s pitch black, and I have to pee. The moon should be up soon. I decide to wait until then to go outside. I roll toward Andy and hear something crunch under my right hip. Teapot! I sit up. Something’s crawling on my leg. I brush it away, but feel another on my neck, then another on my arm. Bugs. Lots of them. I scramble to my feet. It’s like being blind. I can’t see what’s on me or make out any shapes in the room. Whatever they are, they’re climbing my legs. I scream and dance in place, knocking them away with my hands.
“What?” Andy says.
“Something’s crawling on me.”
“Jesus. Me, too.” It’s so totally dark in the cabin that I only know he’s gotten up because he grunts from the effort. I hear popping sounds as he feels his way to the sink where I left the matches.
“Be careful,” I cry. “I don’t know where Teapot is.”
I hear his hand hit and knock the matchbox to the floor.
“Hurry, please.” As fast as I knock a few away, I feel others land on me. They are in my hair. My back is covered with them. One flies and lands on my cheek.
“Get outside,” Andy says. From the location of his voice, he’s on his knees trying to find the matchbox.
“I don’t know where the door is.”
His hand hits the box. He tears it open, scattering the matches, but finds at least one because he strikes it. In the momentary burst of light, before the match fizzles and goes out, I see roaches. Roaches everywhere.
Andy strikes another match. Roaches on the walls, on the floor, in the chili pot, a layer of them covering the screened part of the door, blocking all light. “Teapot,” I cry. “Where are you?”
The match goes out, but not before Andy reaches the front door. When he touches it the screen seems to crack like plaster as the roaches fly into the room. Moonlight splashes in and illuminates the rippling mass of insects cascading over the counter top and up the walls. I see Teapot run from beneath a bunk, headed for the door.
My bare feet squish roaches as I cross the room, open the door, and flee outside with Teapot. I run with my knees bent to absorb the shocking pain in my feet, cross the yard, and plunge into the pond with Andy.
The taste of chili rises and burns my throat.
…
We sleep side by side on the grass at the water’s edge. It’s nearly dawn when I wake to Andy’s racket in the cabin. I tilt my head back. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up a little.”
He’s sweeping the empty cans toward the door.
“Are there still roaches in there?”
“Palmetto bugs. No. They’re gone. I put the chili pot on the step, will you wash it out?”
“Yeah.” I get up. “Don’t come out ’til I tell you, okay? I’ve got to pee.”
Teapot stands, stretches one leg then the other, and pads after me to the cabin, then back to the water. “Go eat,” I tell her. I fill the pot with water to soak off the dried chili, then go behind the croton hedge to pee. I’m just pulling my pants up when I hear the whop, whop, whop of rotary blades. I step out from behind the hedge as the helicopter’s belly number goes right over my head. I can’t see the pilot and know he hasn’t seen me.
I run into the cabin and grab my backpack. Andy and I try to get back out at the same time, jamming the doorway. He pushes through, runs down to the water, plunges in and wades to the middle where it’s the most open.
I unzip the bottom of the pack and dump the contents onto the grass. A bit of morning sun shines through the trees in splinters of light. I find my mirror and flick my wrist until I catch the light, then reflect it toward the helicopter. It’s too late. The bright white circle deflects off the tail of the chopper. I drop my arm. What difference does it make? We’ll walk back to the levee this morn
ing and be out by afternoon. Still, when I squat to put everything back into the pack, tears roll down my cheeks.
20
Knowing how close we are makes it harder to think about getting into the water again. I feel like I’ve used up all my luck. I look at my wrecked feet, then at my legs, which are covered with bites and crisscrossed with saw-grass cuts. I touch my swollen, lumpy cheek, wet with the tears I can’t control. “Look back, please,” I say to the departing helicopter.
It has banked a little to the right, enough for me to see the copilot’s profile. I flick the mirror again. The little circle of light hits his right earphone. Before I have time to wonder if maybe, out of the corner of his eye, he’s seen it, he turns and shields his eyes.
I wave.
Andy’s wading back toward shore. When he realizes the helicopter is returning, he begins to shout and wave his arms. “We’re here,” he hollers. “We’re here.”
I flash the mirror across his face, smile and drop it into the pack.
The sound of the helicopter frightens Teapot, who flees into the cattails at the edge of the pond. Calling her is pointless. The noise of the helicopter drowns out everything. I’ll have to go after her.
Overnight the socks have dried black and as stiff as cardboard. I hunker at the edge of the pond and float them in the water, trying to soften them up. It hurts just thinking about putting them on again—ever. I toss them on the shore, rinse, and gingerly slip my feet into the remains of my boots. It feels as if I’m pouring alcohol on open wounds. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.
Andy reaches shore. “Where are you going?” he shouts over the roar of the helicopter.
“Teapot’s in the cattails.”
He glances that direction. “I don’t see her,” he hollers.
I look at him, then step off into the water.
He catches my arm. “I’ll get her.”
The helicopter comes in and hovers near the end of the dock, about the only spot open enough for the blades to clear the treetops.