Uncertain Summer

by Jessica Lee Anderson

  After another attempt, I dropped the knife to the ground. NO! It fell a few feet outside of the cage.

  I knelt down to try to retrieve it. My broken finger knocked it even further away. I couldn’t lose the only thing that offered any protection. I reached with my left hand this time instead, so far so that my armpit pinched against the metal. I could finally touch the blade and pull it in, slicing my skin in the process.

  Blood trickled from my left index finger after. Great. Just great. I used the bottom of my t-shirt to wrap my finger, though it took more effort than you could imagine. I’m sure the risk of infection was high, but that had to be the least of my concerns.

  I sank to the floor, sitting on the ground, just now noticing a corn trough at the other end of the cage. The rotted smell in the air was strong from here, and the cage had an odor that was a mixture of urine and fear from whatever had been trapped in here before. Like I was now.

  An hour passed or maybe it was only a few minutes—already I felt like I was losing my mind like Swamp Sam had. Besides getting myself trapped, I still didn’t have any answers regarding Tim, Shawna, and Emmett.

  I needed that life rewind button more than ever. I dwelled on how I should’ve told them goodbye.

  I should’ve told Shawna that even if she wasn’t my friend anymore, she’d been a good one in the past. We’d both messed up.

  I should’ve told my brother he annoyed me, but I couldn’t imagine life without him.

  I should’ve told Tim I liked him instead of just hoping he realized it.

  This Should’ve Game didn’t do anything to help this mess, so I came up with some unlikely ingredients for future episodes of Garbage Can Gourmet.

  Fish oil.

  Lime rinds.

  Stale potato chips.

  Apple cores.

  Can of olives.

  Overripe banana.

  Cayenne pepper.

  Leftover barbecue.

  Frostbitten steak.

  Pigs feet.

  Deer antlers.

  Well, that brought me back to reality.

  I threw my whole body around, hoping the trap would collapse so I’d be free. Just like the lock, it didn’t give the slightest. The only thing capable of escaping was a stream of tears.

  27

  Gram once said that the tears from Chuck Norris could cure all diseases … if only he’d ever cry. I pulled myself together. I was thirsty enough as it was and had a huge headache. The numbness in my hand had started to morph into searing pain, but I refused to give up.

  I went back to trying to unhook the latch. The knife was too wide. Time was hard to gauge, but based on the position of the sun, it had to be well after noon by this point. I was drenched in sweat so I rested my hand and my whole body, too. When I did, I found a gap in the earth underneath the weight of the heavy metal bar of the cage. I could use the knife like a shovel and dig my way out. Or die trying.

  I couldn’t think like that. Chuck Norris could beat the sun in a staring contest, and he’d find a way to get out this situation.

  I stabbed the knife into the ground. The blade wobbled from the firmness of the dirt—this area must’ve missed the recent storm. Because of my injured hands, I held the handle awkwardly and scooped at the dirt instead. The earth gave some, but only about a tablespoon at a time. It would take forever before I’d be able to dig a hole large enough to crawl out of.

  I froze completely when a loud screech echoed through the area. I could almost see a towering dark shadow behind a tree.

  Swamp Sam was approaching the cage. He glanced around like he wondered where the ape-like noise had come from, too. “Stop watching me!” he shouted at the woods. He’d changed into a pair of cleaner jeans and white shirt with a blood stain on the shoulder. He carried something. A container, maybe.

  I stood over the area I’d been digging to hide it. When Swamp Sam reached the cage, he was holding a plastic half-gallon jug of milk filled up with a clear liquid. It didn’t have a cap on it.

  “Here,” Swamp Sam said, squeezing the container through the bars. Some of the liquid dribbled out, splashing my feet. I almost backed up and revealed the hole I’d dug under the cage. He grunted and jiggled the container at me.

  I hesitated before taking it from him. It could’ve been full of poison to make me fall asleep before he hacked me up to bits. Or it could’ve just been regular old water. I planned on waiting until later to inspect the liquid further before deciding whether or not I’d drink it. If I stayed locked up long enough, I’d have to. And even with my front tooth in bad shape, the corn in the trough might have to become snack fodder. Chuck Norris wouldn’t need to eat. He’d find a way to gobble up fear.

  I must’ve said this out loud because Swamp Sam asked, “Is this Chuck Norris person in on the plan?”

  I laughed. “I wish.”

  Swamp Sam scowled. “No funny business until I figure out what to do with you.” He glanced at my hand, which had swelled up even more, scowling at the sight of it. Maybe I just imagined it, but it seemed like a wave of concern or worry washed over him. His shoulders sagged, and he took a slow, deep breath. Without another word, he trekked back to the area where the stuffed costume had been. He struggled to carry it off.

  A few minutes later, a brown pickup truck pulled out from behind the cabin. It was hard to see from the vantage of the cage, but I was sure that had been the same truck I’d observed that gruesome day in the woods. As I’d found out today, Dierk drove a BMW, and there was no doubt at all that Swamp Sam had been the poacher. Now I knew what he was up to.

  I should’ve made the connection sooner. I really had to survive this to let everyone know what was going on.

  Once the sounds of the truck disappeared into the distance, I sniffed the liquid. It didn’t have any odor, but given the disgusting smells in and around the cage, maybe my nose couldn’t be trusted. I wanted to believe that Papa’s old boss wouldn’t poison me, but he was mentally ill and had already broken my finger and locked me away.

  Between the cut on my left hand and the broken middle finger on my right, it didn’t matter whether or not I planned on drinking the liquid because I dropped the entire container as I brought it away from my nose. I stepped back, and it hit the ground with a thud, the contents glugging entirely out.

  At first, I thought that was the drop of death. People died from dehydration for crying out loud! Then I saw how much darker the earth had become right where I’d been digging.

  Mud! Mud would make digging easier.

  And it did, though “easy” doesn’t describe how much effort it still took to create a hole large enough that I could slip my hand through to the other side.

  The process seemed to take hours, but I couldn’t be sure because some dark clouds had moved in, blocking the position of the sun. I prayed for rain.

  While that went unanswered, at least the shade protected my skin from frying to a crisp. When my neck and shoulders ached too much to scoop out another speck of dirt, I took a break and scanned the area again to keep watch for Swamp Sam’s return. So far, the truck seemed to be long gone.

  When the hole was only several inches wider and deeper after all that effort, I almost gave up. I shook so much that I had to lean against the cage to steady myself. My throat was dry—so dry—but I sung to keep myself from wondering what Chuck Norris fact Emmett was going to share at my funeral.

  Right as I got to singing about “boots made for walking” again, another unidentified screech rang out. This time it sounded more song-like, as if it were in-tune in a primate sort of way. Or at least how I imagined a primate would sound. I looked across the field but didn’t see anything but a few trees and grass as far as the eye could see.

  I repeated the line, and there was another songful wail. Bigfoot. It had to be. Maybe it was a stretch, but the creature seemed to be comforting me. And I was certain the scream I’d heard a short while before had been a warning about Swamp Sam approaching. Who knows what would’ve
happened if he’d caught me trying to escape. And the day I got lost in the woods? Those sounds could’ve easily been Bigfoot guiding me to safety.

  Swamp Sam’s conspiracy theory about Bigfoot was way off, but I’d been misguided, too. The creatures seemed harmless and intelligent even if they were large and had especially menacing fangs.

  I reflected on Mr. Nash’s story of his miraculous rescue. I’m not going to lie—I had a few doubts before, but I fully believed now.

  Maybe Shawna hadn’t been lying about seeing a baby Bigfoot. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility—there had to be family units to carry on the species, and while it seemed almost impossible to actually see one, I felt certain about my own sightings.

  As I sat there, trapped and feeling hopeless and hopeful all at once, I reached the conclusion that some things couldn’t be explained. Perhaps they’re not supposed to be.

  I’d stopped singing, but Bigfoot cried out a mournful tune that flowed right through to my soul.

  The thought of such a mysterious creature being mangled and tortured and who knows what else people like Dierk Robinson and Swamp Sam would do—well, I couldn’t take it after the awful things I’d witnessed.

  “Get away from here before you get trapped, too!”

  I leaned back to rest, but the dark shadow from behind the tree approached. My vision was blurry from a combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and cloud coverage, but there was no doubt what I was seeing. The long black-brown fur. The incredible stature.

  Not what I was seeing. Who I was seeing.

  Bigfoot.

  My idea of the family units had been correct. This Bigfoot was a she—the animal had a bulky chest like the nursing female gorilla I’d seen at the Houston zoo.

  Her mouth was closed or else the fangs would’ve freaked me out even more in that moment. Bigfoot’s eyes were filled with soulfulness as she inspected me. They rendered me speechless.

  This moment was so surreal that it’s almost a blur. I don’t remember saying anything or doing anything, but I felt a sense of peace as she grasped the bars of the cage.

  Just as she was about to bend the bars enough to free me, the ground rumbled.

  A vehicle was approaching.

  Dear God, protect me. Had Swamp Sam returned already?

  Bigfoot fled the scene with remarkable agility given her size. I didn’t thank her. Maybe I wouldn’t live long enough to get the chance.

  I turned my head to the side to try to squeeze my shoulders through the bars, the dirt mashing into my face. Inhaling dirt will make you sneeze no matter how quiet you’re trying to be. That’s a fact I can certify.

  Despite the pain, I clawed at the ground to push the rest of the way through. The hole wasn’t large enough at this point. I was stuck.

  A door slammed. My body was so wedged between the metal bar of the cage and the ground that I couldn’t back my way under, not quickly enough before Swamp Sam would catch me.

  All I needed was a few more minutes. A few more minutes I didn’t have.

  This was it.

  The end of Everdil Lynn Jackson.

  28

  I closed my eyes, replaying the scene with Bigfoot in my mind instead of facing the fact that I was about to be discovered by a crazy man. Maybe Bigfoot would come back and get me out of the cage.

  The woods were silent again. No birds chirping, no knocks, no wails, no singing. Just my heart crashing against my ribcage.

  “Everdil?” a voice called. It sounded like Gramps.

  My face was so close to the ground that my mouth filled with grit as I yelled, “Here! I’m over here!”

  I nearly broke my neck trying to see who was approaching. Things were still blurry, but I identified Gramps’ favorite flannel.

  I heard my name called several more times, and I kept yelling, “Here!”

  “Everdil!” Emmett said, rushing over to the cage. He sure could run fast.

  My chest was so squished that it was difficult to talk, but the fight wasn’t out of me. Not a chance. “Help me get out of here. You’ll never believe what just happened.”

  Gramps and Emmett weren’t alone. From this angle, I watched as Shawna’s wedged sandals and Tim’s unlaced boots approached.

  They inspected the slightly bent bar as I told them what happened. “You scared her off.”

  My family and friends looked around suspiciously and fussed over me. Shawna squatted down close, holding her half-finished water bottle up to my parched mouth. I would’ve forgiven her for just about anything for this act of kindness. Even after chugging the rest of the water, my throat still felt dry and scratchy. “Thanks, and I’m sorry—”

  “If anyone is sorry, it’s me. I wish I could take back what I said. Take back a lot of things, really.”

  Tim’s voice cracked as he said, “Me too.” He knelt down and reached for my hand. I almost pulled it back to protect my mangled middle finger, but it’s not like I could go anywhere. Tim must’ve noticed the injury because he placed his palm softly on the back of my hand.

  My ribcage ached, partly because of being trapped and also because my heart still hadn’t calmed down. Tim’s gesture didn’t help any. Emmett and Shawna and Gramps were all watching him, but he kept his hand in place. He leaned down even more, until his forehead rested against mine. He was so gentle about it that I didn’t have to worry about him cracking my skull or knocking out other teeth.

  Tim said nothing, yet it seemed like the best conversation we’d ever had. Unlike the hand incident before, this was clearly no accident.

  Leave it to Emmett to ruin the moment. “I’m a rotten big brother,” he said. I thought he was going to get sappy on me, but he didn’t. “Who do you think you are, Everdil Pickle Breath? Chuck Norris? Did you take Swamp Sam’s ‘no trespassing’ as a dare?”

  “Think fast, Emmett,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tuna can oil, cayenne pepper, an apple core, and pigs feet.”

  “No clue,” he said as he scraped the ground to get me out. “You finally got me.”

  Once Tim let go of my hand, he dug furiously. Like an army on a mission, Emmett, Gramps, and Shawna attacked the ground. Not only did I want to escape for the obvious reasons, I had yet another reason: to try and win the contest. We needed the money, of course, but I wanted to raise awareness. I understood Mr. Nash’s motivation to protect Bigfoot on a deeper level. If they’d survived all these generations living on the fringes of humanity, they deserved to continue doing so.

  “I knew something was wrong when you weren’t home,” Emmett said, stirring up a small dust cloud that made me choke. My brother slowed down, digging more carefully as he continued talking. “I thought you might’ve gone to the marina, so we went there to look for you, and that’s when we ran into Swamp Sam talking about Bigfoot spying on him and how he was holding an agent captive and that the area had another surprise in store. Dierk Robinson told Papa he saw you biking this direction—”

  “I bet Dierk didn’t say about how he almost ran me over. I was trying to find you, Emmett,” I said, keeping out the part about him sneaking out. It was trivial at this point.

  “That’s what I figured. After the three of us checked out Potter’s Point last night, we saw how many people were arriving. I got an idea. The contest might’ve been over, but the chance to make money wasn’t. After gathering some items, we stayed up the entire night baking Bigfoot cookies at Tim’s while his dad was gone—”

  Shawna cut Emmett off. “Tim designed several foot-shaped cutouts, Emmett made the dough, and I decorated the cookies.”

  Tim dug with the intensity of a terrier, but I wanted him to stop and hold my hand again. “We made over four-hundred cookies,” he said, practically out of breath.

  “And we made a killing on them. Mama let us sell them at the café for a dollar a piece, and we sold out by noon.”

  I wondered if Mama realized that’s where her missing items ended up. The closer I was to escaping the cage, the more it hit me
that the team had been baking cookies while I’d risked my life to find them. Baking cookies! “I thought you all were still hunting for Bigfoot and had been chopped up to bits.” I shared how I’d gone looking for them here because of the tree clue and then discovered the pile of guts. I really should’ve learned my lesson the first time. “The Bigfoot Papa and Dierk Robinson found has to be a hoax,” I said, filling them in on the rest of what I’d witnessed and how Swamp Sam caught and trapped me.

  “That’s what the experts discovered, Everdil, and now we know who did it. Sam will pay for this,” Gramps said. “Sorry it took so long for us to get here.”

  “I had it covered with Bigfoot’s help,” I said, untwisting my shoulders and working the rest of my body through. What had taken me so long to accomplish before took much less effort with help. I could’ve done it on my own, though. No doubt.

  “That’s my Everdil Pickle,” Gramps said and laughed despite the circumstances.

  It was like my soul had been inflated with helium, and I laughed too as I made it out of the hog trap. I’m not going to lie—pain roundhouse kicked me from my teeth to my fingers to my toes, but I was alive and free. So very, very alive and free. The whole group gathered around me, cheering and helping me to my feet.

  Across the clearing, a tree shook the way a cheerleader might wiggle a pompom after a touchdown at a football game. “Check that out,” I said, pointing and listening to a loud Whoop!

  “Well, I’ll be,” Gramps said. The rest of my teammates stood there with curious expressions.

  “Bigfoot’s celebrating, too,” I said and shared more about my experience. I’m sure I sounded a little like Swamp Sam as I told them how Bigfoot approached the cage and what she looked like. “Bigfoot needs to be protected, not hunted.”

  “I believe that’s why I couldn’t kill the one I saw when I had the chance,” Gramps said.

  Before I could leave the area, I inspected the scraps of my camera. It was several boot stomps past the point of repair, but I dug through the parts until I found the memory card. I slipped it in my pocket, hoping the pictures could be salvaged somehow. And then I saw something that blew my mind. The pearl nestled in the camera debris.