Terror at Bottle Creek

by Watt Key

  I cast us off and stepped into the jon as he cranked the motor. We ran upriver to where the long string of hooks was pulled tight across a sandbar. Imagine a clothesline with pieces of two-foot string tied all the way down it and spaced about six feet apart. On the end of each string is a fishhook, usually baited with pieces of mullet or eel. Mullet is more plentiful, but eel meat is tougher and stays on the hooks longer. But catfish will really eat just about anything. We’d even caught them on chunks of Ivory soap before.

  Dad eased the boat up to the bank, and I grabbed the end of the line where it was tied to a tree limb. The other end was anchored out in the river with a cinder block. I could tell we had at least one fish on by the way the line trembled in my hands. Dad shut off the engine and sat down while I pulled the boat toward the first hook.

  “There’s something on there,” I said.

  Dad didn’t respond. It could be anything. We’d caught turtles, trout, flounder, sharks, even alligators. But what we wanted was catfish. We made a little money selling them, but Dad said it wasn’t worth the trouble. He said running the lines is something he used to do with his father. It reminds him of being young. And I suppose every important talk he’s ever given me was out there on the calm water, just the two of us, slowly working the fish off the hooks.

  I came to the first hook and it was clean. I took it off and dropped it in a small plastic box beside me and pulled to the next one. As the line rose dripping out of the water, I saw a six-pound catfish flipping beneath it. I pulled it into the boat and used the paddle to press it to the deck.

  “Careful,” Dad said.

  “I know,” I said.

  I removed the hook from its mouth and grabbed the fish so that my fingers went around the fins. Then I dropped it into the cooler and began pulling again.

  “Clients canceled on me tonight,” he said.

  “Because of the storm?”

  “Yeah. I figure the least it’s gonna do is muddy up this river and flood out the game.”

  The next hook was empty. I took it off and kept pulling.

  “Where do all the animals go?”

  “I don’t know. I guess most of ’em die. Maybe they get to some high ground somewhere.”

  I thought about it. All the hogs crowded together on a small piece of ground in the middle of the swamp.

  “What’s the weirdest thing you ever saw out here?” I asked him.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Weirdest animal. Anything.”

  Dad was quiet for a minute. I almost thought he wasn’t going to answer.

  “I saw a snake one time,” he said, “swimmin’ the river with a catfish head stickin’ out its mouth and the fin stickin’ through its back.”

  “Serious?”

  Dad nodded.

  “How long you think it was like that?”

  The next hook had another, smaller catfish. I worked it off and put it in the cooler.

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “It’s crazy what things can live through.”

  He got quiet and I worked three more catfish off the line before I spoke again.

  “I don’t want her to come back, Dad. I wish you’d leave her alone.”

  “She’s your mother.”

  “I wish it could just be us. I wish she’d move farther away.”

  “It’s complicated, son.”

  “She said she didn’t want you to come over.”

  “Well, sometimes a woman doesn’t know what she wants.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  When I turned to him he was looking away like he didn’t want me to see his face. I stopped pulling.

  “Dad?” I said.

  “Because she’s my wife,” he said. “Because we’re a family.”

  “All she ever did was complain.”

  He acted like he had to cough and wiped at his face.

  “I ain’t one to give up on a thing,” he said.

  “Maybe sometimes you have to.”

  “Quittin’ ain’t in my blood, and it ain’t in yours,” Dad snapped.

  I looked down and didn’t answer.

  I heard him sigh, regretfully. “She wasn’t always like that,” he said.

  I looked up at him again. “But we could be fine,” I said. “Just us.”

  Dad frowned and looked over the river. “You’re just gonna have to let me work it out, son … I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

  * * *

  We wound up the trotline and took it back to the houseboat. I was busy skinning the catfish on the back deck when Dad passed me without a word, got into his truck, and left. I watched him go, then went inside.

  The news showed Igor making landfall in Biloxi. A state of emergency had been declared in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida. People all along the Gulf Coast were lining up at gas stations and grocery stores to get supplies. Northbound interstates were bumper-to-bumper with a steady flow of traffic headed upstate. About the only vehicles traveling south were the National Guard trucks, loaded with survival supplies and soldiers to guard against looters robbing stores and thieves robbing people’s empty houses.

  I turned off the television and went back out to finish skinning fish.

  9

  Dad was still in bed when I poured a bowl of cereal Sunday morning.

  I left the television on and walked outside. Two pickup trucks were backed down the launch ramp, pulling out their boats. I ran my eyes over the stalls and saw that six of them were already empty.

  I heard someone walk up behind me and turned to see Dad, rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t had any sleep.

  “I guess we ought to get after it,” he said.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go over to the shed. I’ll meet you there with the truck, and we can load that plywood and take it to the Stovalls’.”

  As I was crossing the yard I saw the girls up at the house getting into Mrs. Stovall’s car for church. Both of them wore matching yellow dresses with green ribbons in their hair. Like two colorful birds on the hill. Liza waved to me and I lifted my hand at her.

  We spent all morning hauling the heavy four-by-eight sheets of half-inch plywood up to the house and screwing them over the windows. It was exhausting work, but I didn’t mind. I felt better about everything again, with Dad there and things getting done.

  We took a break for lunch and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the houseboat. The sky was blue and only an occasional breeze rippled the surface of the river. It was hard to imagine the storm I’d seen on the news was out there. Despite the good weather, there was a sense of urgency developing at the landing. More people were arriving to get their boats out of the stalls and the boatyard and take them away to higher ground. Everyone seemed in a hurry and not willing to stay and talk much.

  “What do you wanna do about this houseboat?” I asked Dad.

  “I’m thinkin’ about it.”

  “We could anchor it up in one of the creeks.”

  “It’ll take more than the two of us to get this thing upriver,” he said.

  “We gonna stay up at the Stovalls’ until the storm’s over?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “We need to make sure their generator’s working.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And we still gotta get all our stuff off this thing and haul it up to their garage.”

  “What about the boats people haven’t gotten?”

  Dad looked out at the stalls. Then he ran his eyes over the yard.

  “Still got two in the slips. Looks like Gant and Blake. They’ll be here. Any of those boats left in the yard, they’ll have to take their chances they don’t get a tree on ’em. I don’t think the water’s gonna get up there.”

  Dad stuffed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and stood up.

  “Let’s get on the roof and put some more nails in that sheet tin on the south side. It’s gonna get hit the worst.”

  I crossed the yard again and got
the nails and two hammers out of the shed. Dad was already putting the ladder against the roof of the stalls when I returned. We climbed up and started driving extra nails along the seams of the aluminum sheets. I always liked the view of the river from there. You could hear the rush of it and see spoonbills rolling out in the center. The breeze had picked up slightly and tossed my hair about, but it was just a normal, blustery fall afternoon.

  At one point I looked up to see the Carters’ Suburban coming down the hill. Mr. Carter pulled into the yard and backed up to their flats boat. It was the newest and most expensive boat at the landing, a twenty-two-foot Scout with a 225 Yamaha four-stroke. Even though the boat had a custom canvas cover to protect it from the weather, it bothered me to watch it sitting out in the sun and rain.

  “Figured he’d forget about it,” Dad said. “I can’t remember the last time I saw ’em use it.”

  I watched Jason Carter get out of the passenger side and direct his father to match their trailer ball to the receiver. Like Liza, he was in my same eighth-grade class at school. In addition to having a father with a lot of money, he was captain of the basketball team and good at just about anything else he was involved in. He was easily the most popular boy in our grade.

  Jason looked up and saw me. “How’s it going, Cort?”

  “Just trying to get ready,” I said.

  Jason seemed to have everything, including a piece of my life at the landing. But I was okay with him until he asked Liza to the fall dance at our school the year before. Ever since then I’d felt the heat of jealousy creep into my face when I saw him.

  “Basketball team’s off to a good start this year,” he said. “Too bad you can’t come out with us.”

  “Maybe next year,” I said.

  It burned me up to think that I should have asked her myself. But I didn’t. I was scared it would make things weird between us. So I’d stayed home and watched Mr. Carter’s Suburban pull up before her house. I saw Jason go to the door, and she came out in a pretty dress and they took her away like I’d never see her again.

  The next day I asked her if she was his girlfriend.

  “No,” she said, like it was a crazy thought.

  And I suddenly realized I didn’t want to know any more.

  Jason now glanced up at the house. “Liza around?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Tell her I’ll call her,” he said.

  I nodded at him. He could just roll into anywhere and take what he wanted. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  Mr. Carter got their boat connected and they started to get back into their Suburban.

  “See you at school,” Jason said, “after this thing blows over.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “See you later.”

  Dad glanced up as the Carters pulled away.

  “Maybe your mother can still pick you up from practice. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “I can’t count on her.”

  “I’d get you myself, but I’ve got to make a livin’. I’m usually on the river in the afternoons.”

  “I know,” I said. “Forget about it.”

  * * *

  That evening I heard tires crunching on the gravel road up the hill. I watched headlights coming down to the riverbank. The car pulled to a stop just above me and I saw it was Sheriff Curly Stanson, Dad’s friend since grade school. He left the engine running and stepped out with a cheek full of sunflower seeds. He spit a hull at the dirt and studied me over the roof of the patrol car. His door chime dinged softly against the night.

  “Cort,” he said.

  “Hey, Mr. Stanson.”

  “Y’all ready for this thing?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Up the road, I guess.”

  The sheriff frowned and spit again. “What you gonna do about this houseboat?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’s thinking about it.”

  “I hope you don’t plan on stayin’ on it.”

  “I think we’re gonna stay up at the Stovalls’.”

  The sheriff nodded considerately.

  “Does Tom know the governor issued a mandatory evacuation order?”

  “I told him. But we don’t have to leave, right?”

  “No, but if you get in any trouble, they won’t send help. You’re on your own.”

  “I think he knows.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s my job to make sure everybody’s aware of the situation.”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, well, school’s canceled. I guess you figured that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sheriff spit again. “Okay. I’ll be back around tomorrow in case anybody needs help before this mess gets started.”

  He got back into his patrol car and pulled away. I watched his brake lights come on uphill at the Stovalls’ house. I saw him get out and approach their door. I looked down at Catfish. “I guess we might as well get some sleep,” I said to him.

  I got Catfish settled into an old army blanket on the floor. Then I climbed up top and lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the creaking of the pontoons and the chatter of the swamp outside. It was hard to imagine that all of it would soon be wind-thrashed and flooded. My gut told me we hadn’t prepared enough. We hadn’t hauled our stuff out, tested the generator, or even secured the houseboat. It didn’t seem possible to get it all done in time.

  10

  Monday morning the hurricane was still a hundred miles away, but I already sensed it. The sky was a gray blanket of clouds easing strangely east to west, and the air was wet and thick. The Tensaw was three feet above the normal high-water mark, heavy and calm and patient. The only noise was that of a few seagulls keeing and flying lazily upriver. Otherwise there wasn’t a fish popping the surface, not a leaf trembling, not even a crow calling. The animals felt danger approaching, and their absence left an eerie stillness hanging over the swamp.

  It was nearly eight o’clock and Dad was sleeping in again. I stepped off the houseboat and looked over the landing. I heard Francie squeal and turned to see her playing with Catfish near the launch ramp. She saw me and pointed at the dog.

  “He won’t let Elmo ride!” she said, laughing.

  She was trying to put the doll on his back. Catfish moved a few paces away, being patient with her but not willing to play her game.

  I crossed the boardwalk onto the riverbank.

  “Stay close, Francie,” I said. “It’s about to storm.”

  She approached Catfish again and he dodged her once more.

  “Sit down,” I said. “He’ll come up to you.”

  She sat and put Elmo in her lap, and I started uphill.

  * * *

  Liza opened the door, still in her pajamas. “No school,” she announced.

  “I know,” I said. “Still got a lot of work to do, though.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. The house was strangely dark and quiet inside with the windows covered. Mrs. Stovall came down the hall with a towel on her head.

  “Good mornin’, Cort,” she said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “We’re movin’ a little slow around here today.”

  “That’s okay. So’s Dad.”

  Liza opened the refrigerator and peered into it. “What do you want, Cort?”

  “Whatever,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She got out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon and set them on the counter. Mrs. Stovall brushed past her, set the skillet on the stove, and turned on the burner.

  “Did you see Francie out there?” Mrs. Stovall asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s playing with Catfish.”

  I sat down at the kitchen table and Liza sat across from me.

  “I can help get ready today,” Liza said. “Whatever we need to do.”

  “I’ll go into town and get some canned food and jugs of water,” Mrs. Stovall said. “Anything else?�
�

  “You better get flashlight batteries and some mantles for the propane lanterns. We’ll need insect repellant, too.”

  Mrs. Stovall placed several strips of bacon into the skillet. In a moment it was popping and sizzling. As the savory smell of it filled the kitchen I thought back to cold winter mornings on the houseboat when the windows were glazed over with ice and the propane heaters hissed and warmed the room. It was when Mom was still around and Dad cooked breakfast for the three of us. It had been a long time since I’d seen him cook anything.

  After breakfast Mrs. Stovall got her rain jacket off the back of a chair and her purse off the sideboard. I heard rain pattering the roof and a couple of hickory nuts thump and roll off.

  “Make sure Francie stays close,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  She started out the door and I got up and took my plate to the sink. Liza came to the counter and started washing the dishes.

  “I better go see if Dad’s up,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll come help after I finish the dishes and get dressed.”

  “Put on a raincoat,” I said. “Sounds like the rain’s already here.”

  11

  It was sprinkling when I stepped outside. Blake Corte’s truck was pulling up the ramp, trailering his pontoon boat from slip seven. I raised my hand at him, and he lifted a finger off his steering wheel and continued uphill.

  There was still one pickup parked below. I saw Francie by the boat stalls dangling her Elmo doll by the arm. I walked downhill and found her watching Gant Hartley getting his jon ready for takeout.

  “You got everything under control, Cort?” he asked.

  “Getting there,” I said. I turned to Francie. “You and Elmo need to go inside, Francie. Your mom’s at the store, but Liza’s up there.”

  “When’s the storm coming, Cort?” she asked.

  “Soon,” I said.

  “Looks like we’re runnin’ out of time,” Mr. Hartley said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Go on, Francie.”

  She turned and ran for the house. Catfish watched her go, then came up against me.