Catfish in the Cradle

by Wile E Young

  I hadn’t bothered to turn on any of the lights in the house; the lightning illuminated the halls and rooms every time a thunderbolt slashed through the sky. I knew the pathways around my house by heart and walked with confidence. Sammie Jo’s crib was sitting firmly in the living room and I laid Lincoln into it, the boy crawled and grasped for a moment before he lay still… calm.

  The thunder boomed outside, and I sat back in my lazy chair, kicking the leg out and laying my tired body down to rest. I hadn’t been able to sleep in the bedroom since Renee had passed. Too many nights I had rolled over searching for her only to find empty sheets.

  Wonder what she would have said if she had known a grandson was on the way…

  Those same thoughts accompanied me into the depths of sleep.

  ****

  The howling wind woke me; I came out of good dreams of a happy family like a drowning man gasping at air and scanned the room around me.

  My front door was open, the hinges squealing as it flapped back and forth against the wall from the gale outside.

  Lincoln was still in his crib. I could see his little hands grasping at the air, gurgling noises of happiness.

  I stood up, clicking on the lamp; the floor was wet. The rain washing through the front door had left quite a mess on the carpet, but that didn’t scare me as much as the muddy footprints still wet and fresh.

  There was nothing else that they could have been. An odd angular shape, round like whoever had made it had swirled their foot around on the floor to make their foot prints bigger, or they were trying to wipe away the evidence of their trespass.

  There were several different paths, but the ones that ended at Lincoln’s crib seized me with panic. my heart felt like it was in a vice as I stumbled to the gun cabinet and retrieved my rifle.

  “Who’s in here?” I roared the question as a challenge, but no answer was forthcoming from whoever had invaded my home.

  I closed the front door slowly; the rainwater had made a mess of the footprints closest to the door, reducing them to nothing more than brown smears against the tile and carpet.

  If the intruder was still in my house then the only way out was through the screen door that was directly in my sight. They could try to run but first they’d catch a bullet.

  I checked the kitchen: nothing.

  I crept through the hallways diligently searching each room: nothing.

  There was no one in the house.

  If my friends could see me, they would have brought the lab coats and the white vans. My paranoia was beginning to get out of hand; there wasn’t anyone out there following me and my grandson, just an old man’s regret.

  The adrenaline left my system and I just felt tired.

  The grief came, and I walked over to Lincoln’s crib, letting the tears roll down my face. I didn’t know when I would come to grips that my daughter wasn’t coming back… who would raise my grandson if the grief killed me? I doubted I would live to see the boy get married, and if I did it would most probably be from a wheelchair, pissing in a bag with a pretty nurse wiping my ass.

  That ain’t living.

  Lightning flashed, and something caught my eye outside in the dark.

  There was someone standing on the hill leading down to the boat.

  I immediately snatched up my rifle and threw open the screen door. The ancient glass rattled in the frame as the sounds of the storm hit me with the force of a cannon. The rain chattered against every tree trunk for miles, creating a staccato that I could barely hear myself over. The lightning flashed over and over while the thunder roared in fury.

  The figure stood with its back to me. I could see the dirty jeans and jacket covering a hoodie pulled up to conceal the person’s head. The shoulders were tall, broad; no way could it have been a woman. There was something odd about the way he was standing, slumped.

  I shouted a warning over the gale, aiming the rifle at the man’s back, but he didn’t move.

  I took a few steps closer and shouted again.

  I was close enough to touch the man now and I shoved the barrel of the rifle into his back.

  He toppled forward, the jacket sleeves fluttering in the wind.

  It wasn’t a man, but some sort of effigy or scarecrow propped up to simulate a man standing, sticks wound with strings of plant fiber to simulate a body, bits of leaves stuffed here and there… all of it painted with symbols I couldn’t decipher.

  The clothing was mine.

  I recognized the tattered work jeans with the hole just above the knee and the frayed ends of the legs. The jacket was an old thing that Renee had given me and had been hanging in my closet, and the hoodie was the only one that I owned.

  Someone had come into my house, someone had taken the clothes. I wasn’t paranoid.

  I retreated back into the house and waited for the storm to clear.

  Didn’t reckon I would be getting much sleep that night.

  Chapter Six

  I called Otis over the landline in the morning; he promised he’d come out as soon as he finished up some paperwork. Mist had risen up over the lake with the sun. The cypress moss was dripping, and the trees were long with shadows. The effigy lay where I had left it.

  I was feeding Lincoln the formula that Sue Ray had left for me yesterday when I heard the tell-tale cough of the engine and saw Otis and Beau coming up the road. Mud immediately caked his brown boots as the Sheriff exited; Beau gave a long-suffering look towards the ground as his pristinely shined black shoes stained with the countryside perfume.

  I carried Lincoln with me to meet both of them. We didn’t bother shaking hands or making much small talk as I led them around the house to where the effigy was laying on the ground, damp clothes hugging it tight.

  Otis carefully turned it over and chuckled. “Shoot, could probably win first prize at the fair this year.”

  I didn’t bother telling him that I didn’t think it was funny.

  “Didn’t see anyone set this thing up?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you were asleep when you say whoever broke in set this up.”

  Again, another nod. Otis frowned and asked to be let in the house to look at the footprints I had found.

  “They’re all rubbed around on your carpet. Can’t even tell what kind of shoe he was wearing.” Otis sighed and stood up, rubbing the bald spot on his head and looking supremely frustrated. “I’ll grant you that something weird is going on here Grady, but there isn’t much I can do besides get Beau to stay out here on watch and send that thing over to the Marshall PD.”

  The deputy looked sick at the thought of staying out here by himself for a bit, but I assured him that Gideon and Vicky had promised to watch Lincoln while I went hunting so he wouldn’t be alone.

  I didn’t get my clothes back. “Evidence,” Otis had told me as He, Beau, and I heaved the thing into the back seat of the police cruiser, readjusting it to fit thanks to its awkward shape. I was out of breath when it was over as it had required all three of us to lift and my heart was racing in my chest. Thought I would have a heart attack as I panted, leaning against the old scratched metal of the car.

  Otis promised to check with the Marshall PD on the results of my requested paternity test. I hoped for a name, any bit of information about the man who had lured away my daughter.

  They both left with Beau promising to come back later and take up his watch of my property.

  ****

  Gideon and Vicky arrived a half hour or so later, neither of them caring how much mud splattered against the side of Gideon’s truck. Vicky swept Lincoln up when they entered the house, cooing over the boy and bouncing him in her arms.

  I clapped Gideon on the shoulder. “Look close, son. That’s the future for you.” Gideon’s eyes were calm, like that was a joke he had heard plenty of times before. “Hopefully not for a long time.”

  I had seen Gideon Whyte grow up alongside Sammie Jo, one of the few people who grew up around here that stayed because they
wanted to, not because they had to. He was a pretty successful fisherman and had landed spots on a few shows that had featured the lake. He was currently the record holder for the fourth largest fish ever caught in the lake. Honorable kid; never once forgot respect for anyone older than him.

  I planned for a long day on the lake. A couple of cold Coronas (my favorite) went into the ice chest that had lost its deep blue sheen over the years from all the times it had played faithful to me under the hot bayou sun. Raw chicken in a plastic bag: gators couldn’t get enough of it, flocking and tearing into the meat like it was open season. Turkey sandwiches, not bologna. I’d never like it that much. A couple of bottles of water.

  After I was done, I went back to my bedroom and put on my waders. Renee had always immediately washed them when I had come in off the lake after a long day. She never could stand the smell of blood and fish guts. They weren’t camouflage fatigues like the military; no these were more brown and khaki, easier to mix in with the woods around the river. I grabbed my orange hunting vest, sliding it easily over my shoulders.

  Gator had been my primary source of food over the years, but like everyone who had grown up around here I had tried my hand at deer hunting.

  I walked back out to the gun cabinet. Vicky had settled in easily on the couch with Lincoln in her arms. Gideon had made himself comfortable next to her and had turned on the TV.

  Flashbacks to that same couch and Renee holding Sammie Jo in her arms while I fiddled with some carving or another. But I couldn’t let the grief get to me if I wanted to eat this summer. I had to get going.

  But I didn’t feel like going alone.

  “Vicky, I’m going to have to borrow your beau for the day if you don’t mind. These old hands and eyes aren’t what they used to be…”

  People always felt sorry for the elderly. Maybe it was because my generation never really asked for help. Self-reliance had been our bread and butter.

  Vicky glanced at Gideon, who shrugged. She smiled and sighed, “Oh what the hell. Y’all be careful though.”

  Gideon smiled and stood as I thanked his girlfriend and unlocked my gun cabinet, pulling out the two bolt-action .22s that I kept mainly for hunting game. The younger man handled it well. His folks had obviously taught him that a gun wasn’t a toy but a tool; he checked the safety, made sure that it wasn’t loaded, and angled it away from everyone in the room.

  “Lock the door after we leave and don’t open it up unless you know who it is. Beau will be by after a while to watch the place.”

  I saw a shadow pass beneath Vicky’s eyes. “Expecting trouble?”

  “Couldn’t say just yet; just keep the doors locked unless you know who it is, okay?”

  She said she would, following Gideon and I as we dragged the ice chest, guns, and the rest of the odds and ends out to the boathouse.

  Gideon loaded it all into the 175 while I went to my workbench, grabbing rope, the giant pronged anchor that I used, a makeshift gator hook, and the necklace of gator teeth I kept in the little drawer beside the skinning table. It was half trophy and half good luck charm.

  Gideon clambered into the boat as I activated the winches. The tightly wound metal wires groaned as they lowered the boat into the water. I walked onto the lower dock and stepped easily into the boat as Gideon pushed off the pier, propelling us back and into the channel that ran behind my cabin.

  Vicky walked out onto the dock, Lincoln’s hand clutched tight in her own. “There goes Grandpa. Say bye-bye!” She waved the boy’s little hand at me, and for a moment I felt that flood of love you’re supposed to have for children, especially your own blood.

  The kid’s face though, the closed eyes and pallid skin… the love soured into resentment just as quick.

  They were standing on the exact spot where my daughter had taken her last breath.

  I cranked the engine on and we sped away.

  ****

  It took maybe a half hour to get to the big lake from my cabin. I cranked the motor into high gear and we rocketed down the channels and bayous, the lily pads, salvinia weed, and trees rushing by in a blur as the river narrowed and widened at random.

  The big lake stretched all around us, rolling green hills with the barest glimpses of houses showing between their leaves taking up the view every which way you looked. Duck blinds dotted the waters of the lake, grey thatch and dried straw covering up the wooden piers so that any fowl lighting on the water wouldn’t notice their death crouching behind the cover.

  “Where’d you say we were hunting this gator?” Gideon shouted over the motor screaming behind us.

  “Down at Long Point around Goose Island!” I replied, angling the 175 to the right, motoring close to the coast that would take us there.

  We were in remote territory now, and Gideon’s cell phone barely caught reception as we disappeared into the cypress trees and moss. This wasn’t a channel for tourist boats or party barges eager to enjoy the thrills of the lake; this was for hunters and fishermen eager to make their catch away from prying eyes.

  Long Point had just started getting a few houses built, mostly rich folks who put in pools and tennis courts, little estates that they could disappear to from their high paying jobs in Shreveport. The marsh around Goose Island was a maze of cypress trees that hadn’t been trimmed or cut to make a proper channel, every trunk haphazardly jutted from the water.

  I throttled down and moved the boat deftly under moss, Gideon keeping a lookout for any cottonmouths that had decided to sunbathe on the branches.

  A row of droplines were strung from some low hanging branches. I killed the engine, raised the motor, and let our wake push us forward. These weren’t my lines, though I had a few strung up in various bayous. I mostly stuck to the river and various channels; the big lake had too much traffic.

  Gators were opportunistic, and the game wardens would raise hell if the hooks got bigger than few millimeters across. A gator would swallow any fish and hook off a dropline without hesitation. I pulled up the line and was rewarded with the tattered heads of fish that had bit down and fallen victim to a reptile. Couldn’t be sure that it was my gator, but considering the location and brazenness of attacking something men had put in the water… it was pretty damning.

  A few fishermen I knew ran trotlines instead of drops. Matter of taste really, running horizontal hooks instead of vertical. More dangerous that way, though. An angry alligator would start thrashing as soon as they felt even the slightest bit of disturbance from the object keeping them there.

  “Think he’s still around?”

  I glanced over at Gideon who was eyeing the .22 nervously. I shook my head at the boy, smiling ruefully. “Doubtful.”

  The boat rocked as I released the dropline back into the water. I clambered up onto the bow fishing seat and gestured for Gideon to take the twin seat on the bow.

  I had installed a trolling motor to get through shallow waters; if we hit a stump with the main motor, we were going to be up the shit creek people kept talking about. I didn’t feel like diving in this murky crap for a dropped off prop while a gator with a taste for blood was swimming around.

  The motor vibrated, and we moved forward through the trees. It was slow going, barely more than couple of feet every thirty seconds. I was like a new man, out in my element and I felt ten years younger.

  The rains last night had brought up the mist. It closed in tight around us like a lover. The shadows from the cypress, pines, and logs in the water loomed out at me. I took it slower than normal and more than anything I listened…

  There was a distant and deep croak… bullfrog.

  A splash or two as we neared driftwood in the water… turtles.

  Then another noise, creaking.

  Metal.

  I pulled the motor and swung the boat starboard. The mist parted, and the deep greens of the woods came into view… along with a small aluminum boat wedged haphazardly between two trees.

  I cut the motor and glanced at Gideon who wordlessl
y reached down and grabbed the .22 rifle, working the breech and sliding a round into the chamber.

  I didn’t immediately reach for my own weapon; I looked around the shore for footprints or any sign of the boat’s owner. Nothing.

  “Anybody there?” My voice drifted through the trees, echoed across the branches, and disappeared.

  Something obviously wasn’t right, and my heart thumped in my chest, a sweat forming on my brow that had nothing to do with the humidity.

  The remains of a net floated in the water along with a splintered paddle, tackle box half open, an aluminum fishing pole…

  Someone had been here and got out quick.

  I rustled around in the hull until I found my own paddle, gesturing for Gideon to keep an eye out as I reached out and attempted to dislodge the other boat from between the two trees.

  There was a groaning sound, and the boat slid down, exposing the corpse underneath. The right arm was gone, bits of ragged blood and bone hanging like a wet rag from the stump. The face had been shredded, exposing jawbone with the lower teeth still outstretched in an unfinished scream.

  “Jesus!” Gideon shouted, nearly tumbling from his seat while raising his rifle. I stared grimly at the torn orange life jacket; he had tried to swim for it.

  Can’t outswim an angry gator.

  I raised my arm to my nose to block out the smell. The flies and mosquitoes had descended eager to make a meal of the unfortunate man, Minnows swam in out of the dirty red wounds while bigger fish darted in for swift bites, disappearing when I scattered them with a splash of my paddle. The buzzing was terrible.

  “It fucking did this?” Gideon half shouted, his eyes roving over the dead man, fighting hard not to be scared. Good boy.

  “Yeah, man-eater now.”

  “We going to report it?”

  I shook my head; I had only ever killed one man-eater in my entire life on this lake. It had almost killed me then.