by M M Buckner
His Styrofoam coffee cup held a dry brown ring at the bottom. It squeaked when he gripped it. His phone ticked static. He was beginning to see this entire embrollo as a personal war.
Roman longed for an assistant who could handle these minor emergencies, but to his regret, he had never found a man or woman worthy to be his second. Lawyers, accountants, technicians, administrators—he kept a full complement on staff. But none of them possessed the will to do what he would do. No one thought fast enough or pushed hard enough. Everyone let him down.
“Cabrón,” he hissed. The vacant phone kept ticking.
Along this Anglo river, regulatory jurisdictions converged and overlapped with all the clarity of mud. To close the canal, he had garnered the consent of five other companies, as well as the Coast Guard, the EPA, the Mississippi River Commission, the sheriffs of both East and West Baton Rouge Parishes, and several departments of the Louisiana state government. On a Saturday.
He counted the seconds till Rick Jarmond came back on the phone.
“This toluene spill, my records show you used genetically modified bacteria to clean it up. Deinococcus radiodurans. Is that right?”
Roman ran a hand through his hair. “The EPA approved it.”
Another pause. Roman’s nerves stretched taut.
“Okay, what’s your fax number, Rome? There’s a request form you need to fill out.”
Roman crushed the Styrofoam cup. Screw your form up the backside.
He didn’t say it—in Spanish, English, or any other language. Instead, he laid the phone down and took a breath. The other officials had responded well to his calm reasoning. They’d accepted his apologies for troubling them on the weekend. This would be a temporary canal closure to finish his cleanup. Two days only. Commerce would not be affected, and the canal environment would benefit. Roman was a persuasive talker, despite his personal reserve. And his company paid hefty taxes. Most everyone was falling into line—all but this green kid, this simplón Rick Jarmond. Roman picked up the phone again.
“I need this closure today, Rick, within the hour. How can we expedite this?”
He heard the man slurping liquid through a straw. The simplón must be dining on takeout. Sneering, Roman opened his laptop to check the Corps organizational chart. He noted the name of Jarmond’s superior. Col. Joshua Lima, the New Orleans district engineer.
“Well . . .” The young man took another bite of lunch, and Roman heard his wet grinding mouth sounds. “Tell you what, Rome. You fill out this form and get the Coast Guard’s okay, and—”
“I’m holding the Coast Guard permit in my hand,” Roman said, only a mild lie.
“Well . . .” More chewing. Roman ground the Styrofoam cup under his heel.
Leach
Saturday, March 12
2:01 PM
Downstream from Baton Rouge, on a mud-red river inlet, stood the whitewashed cinderblock headquarters of Belle Chasse Marine. A fly-specked card taped to the front door announced, “Back in a Minute.” But CJ waited over an hour before a dark green Eldorado finally pulled up the gravel drive and an elderly man in sweat-stained work clothes shambled out with a ring of keys.
Pewter clouds brooded over the river, and the air hung breathless, waiting for rain. CJ jumped down from her Rover. The plunging barometric pressure made her temples throb. “I need to rent a boat. Small, quiet, and powerful, with plenty of room for equipment. Someone told me this was the place.” She had decided Max’s pirogue was too slow.
“Ho-ho-hold up, missy. You speakin’ too fast. Me, I’m Beauregard Chifferee, but you might as well call me Punch like ever’body else. Now, what was your name? I don’ hear too good.”
The man’s eyes were so glazed with cataracts, CJ wondered how he could drive a car. Rusty stains dribbled down over his shirt buttons, as if he’d just been chewing sugarcane or tobacco or some less licit flora. His skin was the color of bread mold.
“I’m CJ Reilly.” As she shook his pawlike hand, she reminded herself to decelerate. In this part of the country, conversations went more smoothly when she respected the local speed. She smiled at the old man. “Do you have anything like a cold drink? I’m parched.”
“Sure, Miss CJ. I got a refrigerator full of Diet Mountain Dew. All my doctor lets me drink anymore is that diet mess. Please, after you.”
As she passed into the cool shady interior of the concrete shed, she smelled something sweet and musty. Damp dust and cobwebs had mingled to breed a fine gray skim over every surface—engine parts, vinyl chairs, decades-old catalogs, curling multipart forms. Even the lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling was flocked in gray. CJ had a feeling that if she stood still long enough, the gray skim would engulf her.
Punch’s chair creaked under his weight. He leaned forward, opened a small refrigerator under the counter and drew out two frosty plastic bottles of green soda. Their Mountain Dew labels were smudged with fingerprints. CJ eyed them.
“This boat you need.” The old man winked. “Small, but plenty o’ room. Quiet, but powerful. You don’ want me thinking you’re a drug runner.”
CJ opened her mouth. For someone who didn’t hear well, he’d caught every word. She studied the mottled old man and wondered how much truth she should tell him. As little as possible, she decided. She perched on a greasy chair.
“I’m a photographer for Wilderness magazine, and we’re doing a special on Louisiana marsh fowl. You know how skittish these marsh birds are. I have to sneak up on the little darlings to get close-ups.”
“Birds? Eh la, you probably looking for the green woodpecker. Ever’body want to see that sucker. Audubon. Sierra. He’s a fast little demon. Tha’s why you need all that power.”
“Exactly, the green woodpecker. I might have to chase him a long way.”
“Oh yeah, ’specially since he don’ live on this continent. Green woodpecker live in France.”
CJ felt herself blushing. The old man swallowed his sugar-free soda, and a very large bug scuttled in the corner. Far away thunder rolled like breaking surf. She drew her knees together. On the shelf beside her, a stack of old batteries drooled ashy globs of corrosion. Punch took another swig and crackled his plastic soda bottle.
“Okay, I’m trying to bust a big polluter in Devil’s Swamp,” she blurted. It was nearly true.
Punch watched her a few more seconds, then broke out with a howl of laughter. His chair squeaked as he chuckled. “Bust a polluter at Devil Swamp. Missy, tha’s like sprinkling perfume in the outhouse. You’re not from around here. How much you know about ol’ Devil Swamp?”
“I’ve seen birds nesting there. It’s not completely dead.”
“Dead, naw. Too much alive is what it is. Critters mixing and fornicating in all that slime. Unholy matrimonies.”
CJ felt an involuntary shudder. The approaching storm charged the air. She rubbed her arms.
The old man rocked back and scratched his stomach. “Animals in that place ain’t natural. You seen them frogs with six hind legs.”
CJ nodded. Unfortunately, yes, she had seen the pitiful creatures kicking around in circles. Malformations were common in Devil’s Swamp.
“And I guess you heard o’ the skunk ape,” Punch went on. “Hairy demon, seven feet tall.”
She shifted nervously and tried to smile. “What are we playing, liar’s poker?”
“This ain’ no lie, missy. Skunk ape been living in that swamp for two hundred years. Lotta folks seen him. Smell like rotten egg and cow shit, pardon my terms.”
“Come on, Punch. Give me a break.”
“My theory is, he’s a descendant of them outlaws that used to hide in there. Got lost in them bayous, got to living wild, crossbreeding with skunk and muskrat. Folks see lights at night, way back in them cypress thickets. Eh la, skunk ape still there.”
CJ fingered her sweating Mountain Dew. “I don’t scare that easily.”
The old man’s smile showed more gaps than teeth. “Long history in that place. Slave trader
s. Lynchin’s. Murders. I seen a white woman in there once. Tied to a tree, stabbed all up and down her arms and legs. Hair burned off her head. They say she had man parts and woman parts both.”
CJ set the soda down. “Do you have a boat to rent or not?”
He ran a splotchy tongue over his teeth. “What it is, is the juxy-position. Water, mud, and heat. Too much of them three items juxy-posed together, they grow things unnatural. Like that baby they found.”
“Baby?” She did not want to hear this story. “Two-headed, I’m sure.”
“Don’ be smart, missy. I seen the baby myself. Man-child with a extra leg growin’ outta its hip. Little bald stump. Toenails all crowded together like kernels on a corncob. Born right there on the edge of Devil Swamp.”
CJ felt sweat trickle down her neck. The old man’s cloudy eyes gave no hint of teasing. She’d seen the blue-collar houses backing up to the levee behind the swamp, and she’d read about the birth defects. God knew what egregious poisons had accumulated in the soils—and leached into the water—and diffused into the air. She tried to shake off her uneasiness by assuring herself that Beauregard Chifferee was the most accomplished liar she’d ever met.
“So what about that boat?”
Thunder cracked overhead, and she jumped in her chair. Punch grinned.
A week’s rental on the Velocity Viper, including a trailer and hitch, cost twice what she’d expected. The old man proved to be a crafty negotiator. But cost wasn’t an issue to CJ. Harry had left her with deep pockets.
Punch called the Viper his “drugstore special.” For a small boat, the Viper had plenty of cargo space, plus unusual outfitting—behemoth twin engines and four oversized fuel tanks. There was also a beefed-up muffler system Punch had personally designed for hushed moonlight journeys.
He didn’t ask a single question as he helped her load the equipment she’d “borrowed” from Rory Godchaux’s supply van, a chemistry field kit, goggles, gloves, boots, three rolls of duct tape, a freshly laundered coverall, and some tools. She’d also packed her field finder, electric current sensor, flashlight, PowerBars and a gallon of Coca-Cola. Punch provisioned her with two extra twenty-gallon cans of boat fuel—which she had to pay for in advance.
Once she cast off from Punch’s dock, she cut a few turns across the brown inlet, getting the feel of the Viper’s controls. The overhead clouds changed from pewter to iron, and a few heavy raindrops fluttered on the wind. She kept circling back to Roman’s words: “Sorry, I do not believe in swamp creatures.”
That belittling tone. Nothing infuriated her more than sarcasm. It had been Harry’s sharpest weapon.
“Darling, your sentiment would be charming in a Peter Rabbit story. . . . No need to apologize for your B+ in calculus. You’re a B+ sort of person, dear, like your mother.”
CJ opened the throttle and roared across the no-wake zone, churning up eddies of mud. As her bow upended, spray pelted the windshield, and she leaned out to let the wind blow in her face. Why did only the worst moments stick with her? There were many times when Harry had been kind. He’d chosen the best schools for her, the best books. He’d taken her to hear the Boston symphony every month of the season. Why couldn’t she remember their long talks about music and art—and chemistry, always that—the fundamental language of the universe.
The problem was, she looked too much like her mother. The color of her hair. The shape of her nose. Even her voice reminded Harry of the other Carolyn Joan. He told her so once, after a particularly long and fiery discussion that left them both out of temper. He said he loathed the sound of her voice.
As she left the inlet and entered the terra-cotta river, the rain came. It plastered her hair and rilled down her face. In seconds, her clothes were drenched. She had to swerve around a fishing skiff. Upstream, two towboats were passing each other, filling the river with their twenty-barge tows, each barge weighing over a thousand tons. And just across from the downtown waterfront, a colossal Singapore freighter was making a wide turn into the Intracoastal Waterway at Port Allen.
The rain fell in curtains, and as CJ watched for an opening in the heavy traffic, her throat ached with words she couldn’t express. Harry, you weren’t fair. Why did you leave me?
She steered through the narrow slot between the towboats, bucking through the wake and daring the rain, ignoring the furious yells from the deckhands. At that moment, more than anything, she needed speed.
Bead
Saturday, March 12
8:27 PM
Max sat on his front porch, tipped back in a wooden chair with his bare feet on the rail, fingering an old portable Casio keyboard that lay across his lap. The rain was already tapering off, but a remnant of water still dripped off his roof and made a liquid bead curtain around the porch. One block away, the mighty river hummed background bass, accompanied by cymbals of traffic on Interstate 10. Max hadn’t bothered to plug in his amp, so the melody from his keyboard existed only in his mind. But that was enough for Max.
The night was good. He felt the sweaty, exalted relief of just having finished a song. The tune had incubated for months in his mind, drifting in and out of focus, growing humps and appendages, verses out of meter, beats out of rhyme, a mixed-up jumble of nonsense. Still, the lyrics kept collecting in his notebook, circling around an idea without a name. And finally, tonight, the song had emerged whole and alive on his page, as if placed there as a gift. He tipped back in his chair and smiled at God.
Above the low-pitched tin roofs of his West Baton Rouge neighborhood, a fat half-moon glimmered through clouds. Its rays barely penetrated the urban nimbus of street lamps. Crickets cheeped in the wet grass, and one whippoorwill cooed its lilting query, “Come, come to me?”
Max played the whippoorwill call on his silent keyboard, then improvised an answering riff. He swallowed beer from a sweating brown bottle, set it down beside his chair and played his new song again, voicelessly whispering his lyrics to the angels. This night was good, but the day had not been.
A barge sank, and no one knew why. Lots of people were mad, but Max was tired of worrying about it, tired through and through. Soon, he would put on his good shirt, drive across the river and play three hours of pop tunes for a high school dance. He would play keyboard tonight, not his frottior, and pop music bored him. But his ex-wife Sonia had left a brown envelope at his door, stuffed full of Marie’s doctor bills.
He hadn’t told Ceegie about his daughter, Marie. Although he believed in speaking the truth, he suspected his family obligations might drive Ceegie away. He glanced around the empty old porch. Drive her away?
Wind shifted across the rooftops and blew the clouds West, and for an instant, the river sang louder. The gusting currents distorted all sound. Max took another sip of beer, and the alcohol esters seeped through his flesh. He wondered what Ceegie was doing tonight. One thing he knew—she wasn’t answering her phone.
He tipped back in his chair. The moon’s half disk glowed through a forest of pipes and cooling towers in the nearby industrial park, and he ground his teeth against the bottle’s glass neck. When the whippoorwill called again, its voice echoed through shifting airy distortions. “Come, come to me?”
Glisten
Sunday, March 13
6:30 AM
Twenty minutes before sunrise, the canal water stirred with a ceaseless restive sloshing. Its waves left a dark waterline along tree trunks, concrete piers, and barge hulls. Higher it rose with each subtle ebb and flow, higher up the piers and hulls, higher up the rocks, oscillating with heat, wind, and friction, building up layer upon wet glistening layer of surface cohesion, till it succumbed at last to the pull of gravity and collapsed under its own weight.
CJ didn’t see it. She was driving her rented Viper upriver from Baton Rouge. She’d intended to start much earlier, but last night, everything went wrong. First, she couldn’t find a place to moor the boat. She had to park the trailer at a strip mall. Next, she drove all over town looking for a satellite pho
ne.
Finally, she located a pawnshop near Interstate 10 that carried some of the things she needed. Not all the merchandise looked new. Some of it may have been stolen. In any case, she found a GPS with electronic compassing, a more sophisticated magnetic field finder, a radio frequency spectrum analyzer, a canteen—she bought everything that looked useful.
By the time she’d finished shopping, fatigue forced her back to the Roach to crash. Too bad, she slept through the night, and this morning, there was already too much light and activity on the water to pass unnoticed. Dodging north of the barge canal entrance, she edged along the lush green shore of Devil’s Swamp.
Nothing was natural about this part of the lower Mississippi. For hundreds of miles on either side of the river, manmade earthen levees stretched longer and taller than the Great Wall of China. Engineers first started the twin berms in the early 1700s, but after the infamous flood of 1927, the levees evolved into fortresses.
As the nation’s ever-expanding pavements and hardscape constantly increased the volume of drainage runoff, the floods came swifter, higher and more often. And the engineers raised the walls repeatedly. Now the mainline levees towered over forty feet high, like a pair of grassy mountain ridges. Riprap and concrete reinforced them on the river side, and stone dikes winged out at intervals to keep the main current channelized.
But no levee protected Devil’s Swamp. It lay exposed in the batture, the miry borderland between river and levee, because the engineers had not judged Devil’s Swamp worth saving. That fact made it easier for CJ to conceal her landing.
Instead of docking at a treeless riprap wall, her Viper nosed in among overhanging willows and grounded in mud beneath a canopy of green branches. After tying up to a tree trunk, she tugged on her coverall and hip boots, then hiked through the swamp to a high solid knoll and settled in to spy on the activities in the canal.