Bayou's Edge

Amidst the sultry paddies and verdant levees of the Louisiana bayous, a crawfish farmer’s dark past threatens to erupt, endangering everything he holds dear.

In the bayous, where violence always lurks just below the surface, where the past intermingles with the present, where the land is part of the people, and where hopes and dreams are thwarted by history and economics, Micheau faces a decisive moment.

He must choose between sustaining his granddaddy’s legacy or giving in to his past — and losing everything that still holds meaning for him.

There are places where time lingers — where water, memory, and desire flow into each other until they can’t be told apart.

(Approx. 25-minute read)

Bayou’s Edge

by Robert M. Herzog

Micheau played with chips of white paint on the railing of his soft wooden porch, looking past the outlines of the big oaks his granddaddy had planted, across the long flats toward the road that led in from the highway. A couple was coming to visit, friends of his cousin Isabelle’s in New Orleans. Most days he hardly saw anybody, and by night he was so tired he’d find the quickest place to eat, see the same faces ragged as his, then head back to get up even earlier the next morning, consecutively longer days as the season matured, until it was over in June and he could sleep about a month and then start on the rice crops until they were in and get to the crawfish again.

It was way too early, he realized, some dream had gotten him up before dawn. They were making the drive that morning, time enough for him to get the day started. They were a nice couple, from up North, easy to talk to, and he had a lot to show them.

The light came on in the shack where them Mexicanos was, that was good, they was getting ready without him having to bother them about it, the both of them. A glimmer passed, below where he could say it. Mexican kid, got good work here, then the girl every night. And him here by himself; after a while it got to where your dreams pushed you up too early. Not that he’d envy a Mex. Just work him harder, the both of them. Leave his night thoughts to himself, the way he wanted them.

By six he was jamming the foot pedals that controlled the wheel attached to the long claw behind the boat, pushing through the stubble of the last rice crop until the boat slid across the levee into the muddy water that lay between the long rods of the paddies. It all looked like it was the same until the sun rose and cooked the slivers of water till they glowed red as the crawfish underneath, long burnt slices through the saturated paddy fields with the white dots of the traps to mark the way.

Last month he’d said what there was to be said about the way things got done, so as he and Paco moved down the lines there was only the sound of the motor on the flat aluminum boat special built by the guy just past Lafayette. Paco baited the fresh traps, conical wire mesh with a few inverted entranceways, the craws went in and couldn’t get out, trapped in the watery black hole until they spent some time in the cooler and got seasoned and boiled, all because they were attracted to some cast-off skip-jack’s head or old porgy that was shipped down from the North.

His stiffness wore off with the movement, and he got into the flow of it. He’d pull up alongside a trap, reach down with a straight arm and haul it out, his other hand holding the fresh trap, swivel his body to lay the new one in the water as he put the old one on the square aluminum tray set in front of him. He’d open the top of the trap and dump the craws onto the tray, Paco’d attach a canvas sack and open a small gate. Together they shoveled the crawfish into the sack as he gunned her over to the next white marker. His arms across his body, pivoting, lifting and dropping, it all felt good to him, like the zydeco two step he used to dance for hours. He lived now in the rhythms of the planting, harvesting the upper fields while sowing the lower ones, the alternation of flooding and drying, the joy of dumping a few pounds a trap, dollars dropping into the sacks. The mud was everywhere on him, on his jeans and t-shirt and old black velvet vest, even clinging to his long slick white rubber boots. He pushed to get it done soon, clean up, for the visitors. He thought of Paco washing up for the girl, and yelled at him to get a move on, even though the boy was waiting for him to drive back to the house.

That morning, Micheau had dreamed he saw the slim echo of dawn on all sides of the horizon ringing the fields, and his house in the middle of all the fields, and he in the house, alone as night. The ring collapsed like a dust tail, bearing the spur of their clicks as they scraped against the slide down the ramp into the sack, the tingle of their movements the moment before pricking his fingertips, the splash of setting and raising the traps. He laid near breathless in the dark, reaching for the low vibration of the pump breathing life into the watery fields, till it all got so inside him he had to get up.

* * *

Teddy had wanted to see “real country,” the places that existed first in his mind, so they’d looked for the small roads on the map heading east from New Orleans, gone way south of Baton Rouge, past Thibodaux and Jeanerette and skirting Lafayette, towards Crowley. Deep bayou country, he wanted, as if it would identify itself without their asking. Signs spoke of plantations, but miles away, and they had time to make, so they drove the dreary roads looking for an authenticity they sensed was on either side of them, but never where they were. And of course it was taking much longer than expected.

-We’ll take the Interstate on the way back, he said, conceding to himself as much as her, disappointment parsed mile by mile. Claire was used to it, but that didn’t keep it from being annoying.

So it took her more than halfway out, past the battered gray warehouses and the flat lit corridors of dimmed roadside towns, to finally ask - Are you sure this is such a good idea? She knew his answer because she knew him, but she had to ask just the same.

- Didn’t we go over this? He’s a cool guy, the way he says ‘yes ma’am,’ or ‘yes suh,’ Teddy tried the drawl, lowered his voice, slowed it down, his memory from the brief conversation with Micheau at Isabelle’s the week before. It’s not like Isabelle doesn’t know him. I really want to see this place.

With that, she thought, he still dallied at the sad tourist outcroppings along the coast road, an information center with a rust-shrouded toilet and pictures of a collapsing mansion, the have-to-taste stop at a down home barbecue place of his dreams, where grease coated the downwind tables rattling on the cracked concrete pad next to it. He’d taken to rubbing his just-beginning double chin, having read that would diminish it.

- But those stories about him, Claire rushed to say before his natural tendencies cut her off. It’s all so redneck. She wasn’t ashamed to say it. Her streaked blond hair mingled with her throaty voice, she was no longer cute, but prettier in the way that lived-in things are, like the texture of old brick walls, where looks held the promises that only character and experience could offer.

- We’ll just be there for a few hours. Tourists never get to see this kind of stuff, from the inside. Christ it’s getting late, can we just get there without all this angst? It’ll be fine.

She lowered the sun visor and held her breath as they sped through the thick odor of brackish water. - It’s just low tide, he said. It’ll pass.

* * *

Micheau had half given up and was fixing traps when he saw the dust swarm behind the bright red rent-car as it came up the long driveway and pulled in front of the house. He spoke to the man as he rolled the window down to check if they were in the right place.

- damn I wish you’d gotten here earlier, theys so much to show. Lets get in the truck, we’ll go ‘round. He rolled his r’s so softly they were barely a whisper. The man hopped out of the car. The woman remained in her seat, and Micheau opened the door for her. The man asked what the flock of birds was in the distance, the low sky almost blotted out by the aggregate of spots, were they sparrows, or sea gulls maybe?

- No thats geese, Micheau said.

- That many? the man said, and started taking a picture when all it would be was dots.

- C’mon I’ll get you closer to em. Hey, honey, Micheau called to the shack, and the girl walked out, you know where the bottom is for the burner, we gonna boil up some for folks. She stared at him, her face bronze against the gray light, against the white of her eyes, against her loose white blouse, her expression sharp even in her confusion. Ah hell she don’ understan, she is somethin, though, aint she? Get Paco, will you? The dark handsome boy came out, in his early twenties although the lines on his face were older. Micheau repeated what he was looking for. The boy nodded, went into the tool shed, came out with a metal base and a mottled brown propane hose.

- set it up in front of the cooler, I’ll come back and throw some in. The boy nodded again. The couple followed Micheau into the truck, then he got out, came back with a rifle, which the woman backed away from. Jus to scare away the birds, he said.

- Oh, said the man.

- Don’ want em eatin the profits. The couple tried laughing. The birds can be a real pain, he said. But I don’ kill em anymore, not even for eatin, I don’ like to kill anymore, and thats the truth. He nodded towards the shed as he backed out.

- but I tell you what, them two’s about the best workers I’ve ever had, you ask em to do somethin, they jus up an’ do it. You take your local boys, shee-it -- pardon my French, he nodded to the woman, you ask one ah them to say get through that mud, pick up a trap that moved, they jus say ‘no thank you’ and go back home cause they got their food stamps and their government checks. But these kids, the works all they got, or its back to Mexico with nothin, I mean they jus been here two months and that Paco already learned more about the operation than any ah them other boys I’ve had here the past eight years. And Ochandah, I think that’s the way you say it, Ochandah, his senorita or whatever, she’ll work from five in the morning, all the way through, liftin them traps, and man theys heavy, you pull em in all day, hundreds of em, put it down, empty the first and you got to keep shakin and bakin. His arms did the shuffle, one straight out, the other by his side, then quickly shifting positions, thinking of the long loud dances, hoots, whompin and stompin. and the women after, when nothing mattered except what you wanted, until a bounce of the truck pulled him back into their expectant faces. She’ll pull em up all mornin and day, the mud’ll be on her like caramel sauce on chocolate ice cream, and she keeps smilin and pullin. Man, thats somethin, aint it?

He drove the old pickup, not the new blue one he’d bought to make deliveries, over the thin strips of land in the middle of the rice fields, the afternoon sun sketching the water in gray reflections sprinkled through the brown remnants of the last crop. Eight years ago Micheau came back to take over the farm after his granddaddy passed, and he had the idea to harvest the crawfish that thrived in the nurtured fields along with the rice, and was now selling hundreds of pounds each day in the bayou towns of Southern Louisiana.

He pointed to a white cone. Thats for my pump, he said, got to keep aeratin the water, keep the oxygen in it, I’m pumpin from way back over there, got it all underground.

- How much land do you have? the man asked.

- Its five hundred thirty six and two thirds acres, Micheau said.

- How come two thirds? the man asked with a laugh.

- Well I don’ know it’s the way I got it, he said.

The path was wide with tiny water pools in the indentations left by tire tracks which were strips of mud through the low green grass. - This here used to be a landing strip, he said, you can land jus about most anything along here.

As they approached the fields he slowed down, and the man unlatched the door. - Hold on, Micheau said, when he jumped out of the truck to get a closer look, but the thousands of birds took flight as if with a single mind, pure white snow geese, that the couple had never seen before, and blues, they filled the sky and the sound surrounded them as they circled, first away, then back over them and then around again, some squawks but mostly the fluttering of wings like the rumble of waterfalls until they landed in a more distant field. The man grabbed for his camera, then put it down.

- hell, used to be you couldn’t even get that close, Micheau said, never mind we’ll come around and see em again. Its jus two years maybe they’ve gotten used to the trucks what with nobody shootin at em, probably forgotten what it sounds like. The man said when they were on safari in Kenya the game had gotten so accustomed to human presence without hunting that it would let you drive up so close an elephant peed on their Land Rover. Is that right? Micheau said, now look, see them other ones over there by themselves? Thems speckled bellies, they stick to their own. They could see the blues and whites like shards of broken plates while the speckled bellies, shades of brown and tan, strutted in a loose pack in a separate part of the field.

- look at them specks, aint they beautiful? You take off their feathers and clean ‘em, their flesh is jus pink, theys the best goose in the world for eatin, see how they stay away from the others, damn that jus makes me want to weep. He picked the rifle up, sighted and mock fired, his finger pulling alongside the trigger. The couple stood still. The man stirred to break the silence, and Micheau put the gun down.

He turned the truck around, said, go on now you can get out. The couple walked gingerly, him in canvas tennis sneakers and her in black pumps that squished a little as the mud grabbed at her heels. They watched the geese, shooting their heads into the wet grass clumps or picking at their bodies, crowding and releasing each other, the specks resting more calmly, as if they couldn’t be bothered. They got back in the truck and headed for the house.

- I heard... I heard you had some wild times, before you moved here... the man left the opening.

- I tell you what, Micheau said, that was a time ago, a real different time. He downshifted the truck so that the loose tools under the seat thumped beneath them. The narrow back seat forced Claire to lean forward.

- Isabelle said you were a great dancer, the man tried.

- Did she? well, that must be true then, don’ seem to get much time for it out here though. He worked to keep the steering wheel from spinning as they made way over the damp ground.

- What kind of trees are those, by the house? the woman asked, the trees along with the sheds and shacks all they could see above the rustling line of the land.

- Oak trees, I reckon theys about the most beautiful trees in the world. The couple looked at him. Or the state of Louisiana, anyway.

They drove over a large square concrete foundation. - Some old building? the man asked, thinking he was showing that he would know there wouldn’t be basements in this kind of country.

- it was for the landing strip, I leased it to this guy, planes comin in at night all the time, he was CIA or somethin. He was jus trouble, I told him I didn’t want him anymore, then two weeks before the lease is up this place burns down. I know it was arson, everybody does. Then I hear he was tryin to hire someone to do me, and they got the guy, hell, had him in my house, with the sheriff and the assistant district attorney, and he said he was approached to do me, thats what he said to the both of them, that the guy asked him how much would it take, five grand, ten, fifty, he told it to em both, and then they get some phone call the next day and they do a total of nothin about it.

The couple stared at the concrete until it was behind them. - So, the man said, who do you sell the craws to? He almost said crays, but caught himself, he’d made that mistake enough in New Orleans.

- I sell to them Frenchies, they got a few restaurants, all within fifty miles of here, they pay cash, don’ need no Uncle Sam in this business, no sir, they tried to come down here and get on top of it but they can’t, I get a dollar twenty-five a pound most all of the time, except when theys jus too much product, everybody bringin it in at the same time, you only get eighty cents from the big factories around here, so I deliver direct, sometimes someone tries to get to my customer, thats when I get competitive you damn sure, but all they have to do is look in my sacks, cause I got the best product. But it aint no business of Uncle Sam.

As they made the last turn Micheau stopped the truck and walked to the water to check if the pump line was clear.

- You see, I told you, everything would be cool, the man said.

- What time do you want to head back? she asked.

- I was thinking, I’ll bet there’s some good places around here, remember the Cajun goose he brought for Isabelle’s birthday party? And that venison.

- We’re having dinner out tonight, we just have one more night after this. I want the time with Isabelle, she invited some of the other gallery owners. I’m not missing it.

Micheau stepped back into the truck. - Fine, the man said, not wanting to be found in the process of losing an argument. He had wondered how long the talk could be sustained. The butt of the rifle jammed into his thigh as Micheau turned the truck around. It fell to the floor in front of him; he started to pick it up, then let it rest.

They got back to the sheds. The couple maneuvered out of the truck, and through its passenger window Micheau yelled, hey Paco, we got to go start up that pump. Paco came out, dark and unsmiling at the extension of his day’s work. An’ hey tell her to start that water boilin we gonna cook up a few. The boy went back into the house and the girl came out with him, still wearing the white blouse and now a faded loose red skirt with blue trim that went to below her knees.

- Can I go with you? the man asked.

- we jus gonna start up the pump is all.

- Why do you want to go? asked the woman.

- I’m just interested in it all.

- well sure, c’mon along, and the man got into the truck first so as to not make Paco take the uncomfortable middle position. They drove in silence along the back of the property, leaving Claire to walk around, swinging her arms in long arcs, wondering about the life here, the shack, the house, Micheau. The slight paunch didn’t make him any less fluid, the way he moved, the way he looked, the soft tones that got underneath things. Some men got stronger in their forties, no matter what had happened before.

The pump shed housed an old diesel engine half exposed, looking dirty but the man could see the working parts were well kept. I don’ keep it on all the time, don’ need it and it’d be too expensive, Micheau said, but theyd be hell to pay if I didn’t get it goin for too long. Micheau took jumper cables out of his truck and raised the hood. He handed one set of clamps to Paco, who attached the cables to the diesel while Micheau stood by the truck. When the boy was well clear, Micheau put the jumper ends on the truck battery. The clamps on the engine kicked up long sparks in the dark shed, the boy jumped back while the big engine turned on, not as loud as the man expected.

- you touch that while I’m connectin her, that sucker’ll kick you back on your ass, fry you real good, Micheau said.

Teddy walked behind the shed where a pair of two-foot wide spotted gray pipes ran down to a deep gully. He could see the brown water rising in great slow mounds at a spot beyond where the pipe entered, boiling from the turbulence of the suction beneath the surface. The light was fading, and what breeze there had been had died down, while the water rose off the fields in a thin mist that covered them like a blanket. They got back in the truck and drove to the house. This heres Paco, Micheau said. The man turned and smiled and shook Paco’s hand, the boy trying to smile back and the man said buenos dios and Micheau said there you go and the boy muttered something, then they went the rest of the way without speaking.

At the house Micheau called to the girl to get the crawfish. When she stood still, he opened the door to a thick-walled cooler room, and walked over to a few filled sacks. The man peered his head in.

- theys what you’d call dormant now, Micheau said, pointing to the tightly packed sacks, hey, lets get in the boat and I’ll show you how its done, while we wait for these to get cookin. The man went to his wife to give her the plan.

In the cooler Micheau pulled up a sack. The girl stood by the door. He motioned her to come closer. When she finally did he stood up so that he brushed into her. She stared at him but he’d got busy opening the sack. See this is the way you can get em out the easiest, he said, pointing to the widening at the top. She stood there. Alright I’ll jus carry em out myself anyways, and he walked out. He hurried over to the house and disappeared for a minute, came back with a big jar filled with a red mix of spices, took a handful and threw it into the water that was now heating in a big pot over the burner. He turned to the girl. We gonna be back soon, comprendey, then we’ll put em on.

They drove to where the boat sat on the edge of one of the levees, surrounded by mud, the long claw stretching out like a swan’s neck behind it. The big wheel found purchase and whipped the boat around until it was half in half out of the water, and the couple climbed in to join him. They giggled and held on to each other, kissed as he stroked her back. Micheau watched, then ran the boat into the water, the bounce breaking the couple apart.

He showed them how he pulled out one trap, set the next, the continuous sweep of it to keep the flow swift and efficient, the clack of the hard shells falling on the metal and the claws grasping to hold on as they slid down the tray into the sack. Man, he said, in the spring, they get big and the demand is there, them Swedes start buyin, you pick up one of them traps and theys five, eight dollars in it, it jus make you wanna smile, keeps you going all day, you do a thousand of em, you got to. Put em in the sack, tie em so they don’ knot, easy to open and get em out. The woman held the burlap sack under the tray, trying to read its faded red emblem and lettering.

She asked him how it was he could keep selling at a premium price.

- yes ma’am, you got to have the product. I sell cause I got the product, the best, I keep that water aerated, I don’ overfish, don’ set my traps too close, so they knows I’m reliable. Yeah theys some people try to take my accounts, I’ll get em on that, but hell them Frenchies jus look in my sacks and the others, then they take mine.

- They were great, the ones you brought to Isabelle’s party, the man said.

- theys an Italian guy makin parts for the big boats, Micheau said. Jus here a coupla years, his family in the business back over there. And the government gives him the money to set up, I mean, the government wouldn’t give you the money, or me, but he comes in and gets it.

- Yeah, he knows what he’s doin, the man said. He scraped his hands picking up a trap, tried not to show it. He bent to retie his shoelace, to shorten the strands so that they did not absorb the rank water in the bottom of the boat.

Micheau picked up one of the craws, deftly holding it so its claws flailed harmlessly around his hand. That’s good weight, he said. He turned it to show to the woman. One of the claws nipped his finger. Damn, he said. He pushed against the shell, snapping the craw in two. Its claws clicked with residual life for a few second, then went limp. He tossed the parts into the water, put his lips to his finger, licking off the trace of blood. The couple watched the two halves float off with the pull of the pump.

- We heard some stories about, well, wilder times, I guess, the man said. He laughed nervously. Micheau understood the tremors of a man’s voice, but it wasn’t what mattered to him now. A woman’s, too.

The woman ran her hands through the water. Were you really so different, before? she asked.

- I reckon you could say I was born again, not religious speakin, no, but born again jus the same. It’s true I kinda had some times when I was younger, but then, well, things happened, it don’ matter what, and granddaddy died and I came out here, had the idea to make it two crops, its workin I’m seein money but man what with the trucks and the pumps it jus don’ quit, all the time payin for somethin. They pushed to near the end of the field, stopped to bring up a trap, felt the slight flutter of the boat being pulled by the distant pump. But it’s some kind of place, aint it, he smiled. I’m fixin to build a guest place up, if it all works out this year, then maybe next time you could stay over. He turned the boat around sharply, the big wheel cutting a swath across the stubs of the old rice. The man wondered if it would damage future crops but Micheau didn’t seem to care and they headed back to the levee, the truck and the house.

The water was boiling and Micheau took the bag, the crawfish now warmed up and moving quicker in it. The woman ran her hand along the undulations on its surface.

- Lot of good eating in that bag,” the man said.

As if you know about killing, she thought.

She heard the clatter of them rubbing against each other as Micheau emptied the sack, and the sound of water popping over the sides of the pot and sizzling on the hot burner below. Now that he was listening for it the man could feel the low rumble of the pump filling the air around them. Some geese flew over, silhouettes against the red-streaked slate sky, leaving the echo of their squawks. They had to wipe off the moisture of the heavy air that mingled with the steam from the pot. After a few minutes Micheau fished in with a big sieve and dumped the craws on the thin-legged table next to the burner.

- you know how to eat em? He picked one up, red from the cooking and the spices, all of them lying on the table on newspaper, soaking into the car crashes and school budgets and road repair notices. You pick em up and twist off the tail, suck on the head, get out the juices, some thinks thats the best right there, don’ bother with the claws, it aint worth the trouble, then you... he put the tail into his mouth so just the end flaps showed, bit down on the bottom and dragged it through his teeth, sucking on the meat, pulled it out, leaving an empty shell, tugged the whole tail into his mouth, the part closest to the body wrapped in green, dangling shreds. He smiled, said, thats the way you do it, real simple. He broke off a tail and held it up to the woman’s mouth. She leaned towards him and tried to do the same. He sat close and laughed with her as the craw juices ran down the side of her mouth and the shell splattered in her teeth and she sucked to pull the meat out.

- damn these is good, you know what, lets cook some up for Isabelle, you can take em back, long as we got the water goin an’ all. He walked into the cooler, the man following, picked up a sack. He pulled on the ribbon along the top but it didn’t open.

- a knot, goddammit, if they knot me again I’ll... a taut shiver ran down from his neck to his belly as he clamped his teeth on the ribbon. He cut open the sack and emptied it into the boiling water, grabbed a handful of the spices from the big jar and threw them in. The woman wiped the juices off her face, and the man said it was time to be going.

- Just a few left, the woman said.

- Yes ma’am, I do believe theys the best crawfish in the world.

* * *

- Did you understand what he was saying about that guy and the airstrip? Teddy said as they drove off.

- Not really, Claire said.

- It’s the parish accent, he said. They both laughed. He’s tamer than I thought he’d be, that story about him and that girl in New Orleans, I kind of expected...

- I don’t know that he’s all that tame, Claire said. He looked over at her. She took a napkin from the glove compartment and wiped her stockinged feet. The mud caked gray brown around the sides of his sneakers; he glanced down and liked the look.

- I told you nothing would happen, he said. The smell from the bag of boiled crawfish in the back seat filled the car. Claire smiled at a thought, turned around, reached her arm out.

- They’re for Isabelle, remember?

She stared at him, smiled, pulled a crawfish out of the bag, deftly snapped it with her fingers, extracted the meat with her teeth, and tossed the two halves out the window. She left the window open, breathed deeply through the hair wind-strewn around her face. The rumble of the pump lingered in the air. She pictured running a gallery down here, by herself.

* * *

For the first time in months Micheau combed his long gray and black hair and pulled it into a neat pony tail. He put on his black pleated pants, and did a quick two step while looking in the mirror, holding his arms in front of him, then buttoned his white shirt up to the top, the one with the frilled pockets and band collar. As he drove out he went by the pump and shut it off.

He pulled into the barbecue, spruced up and vinyl now like they was all tourists with clean behinds, and sure enough there were Roamin Joe and Jimmy and most of the rest of them, sitting in the back corner they’d claimed. He did some bourbon, double shots, with Roamin Joe, who got to talking again about how lucky they’d been, but damn they’d had a good time and nobody got hurt that bad even if they had to pay one of them for an abortion later, that and a little extra that healed everything and it was good to have daddies that cared and be able to move to a place that understood and a granddaddy with a rice farm. Roamin Joe drank to it all, and Micheau to most of it.

It was dark when Micheau got back, dark but still hot even after all the doubles. He looked at the house, thought of the woman with the craw juices shining on her chin, the bright ease of her laughter. He took some short deep breaths, shook his head, drove by the shack and honked. Paco came to the door, tucking in his shirt. We gotta start up that pump now, he yelled over the motor noise. The boy nodded and got into the truck. Through the door he could make out the shape of the girl, edged by the lamp in the far corner of the room. Damn, I’m glad I remembered, he said, and the boy nodded again but didn’t say anything.

They got to the pump house and set up the jumper cable. As Paco placed the leads on the engine, Micheau stared into the unlit shed, lifted the clamps, hesitated, but he’d figured on it a way’s back, and he knew he’d get angry with himself if he didn’t keep to it. He connected the clamps to the battery. He blinked in the flash. The shock straightened the boy out, extending his arms and feet and tongue, then knocked him to the ground. Micheau went over to him, felt his pulse and got close to hear his shallow breathing. He checked that the pump was pulling, then carried the boy into the truck.

He went by the shack, honked until the girl came out, showed her the boy. She put her hand to her face, stifling a cry, and he signaled her to get in. They drove in silence to the hospital, the girl holding the boy, and waited until a night nurse told them the boy was in no danger, explaining it to the girl in Spanish. She listened with only her eyes moving, then he said, well alright we’ll be back to get him tomorrow, and they walked out to the truck.

When they parked he said, hey listen I’m real sorry, I couldn’t see, he’ll be okay, what about a drink to settle down? He led her into the house. He brought out a bottle of tequila and set it on the big wooden table in his kitchen, most of its paint scraped off. They sat down but when he held out the bottle and poured some in the jelly jar glass in front of her she sat taller and shook her head no. Suit yourself, he said, draining his shot, then poured another and drained that. He started to speak but stopped.

She looked at him with too much understanding, her skin the color of a speckled belly, he’d stopped shooting them but couldn’t help remembering their sweet flavor, in the pause with his finger rubbing the trigger. He stared at her and could taste it. The tequila bottle stood between them.

There’d been a time when it wouldn’t have really mattered, those old choices. She stared back, her face darker under the dim bare bulb above the table, her eyes whiter, not going for it. He felt her shadow watching him hesitate at the pump. He got up too fast, his chair tipped over and crashed with the sharp sound of a rifle shot that shrieked past them until it hit the geese, who hadn’t forgotten. They all reared and flew in the same moment with the sound of thunder. Micheau leaned forward, and thought how you could grab a woman and avoid the strike of her hands, not feel her arms as they sought to pound against you, how it could be.

As if a spark ignited her, she stood, her eyes on him, took the jelly glass, slowly raised it to her lips, threw her head back and downed it in one gulp, then even slower, the way he saw it, walked out of the room. Her skirt billowed when she opened the door, and he heard the creak of two footsteps on the porch before the screen clacked shut. The geese landed and it was quiet.

He watched her through the windows and thought about the likes of Mickey Ray and Roamin Joe working on the farm again, all the good ol’ boy what the fuck mistakes, not getting it, what he was trying to do here, and this one and her husband, if that’s even what he was, and everything going so smooth.

The shack door slammed, and he sat down, and after another shot his mind went to the price the Frenchies were paying, how many pounds the three of them could take in tomorrow, and he started doing the tallies.

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I publish stories and essays each month exploring kindness, courage, and the choices we and our society make.
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Author’s note:
Bayou’s Edge is also the basis for a screenplay I’ve written by the same name, now in development. Writing the film version deepened my connection to these characters — and to the world of the Louisiana bayous, where memory and consequence flow together like the tides.