by Gwen Roland
“Don’t you worry about the time, Missy. Old Pank knows when it’s time to eat and time to sleep, and I’ll tell you when.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard all year. “Here’s you some of the gator chunks. Ain’t what you used to, I know, ’cause I smell your daddy’s cooking drifting over the water. But it’s good enough for old Pank, so it’s good enough for Pank’s woman, ain’t that so, Missy?”
With that he shoved a tin plate against her chest. She raised her hands to take it, but it was no longer there. Pank fell into another wheezing bout of laughter.
“What’s wrong with you, Miss Priss? Can’t even catch a tin plate sitting in front of you? You gotta be quick to get ahead of old Pank.”
Loyce knew anger would get her nowhere she wanted to be.
“You are a quick one, that’s for sure. Now help me to a chair and table where I can eat properly.”
“Ain’t got no table, but this here chair’ll give you somewhere to prop, and you can just eat in your lap like I do. Ain’t missed a meal yet, table or no.”
Loyce stretched out a hand in his direction, and this time he pulled her to her feet and steered her two steps, where her leg bumped into the chair. She felt along its ladder back and frayed bottom of cane. She settled gingerly and held her hands out again for the plate. He thrust the pan within her reach.
“There’s some fried dough in there, too, in case you want to sop up some of the dripping.”
Loyce felt around the lumps trying to distinguish dough from meat. Finally, deciding it didn’t matter, she picked up one and brought it to her mouth. It was hot and greasy, too stringy to be the dough. The chunk of meat took a quantity of chewing before it was broken down enough to swallow, but it didn’t taste as bad as she expected. Not so different from the breast of a worn-out old hen culled for dumplings. In fact, with proper seasoning and cooking, this plate of dough and meat could have been made into a decent pot of dumplings. She said as much.
“Gator dumplings! Who ever heard of such a thing?” Pank chortled. “I open me a can of tomatoes or beans now and then. That’s as fancy as old Pank gets, so you might’s well get used to it.”
He seemed eager to stretch everything into talk. That was in her favor. Maybe she could entice some information he wouldn’t normally give away to a prisoner.
“How do you live?” she asked in what she hoped was a normal conversational tone. “Surely someone knows where you are?”
“No way no one knows where I am. I got me one main trail off the ’Chafalaya that no one ever notices. Just pull my boat up there behind some buttonwood bushes and walk through the woods to my camp. Got me more little trails off the other bayous running along this boggy island. Each one of them trails got a little dugout pirogue tucked up there, looking just like a log to anyone who would see it. Sometimes I can paddle almost to my cabin down one or the other of them trails. Other times I got to walk and tote.”
“But how do you live?” she persisted, lost in talk of trails she couldn’t see, geography she couldn’t imagine. That kind of information wouldn’t help her.
“I kill me some gators, boil out the oil, and skin ’em out. Tan ’em, eat the meat. When I need other grub—like them tomatoes and beans—I take them hides and oil out to the river and tie up ’longside the next likely steamboat heading upstream. Go on board and find someone to trade with. Sometimes it’s for money, sometimes for groceries and coal oil. No one ever asks who I am or where I come from.
“Most of ’em think I’m Injun under all this gator grease and soot. They say all kinds of things in front of me they wouldn’t think of saying in front of a white man. Yessir. I’ll just sit by their stove and make a cup of coffee last a hour or more on a cold night. You’d be surprised what all I hear from up and down the river. When I’m ready to go, it’s all downstream to home.”
“What do you mean, you hear stuff?”
It was evident now that Pank, indeed, was yearning for an audience. He probably didn’t run across many people in a week, or a year, who listened to him. While Loyce wasn’t interested in his gossip, she needed to keep him talking. She settled in to nod and murmur as long as necessary, buying time to plan her way out.
Pank’s wheezing voice droned on as night sounds of the deep woods settled around the cabin. Of all the scandals he passed along, Loyce filed away only two stories to tell again if she got back home. When she got back home.
29
Drifter woke at dawn. A burning thirst fought for attention with her distress over Loyce and the needs of her pups. The pups had nursed during the night and were sleeping in a contented heap, but she couldn’t leave them exposed even on such an isolated path. At the base of a large cypress tree she found a hollow cushioned with eons’ worth of cypress needles. One by one she carefully moved the pups.
Once they were safely tucked in their new nest, she followed her nose to a pool where cypress knees stood like sentinels. After drinking, she circled wide to make her way back to the pups. That’s when she caught Loyce’s scent again.
Nose down, she snuffled along, picking up pace until the thickets opened into a small clearing. Almost lost in the shadows was what appeared to be a heap of driftwood and palmetto bushes. All traces of Loyce disappeared. Instead, Drifter recoiled from the stench of danger as thick as blood. The smell radiated from scaly hides nailed to posts framing the hut.
She was turning away when suddenly, on the foul air, she caught a slight whiff of Loyce. It was gone just as quickly as it came. Puzzled, Drifter whined softly, snuffled the ground beneath her paws, and lifted her nose again. Nothing.
Inside the shack fatigue had eventually won over fear, and Loyce had nodded off to the sound of Pank’s voice. Time and again she had roused from fitful sleep wondering why she was cold and sitting straight up. When her plight surfaced from her dreams, she would run the events of the previous day through her mind again, finding no ready answers. Then she would nod off again.
Now she could feel the morning stirring before the night air lifted from the surrounding swamp. She heard the rustle of blankets and a blast of morning gas from the bed.
“Mr. Neeley, what provisions have you made for my conveniences?” she launched right into her case.
“Conveniences! What you mean by conveniences?” He mumbled, sounding as confused by her presence as she had been upon awakening.
“To relieve myself, Mr. Neeley. And to wash.” She strove for the proper inflection Roseanne would have used. The tone that made her sound superior to her present company but also willing to bring him up to her standards.
“I just go on out there to the woods, never thought it inconvenient before.” Pank sounded offended.
“Surely you don’t expect a blind woman to go traipsing around in the swamp to relieve herself, do you?”
“You ain’t going nowhere. I’ll bring a lard can for your conveniences, as you say, and you can go dump it at the end of the walk.”
“What about bathing? If I’m going to be here the rest of my life, I need a place to bathe.”
“Tarnation, if you ain’t wantin’ one thing, it’s another. You didn’t have it all that fancy on the Chene—I know better’n that.”
“The want of a washbasin is only civilized, Mr. Neeley,” she said, hoping she hit somewhere between amiable and bossy.
It was clear by now that he craved conversation, especially bickering, but she didn’t know how far to push arguing with him. At what point would he snap and lash out at her with a fist or a weapon? She had to pay attention more keenly than ever. Her life depended on it.
“And who’s gonna tote in all that water for you to wash and then haul it back out again?” He was still enjoying the feisty exchange.
“I expect you will carry enough for the two of us, Mr. Neeley. You made the plans for fetching me way out here; it’s up to you to see to the arrangements. Besides the water, I’ll need soap, some towels, and a washing cloth. And what about a change of clothes? I can’t wear
this same dress for the rest of my life.”
The silence told her this was new territory for her captor. She plunged on with her plan.
“If you really do like a woman who knows how to dress, you’re gonna have to help me out.”
“We’ll see about that, Missy, once we get this thing under way. First we gotta take off what you got on.”
Loyce reflexively touched the collar of Roseanne’s traveling dress once more, as if she could protect herself.
“I can handle that part when the time comes, but right now I’m having my monthlies, and it wouldn’t serve either one of us to act hastily. Even the Bible says a woman is unclean at this time. I’m pretty sure you risk your privates getting diseased, perhaps even falling off. We could use this time to get to know each other better—a courtship, if you will.”
“One day, Missy,” he said gruffly. “That’s it. I have a boat to meet today.”
With that he was gone down the plank walk.
Out in the woods Drifter’s stomach growled. Hunger had driven her to abandon the faint trace of Loyce, but she was not experienced at hunting. Once her nose picked up the promising scent of a small creature. She followed the trail until it ended in a pool of water. Another track led her to the base of a live oak, where tender bits of twig dribbled down from the jaws of a chattering squirrel. The sun was high before she finally stumbled upon a nearsighted possum scurrying along to his lair. She clamped and shook until he was dead. Then she ate until there was nothing left but the skull and the tail.
Back at the nest her pups whined about their own hunger. They lifted their voices even higher when bushes rustled nearby. But instead of the soft muzzle they were expecting, heavy boots stopped short of stepping on them. A low grunt gave way to a wheeze. The footsteps retreated and then returned minutes later, inciting another chorus of whimpers. Then one by one, the pups were picked up and dropped into a sack.
Drifter knew something was wrong before she reached the nest. There were no sounds, and the danger smell was strong. Her steps slowed, she circled wide, finally peering through the thicket into the hollow. The nest was empty. She followed the smell of her pups combined with the stench along a path that appeared to be used often. A few minutes later she came to the big water, the one she and Sam had traveled. It was so wide she couldn’t see what was on the other side. The scent of her pups ended here. So did the smell of danger.
Back at the cabin Loyce wasted no time. Even as Pank’s steps faded, she was listening for new clues about her surroundings. Her body ached from sitting up through the chill night, but she padded to the door and swung it open as soon as he was out of earshot.
She felt around the doorframe but couldn’t find a lock or bolt. It was the most telling detail she had gleaned so far, and it brought her a fresh wave of panic. Pank knew she couldn’t go anywhere on her own. Apparently, she was buried so deep in the swamp no one would ever come close to finding her.
Her captor had left so abruptly that he didn’t offer to make breakfast for her. Would it have been more gator chunks? She shivered at the prospect. Even though the foul lumps had gone down well enough at supper, during the night they bubbled back up her throat, first as a bilious cloud, then a sour liquid. With a churning stomach and aching bones, Loyce couldn’t remember a morning when she had felt worse. Not the best time to be planning an escape from who knows where, she thought.
Taking a determined breath, she felt her way down the walk, sensitive fingers reading the rough wall of the cabin for anything that might help her escape. A few leathery hides crinkled under her hands. Nails in the posts. A rain barrel full of water. Nothing felt promising.
The fresh morning smells were obscured by the odor of rancid oil and drying hides. She had heard that Indians rendered alligators by burying the entire carcass and covering it with coals. She couldn’t see to determine whether Pank used that process, but however he accomplished the gory separation, the smell gagged her. She sniffed a couple more times trying to break through the putrid air.
Then, finally, a whiff of something foreign—what was that? Coal oil? Gasoline! She felt along the cabin wall until she located the source—a large can, maybe three gallons. Her fingers felt around the spout until she could unscrew the lid. Sure enough it was gasoline. Pank hadn’t mentioned a motorboat during his rambling discourse. The can was one of three, no four, standing against the cabin wall. It must have come from the same supplier who had delivered gasoline to the post office by mistake. The mistake that Loyce and Pank’s nephew Wuf had helped set right.
She listened again to make sure she was alone. Then she hefted the can. Too heavy to carry into the cabin. She bent to drag it along the walk inches at a time. Once inside the doorway, she scooted one foot out in front to locate the can of coal oil that must be near the stove. Bump. There it was. Her fingers told her it was shaped the same as the one she’d brought inside, but was there a difference in color or something else that she couldn’t discern? If so, would he spot the change? There was nothing she could do but try. The new can was full and heavy. The old one only half-full. Would he notice? Perhaps not, if she kept his attention on her.
She took time to note the direction of the spout and handle of the old can before moving it away from the stove. Summoning all her strength, she lugged the new, full can into its place. Then she felt her way back outside, dragging the coal oil container down the plank walk to the collection of cans. It took a moment to find the space where the gasoline had been. When she was satisfied the switch was as close as she could make it without being able to see, she had one more thing to do. Plan a route out.
Here she was stumped. There was only one plank walk. Just thirty-five steps brought her to its abrupt end. Surely there must be a path that continued on toward the river. She couldn’t explore past the plank walk for fear of not finding her way back before her captor returned. That would raise his suspicions and perhaps make him look at everything, including the fuel cans, anew. She felt her way back to the cabin, feeling thwarted.
At that moment Drifter was cautiously sniffing her way back down the path that Loyce suspected was just past the wooden walk. The weary little dog had retraced the scent of her pups back into the woods all the way to the cypress tree, slowly approaching the river again, then again. Each time the breath of the big water gave up a whiff of her pups, nothing more. On this particular return trip she swerved back toward the cabin, where last night the evil smell had mingled with a hint of Loyce.
She snuffled the ground at the end of the walk once more, then deeper, sharper. There it was, the beloved scent! Not just wafting on air, as before, but solid at ground level. A footstep. Loyce had touched down there. Nose to the ground, the little dog ran in ever-widening circles, but every time she locked onto the most concentrated essence of Loyce, the oily stench overpowered her. It oozed from the walls and rose up from the ground around the cabin. Drifter’s hair ridged up her back, and her tail quivered a stiff arc. She issued a low growl and circled the entire cabin again but couldn’t penetrate the reeking barrier. Finally, she gave up and backed into the brush to wait.
Inside Loyce paced through the hours after making the switch. Feeling every object in the cabin, counting the steps to the door, four. Then mentally counting the steps to the end of the plank walk again. What was past the walk? She couldn’t risk finding out now. That fuel can was her only hope.
It was late afternoon when his boots hit the plank walk again.
“Well, Miss Priss, I’m ready to claim my prize” were the words that greeted her. The smell of whiskey improved his breath but not his patience.
“First I’ll need a bath, and I’ll need privacy to get ready,” Loyce said. “I’ll bring in the water. You start the fire.”
Pank couldn’t contain his excitement as he watched her feel her way to the door. He clanged the stove lid and started rummaging the coals. Just as she bent to pick up the two buckets, he stopped still, and she realized her mistake.
“H
ow do you know where the water barrel is?”
She couldn’t see his face, but she felt him scrutinizing hers. What could he read there? She knew sighted people picked up cues that way, but she had never been able to decipher what those cues were, even if her life depended on it. Now it did!
She remained bent over the buckets and hoped the curtain of hair brushing her cheekbones covered any expression that would give her away.
“Oh, you didn’t expect me to sit here in the cabin all day, did you?” She forced herself to trip the words out lightly, even though her knees were quaking under her skirt. “I felt along as far as the walk could take me, and I’ll tell you right now, we’re gonna need more plank walks! I’ll also need a line to hang washing, and I want an outhouse like any proper household has. If you aim to have a woman of your own, Pank, it will bring changes. There’s no two ways about it.”
“All right! All right! Have it your way,” he blustered. “We’ll see to that later. Just go get that water now and be quick about it before I change my mind about that washing up.”
She was out the door before he finished speaking. Making the most of her head start, she scouted with her foot toward the end of the plank walk, hoping he couldn’t see that she went right past the rain barrel. The clank of the fuel can against the iron stove was loud, and Loyce knew that her life depended on something less than seconds. She dropped the buckets and stretched both hands in front of her, walking fast, faster than she had ever walked before, even in familiar surroundings.
By the time the explosion slammed her to the ground, Loyce had reached the limit of her previous explorations. Thirty-five steps. She lay stunned for precious moments while debris crashed up and then back down through the treetops. Flaming chunks hissed into water holes; others thumped into the mud inches from her face. She didn’t know what lay in front, but she knew what was behind her—either a dead man in a flaming cabin with an untold number of fuel cans nearby or a live man who knew she had tried to kill him.