The Hard Blue Sky

by Shirley Ann Grau

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He jumped to his feet and was up the ladder in a minute. But even as he was climbing, he heard the quick sound of the little feet as they flashed across the carriage roof, under the boom, and then the rattle of the boards on the dock.

  By the time he had got topside, the boy had disappeared. Only, the shells around a half-dozen or so kegs were still rattling and rolling. He stared at the barrels for a while. Then he went slowly down the ladder again.

  He sat down and put a hand on each knee. “Why the hell did you bring him?”

  Annie sniffed. Her eyes were heavy with tears. “I didn’t. He just come along. And there ain’t nothing I could do about it.”

  He sucked back his lips and whistled. They waited. There was the faintest little whispering sound, hardly a sound.

  “There he is again.” And the little face peered in the window.

  Inky got to his feet and went up into the cockpit. Not bothering to hurry this time. He stared at the kegs, at the tool shed, at the heap of old lumber.

  “Which one do you suppose he’s hiding behind?”

  Annie had followed him up. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh Christ.” He threw himself down on the cockpit seat, propped up his legs and reached in his shirt pocket for his pipe.

  “I guess I go home.”

  “Might as well,” he said.

  “I couldn’t help Claudie following me.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I’m going.”

  “See you around sometime.”

  When she was halfway down the dock, walking slowly, curling her bare toes at each step, the little boy slipped from behind the farthest of the kegs and followed her, his skinny legs moving rapidly.

  She heard him, spun around, stamping her foot, and lifting up her right arm, with its fist clenched. He veered off, still at a trot, and ducked around the tool shed.

  She kept on, walking the full length of the dock. At the end she hesitated a minute, and glanced back over her shoulder at the boat. Inky had not moved: she could see only the back of his head. And there was a brown pelican sitting right on the top of the mast.

  She started home. She went along the path, feeling how hot the shells were to her feet. Then she crossed the little fields where the grass was prickly, but cool. She did not look behind her, but she could hear: the little boy had appeared again. And he was trotting along, not ten feet behind.

  PETE LIVAUDAIS STAYED QUIETLY around the house for a few days, seeming to rest, though he didn’t sleep much: any time of the day or night that you passed the place you could see him on the porch, in a chair, his feet up on the rail. It looked like he was waiting for something.

  But when anybody passed, he would look over and wave and give them a big smile. And unless you went over to the front steps to have a word or two, you didn’t notice how deep and heavy the circles were under his eyes.

  That Thursday evening three of the luggers were out: the St. Christopher, the Hula Girl and the Captain Z. The Mickey Mouse, coming in, said their luck had turned bad. So they’d be staying out until late that night.

  It was a thick heavy yellow twilight. Any of the women who had clothes to bleach spread them out on the grass so the very first of the morning sun could get them: best thing in the world for a stain.

  The mosquitoes were coming over in waves from the marshes across the bay. The cows snorted and churned their tails around, while the kids drove them back to stalls that were covered with mosquito netting.

  Cecile Boudreau had finished feeding the baby and was sitting down to supper with her oldest boy. The table was under the window and when she glanced out she saw Pete Livaudais. He was walking in the slow heavy way he had got, like an old man, bending forward a little from the waist as if his back was hurting. Cecile was surprised. It was the first time she had seen him come off the porch. And the sight of the bending back put a sharp little pain in her stomach—she could almost see the other boy, Henry, going there.

  So she yelled out through the window; “Hey, Pete!” And he stopped short, hesitated a minute trying to figure out where the sound had come from, then turned.

  She could remember the flash of his teeth in the steadily darkening light. His face was not clear.

  “I got a cup of coffee here with your name on it,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Got to get some things down at the dock.”

  “No coffee?”

  “Promised Ma I’d get straight back.”

  “You got to hurry for sure,” she said, “or the mosquitoes drain you dry.”

  She waved and sat back down at the table. And yanked her boy’s head up out of his plate. He had fallen asleep, one cheek on the rice.

  Al Landry was leaving the Mickey Mouse. He was tired, and his luck had been bad, not enough to pay for the gas this time. When he heard the clatter of hollow cans he looked up.

  It was Pete Livaudais, dragging a cart, a boy’s wagon with bits of the flaked red paint still on it. There were two five-gallon cans jouncing on the bed.

  “Hi boy,” Al said. “What you doing?”

  Pete waved a hand. “Got all this.”

  “You doing that the hard way, boy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why you don’t bring the engine around to the pump?”

  “Never did do things the easy way,” Pete said.

  And the rusty mildew-spotted wagon jounced along the uneven boards and right along past.

  The kid looked tired, Al thought, real out-and-out tired. Bone-tired.

  “Better take it easy,” he said to the blue-shirted back.

  And Pete said, soft and whispered, without turning: “Hell. … ”

  Fornest St. Clair was reading an old copy of Good Housekeeping under the single unshaded globe by the gas pump. “What you say, kid?”

  “You want me to fill ’em ?”

  Fornest got up and stretched his short stocky frame, carefully. Then he unhooked the hose. He pointed with the nozzle to the magazine he had left, face up on the chair. “Look at that.”

  Pete looked but did not answer.

  “That what I come to read.”

  “Yea?”

  “Recipes, and babies … man, I’m an expert, me.” He scratched his chin, long slow strokes, enjoying every one.

  Pete waited, stooping a little, his arms hanging straight down at his sides.

  “My old lady, she say if I don’t get me a shave, she going to walk straight out the house.”

  “Yea?”

  “She do it, boy. She go right straight over to her brothers’. … They never did think she shoulda married with me. … Bastards. Like Dagos, man.”

  “I want the gas,” Pete said.

  “Sure … sure.” He plunked the nozzle down. “Lemme get you some lube.”

  “No,” Pete said.

  “Huh?”

  “Just the gas.”

  “How you going to use that in an outboard?”

  Pete took the nozzle and began filling the first can. Fornest grabbed it away from him.

  “You spill any,” Pete said, “you ain’t charging it to me.”

  “Never did spill a drop in my life.”

  “Don’t go starting now.”

  With his ear down on the can to listen to it fill, Fornest said: “How you going to use this without no lube beats me.”

  “Got lube back at the house.”

  “Huh?”

  “Got lube.”

  “Where from?”

  “How’d I know?” Pete said. “It’s just there.”

  Fornest began the second can. “Reckon you can always come back for it,” he said. “Tell you what, man—bet you a dollar bill, there ain’t no lube back at your place. Ain’t like your old man to keep more stuff around than he’s going to use.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plain gas ain’t no use.” Fornest screwed the top on the last can and stood up.

  He stopped arguing, all of a sudden, when
he saw Pete’s face. The boy looked like he was about to cry.

  WHEN THE HULA GIRL came back, around one o’clock when there was an old moon just beginning to rise, the men did not notice anything. Maybe it all happened after that. And maybe they weren’t looking. They were beat and just wanting to get to bed. Old man Boudreau and Hector and Perique did only the things they had to on the boat and then went their three separate ways.

  Old Boudreau limped slowly up his steps: his crippled hip hurt more than ever when he was tired. Wore out like a bull, he thought, at the spring servicing. Just inside the kitchen door, he stepped on the cat, which yeowled and scratched at him. He kicked at it, but without any real energy or direction. His wife did not even wake up.

  There was a light in the little back room where Hector’s son slept. Even as he came up the steps he could hear Cecile explaining: “There ain’t no painter here, che’ … open up you eyes and look now.”

  So he’d been having another dream, Hector thought. And why did kids always have the worst ones? That boy now, he’d seen his whole body shake … just like a branch somebody was beating.

  Hector dropped his pants and shirt alongside the bed. The sheet was still warm where Cecile had been lying. He stretched out waiting for her: she was still talking to the boy. “Open you eyes. Come on now.”

  His hands were full of grease and dirt, Hector thought. But he’d probably marked up the sheet already. And it was such a long trip to wash them.

  The light went out—he could see that through the cracks of the boards. And he could hear Cecile close the door softly. She was talking to herself. “God damn,” she was whispering, “god damn to hell!”

  And wouldn’t she be surprised, Hector thought, when she found him.

  Perique wiped the sweat off the back of his neck. The nights weren’t even cool. But that was September. It was always like that.

  He had taken off his shoes and tied them by the laces to his belt so that they flopped against his thigh. He stopped now and loosened them.

  In the room where he slept, Jesus, it would be hot. The screens kept out more air than mosquitoes.

  The houses had their doors and windows all wide open, and those who had them had the electric fan going all night long. If you stood still and listened you could hear the buzzing all around. And just walking past the houses, you could smell the heat and the closeness that was coming out of them. Odors hung in the air like ribbons. And you could tell what they had had for supper.

  The Robichaux place, he was passing that now, they’d had meat, fried meat. Tina Robichaux always used lots of onions and garlic. And if you stopped you could hear the old man snoring away like somebody was choking him.

  And the Landry place, that was shrimps for sure. …

  He found himself staring at the window he knew was Annie’s. He found himself trying to remember—he’d been in only once since he was a man grown: that evening he’d been drinking with Hector. … Wasn’t much over a month ago, but it seemed longer. He kept staring at the dark window, wondering.

  He put down his shoes, carefully, one next to the other in the very center of the path, slipped open the gate. There was a bucket by the front steps—the shrimps would have come in that—and he picked it up, carrying it in both hands so it wouldn’t rattle. He walked around the house carefully until he came to the window, which was slightly over his head. Then he up-ended the bucket and stood on it. It sank a bit in the soft ground, but held. He put both hands on the sill and peeped in. He couldn’t see much through the mosquito netting, not with the moon behind him. He reached out one finger and moved it slowly, wondering if it would catch on anything inside, lifting one fold after the other. He had it up finally, and he held it back with his left hand. Now the moon fell straight into the room.

  He leaned on the sill, sniffing the warm heavy female odor which hung on the still air. He blinked his eyes quickly, getting used to the soft half-dark. The bed was under the window, but pulled out a little, to get the best of the air. Annie was there, feet toward him, sleeping on her side.

  She wasn’t at the boat. He felt relieved.

  He let the netting fall back across the window and, quickly as he could, he put the bucket back by the steps and slipped out the gate. His heart was pounding, the way a kid’s would, who’s just had a beating.

  Son of a bitching fool, he told himself silently.

  On his own back porch, on the railing there, was an extra piece of netting. His mother had left it there a week or so ago, intending to use it for something. … Whatever it was, Perique thought, it would die waiting for her.

  But the net would do for him now. He took it and headed for the oak grove not too far behind. The smell of houses made him sick, there in the back of his throat.

  He hung the net—carefully so it didn’t tear—on the lowest dead twig of a little oak. Then he held out the edges with pieces of brick he found. He took off his shoes and crawled under. There were a few mosquitoes left. He set about killing them, and then he fell asleep.

  He was too tired to notice the sky to the west.

  Story LeBlanc saw it first, coming in on the St. Christopher. But by then you couldn’t miss it, if you had any eyes in your head.

  “Jeez,” he said, “they got a hell of a fire over there.”

  And Placide Arcenaux looked over and grunted.

  Beyond the west tip of Isle aux Chiens you could see the low hump of the other island, the low bumpy outline of its scrub trees. You could see it outlined dark against the red glow.

  “On the north side, huh?” Placide asked.

  “Somebody got careless.”

  “Yea,” Placide said.

  But by the time they had gone in and were fastening their lines, there was another sound, a sharp flat thudding sound. Shotguns.

  Placide Arcenaux looked at Story LeBlanc and scratched his ear. “Look like they having a real fight over there.”

  And Dick Millier shook his head. “I’m too old to go bothering about what they doing.” He went stumping off: he had rheumatism all down one side. He carried a big bottle of aspirin; when the pain got too bad, he would gulp three or four.

  Placide and Story took the skiff with the outboard and went down to the west to have a look. They lay just off Caminada Point, and they could see plainly from there: the fire was on the north side, along the wharf. They could see two boats standing off, and there might have been more in the dark behind them. And they could hear the yelling.

  “Jeez,” Story said, “they got themselves a beaut.”

  There were a couple more outboards coming up from Isle aux Chiens: they weren’t the only people who’d been curious. The skiffs bobbed there, softly in the gentle swell. And the surface of the water reflected in broken planes the glow of fire.

  Back at the island most everybody had gone to the north side. They stood watching very quietly on the long shell mound that was the island’s backbone.

  The older kids were running up and down, yelling at the glow in the sky.

  “Burn the crap out them!” Tim Milliet yelled and his mother gave him the side of her hand on the back of his neck.

  “Jeez,” he yelled, “you going to kill me.”

  His mother just lifted her chin and didn’t answer.

  In the houses under the trees, the babies were screaming. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to them.

  The Captain Z put in, the last of the luggers. As he swung his bow in, Eddie Livaudais called: “They roasting over there for sure.” And he was chuckling so hard that he fumbled his stern mooring-line and dropped it in the water. So that the kids on the dock had to throw it to him again. He caught it this time, but it left a smear and a spatter of wet and seaweed on his pants.

  Perique was over on the north side, looking, like everybody else. The noise had got him up. But he hadn’t seen anything interesting much. And he was turning to leave when Cecile spotted him.

  He grinned briefly at her round eager face. Hector had himself a girl there
for sure, he thought.

  “Where you going?” She was breathless and panting and grinning

  Like a baseball game, Perique thought, and she was having a grand time. “Nowhere,” he said, “in particular.”

  “You want to do something for me?”

  He squinted up into the sky. It wasn’t a very clear night after all. The stars were misty. Or maybe it was smoke.

  “Like what?” he said.

  “Take me over there to see what going on.”

  Perique sighed. “And me so beat.”

  “You want to see, no?”

  “I been working,” he said. “And I don’t give a god damn if the whole place over there burn up.”

  Adele was passing them. In the dim light she hesitated before her timid hello.

  “You want to come with us?” Cecile asked.

  Adele looked from one to the other.

  “Tell her where we going,” Perique said.

  “Perique is taking us over to see what going on.”

  Adele was looking at him. He could feel her steady calm brown eyes. “Maybe,” she said softly, “Perique don’t know that.”

  He snorted. “She call you bluff, che’.”

  “But then,” Adele said, “maybe you will take us?”

  He thought: pretty eyes, pretty teeth, in a face that wasn’t much and a body that was too thin.

  She reminded him of his mother. Not because she looked like his mother—she didn’t, not at all. But because she looked just the way his mother should look.

  “Okay. …” He gave up. “We going to use the Tangerine?”

  “Nope,” Cecile said, “my old man’s outboard.”

  “Go get it,” he said. “Me, I’m going home and get some coffee or I fall asleep.”

  He walked home, not hurrying. Let ’em wait, the bitches. He was swearing softly under his breath all the way. A man didn’t work twenty hours and then go chasing around. “Sal au pri,” he told himself aloud.

  In the houses he passed the lights were all on; some of the kids had got tired of watching already and had come back home. The littlest ones sat on the front steps, nodding with sleep, but not going to bed. And some of the older ones played Devil on the Banquette on the shell walks.