Postmark Bayou Chene (6 page)

“Hey, you oughta know by now I'm not going to grab you. I can't see, remember?” she said more gently than usual. “I'll just sit here and keep you company for a while.”

She brushed the ground in front of the skiff with her foot to make sure it was clear before settling down with her back against the side of the boat. Drifter stopped whining but other than that didn't seem to notice she had company.

Loyce took a deep breath. It was a good night to sit out; the breeze was cool and smelled like young leaves. An owl hooted. A fish rippled the water. Fate's little houseboat knocked against the dock; most likely, he had turned over in bed.

“You know, Drifter, there's a lot to listen to on a quiet night if you just pay attention,” Loyce said, by way of conversation. “I used to be so lonesome missing home that I couldn't sleep. Then I found that I could busy my mind and figure out what was going on around me just by paying attention to the sounds. A boat's whistle on the river always meant something, and it wasn't long before I could tell whether they were coming in to the dock or leaving or passing another boat. I could tell from the milkman's step on the walk whether his feet were hurting that morning. The clang of the pans told me what we were having for breakfast just as if I'd asked the cook! I think that's when I noticed music—just lying there, listening, in the dark.”

Not a sound came from beneath the skiff, but Loyce thought she could feel the dog listening. It was a start, and it gave her an idea. She began humming “In the Good Old Summertime.” The bouncy little tune was the most recent one Val had brought back to her from upriver. The second time through the song, she added the words to see how they would go over with Drifter. She thought she heard the slightest thump of a tail at the end.

“Well, if you liked that, here's one of my favorites because you can play it, sing it, or dance to it.”

She jumped right into “It rained all night the day I left,” tapping out the beat on her thigh as if she were center stage at a dance. The last
kneeeeeeee
hadn't faded from her lips when she heard Drifter breathing closer to the edge of the boat. Heartened, she kept going.

“Here's one you might have heard before, seeing as you came off the river. Val told me it's an old sailor's song. He knows lots of versions, but this here's my favorite.”

She started out low.

Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river.
Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, I'm bound away, 'cross the wide Missouri.

The pure loneliness of the song on the night air set up a longing in the young woman for something she couldn't name. Loyce sensed that Drifter recognized that longing but that, unlike herself, the little dog could name the person she was missing. Whatever the reason, as the mournful notes faded, she felt Drifter breathing softly on her hand.

In this manner the blind woman and the dog kept company until nearly daylight, when the roosters began to crow from their perches in trees or inside homemade coops. As with the boat whistles, Loyce knew their individual voices, which ranged from the rusty croak of an old gentleman whose sunrises were numbered to the competitive trumpeting of young cockerels.

There was a whole chorus of young cocks across the island that spring. Every morning she listened to them compete. It was as if they knew that only one would be kept as the service rooster. She parsed out each call, knowing ahead of time which one would crow next, getting her bearings for the tail end of the night as it eased into morning.

Sure enough, at the time she knew to expect it, the clang of the stove door told her Adam was awake and stirring up the fire for coffee. She stood and dusted off the back of her gown.

“Well, Drifter, I don't know about you, but I'm stiff as a poker from this damp ground. You can stay out here if you want, but I'm going in.”

Not a sound from under the skiff.

“Just because we shared a song or two doesn't mean you're won over, does it? Have it your way then.”

She listened a second more and then tapped a foot in the direction of the plank walk. One, two, three steps.

“Arggguuu,” rumbled from under the skiff.

She froze, puzzled, thinking it sounded like one of Val's beehives. Suddenly she was knocked off-balance. Loyce staggered, reaching out with her hands in hope of steadying herself, not knowing where to go. She couldn't step just any which way because she had lost track of the bayou. How close was the dock? She couldn't remember. She couldn't even remember which way she had turned when the sound startled her.

“Arggguuufff!” The sound was Drifter! Growling like a wild animal.

It had never occurred to her that the mysterious dog might attack. She had nothing for defense, not even that useless cane she'd brought home from school.

This was just the sort of thing that would make Fate fuss at her later on. She could already hear him saying a blind girl wasn't supposed to go walking around at night. But what difference did day or night make to her? It was just like Fate to break into her concentration when she was trying to flap her hands at the dog, grab the air for balance, and run away at the same time. She fumed, knowing that all of those efforts together were doing her as much good as trying to fly.

Suddenly the growling was interspersed with slapping and thumping on the plank walk. What was that? The violent sounds told Loyce she should jump but didn't give her a clue about the direction. When things couldn't get any worse, they did. The plank walk started bouncing from both directions. She felt empty space beneath her slippers as she flew into the air.

“What is it?” Adam's voice coming from the porch was interrupted by Fate from the bayou side, “Loyce? What the hell?”

Their pounding feet were turning her plank walk into a seesaw.

“Whoa! Are you bit? Where?”

One more bounce, higher than any before, sent her flying upward; her gown billowed out as she changed course and started down. Then she was clamped tight. Fate's long arms held her higher off the ground than usual.

“No, she didn't bite me, but she's fighting with something.” Loyce squeezed out the words through his grip, which was cutting off her air. That's Fate, making things worse by trying to help, she thought.

“Not her! The snake! That
something
is a granddaddy of a cotton mouth!” Fate was still yelling, and Loyce pushed her ear into his shirt to soften the sound. “It must have been hunting for an easy meal around the fish traps. If it'd gotten tangled up in your gown, you'd be bit a dozen times by now. You got that black dog to thank.”

Thank! Her face burnt hot, and she pushed against the solid wall of his chest.

“Well, if it wasn't for that black dog, I'd be safe in my bed right now,” she retorted, feeling braver but not yet ready to put her feet down on the plank walk. “First thing in the morning you find her a home.”

4

For days to come, more customers than usual crowded around the post office and propped themselves against the porch banister. They had rowed and walked considerable distances to hear about the fracas firsthand, and they were not disappointed.

Fate stretched the cottonmouth across the plank walk for everyone to admire. He also stretched his own part in the story way out of proportion for Loyce's taste. To counter his bragging, Loyce found herself taking Drifter's part, expounding on the little dog's courage. Loyce's declarations prompted Fate to jump in with even bigger plans for Drifter—teaching her to lead Loyce safely around the island.

That's just the way things get out of hand when Fate's around, she fumed, rocking harder and jabbing her shuttle in and out of the twine. Before she could figure out how to regain control of the situation, Mary Ann Bertram burst through the back door.

“Adam, do I have to wait till the holidays to find some pecans, or do you have some stashed in here somewhere?” the young woman yelled while striding to the middle of the room.

Loyce listened as Mary Ann's voice took on a distant quality. Had she pitched forward into one of the barrels? Sure enough, rummaging sounds ensued and then gave way to bundles crashing onto the floor. Next her sensitive ears followed the step of Adam's boots around the counter. When they stopped in front of Mary Ann's ruckus, Loyce could almost hear him pondering on the whereabouts of pecans.

“Might be some over there, but they'd be last year's, not too good,” he offered.

“Don't matter how good they are. I just need some for a bread pudding I'm making York,” Mary Ann grunted.

“I thought York didn't like nuts—they hurt his teeth,” Adam said, taking advantage of her help to unpack some of the things she had tossed out of the barrel. He began making little piles of like goods in vacant spaces—tins of spices, paper packets of sewing needles, jars of olives packed tight in salty vinegar.

“He hates 'em, but he loves my bread pudding more than just about anything,” she grunted with the effort of lifting a bucket of sugarcane syrup out of her way. “Nothing will torment him more than to follow the smell of that pudding through the doorway, spoon up a big pile, and bite in to all those pecans.” She stopped long enough to beam at the image.

“What'd he do to get on your bad side?” Adam asked.

The Bertrams were known for going out of their way to win an argument, entertaining everyone else as they tried to out-spite each other.

“Killing my rooster is the latest shenanigan, but he ain't been fit to live with for a month or so,” she said. “Got broodier than an old setting hen for no reason I can make out. Don't talk, not that he ever contributed much to conversation before. But now he don't say a word for or against night or day. Just stays out at the sawmill or his still, working, but he don't forget to eat.”

“How'd he kill your rooster?” asked Adam. “Not that I blame him—that varmint was gonna take someone's eye out sooner or later. Just look at your arms.”

Mary Ann scratched thoughtfully at the scabs in various stages of healing but then drew up to her full height and huffed out.

“I was right over in the calf lot and saw it all, so there's no denying it, even if he cared enough to, which he don't. Won't answer me a bit about it. The rooster charged him from behind the sweet peas, which was one of his favorite hiding places, so it wasn't like York was surprised or anything. He picked up that piece of stove wood he keeps there and walloped him upside the head, knocking him stone cold like always.”

Adam nodded, remembering the times he'd toted that same piece of stove wood in order to get from the boat dock to their door if the rooster happened to be out front.

Mary Ann continued. “That always took the fight out of him for a couple of days, and York knew that. But this time he went right on over and stomped that rooster in the head, over and over, until nothing but the comb was showing above the dirt.”

“Maybe he was worried about you or someone else getting hurt bad,” offered Adam. “Leastways, now you don't have to arm yourself to get in and out of your boat.”

“He ain't worried about me or nobody else. Just himself and the price of rubber boots,” said Mary Ann.

Then she triumphantly held up a tin of shelled pecans.

Out on the porch Loyce's fingers slipped the wooden shuttle methodically through the cotton thread of the net as she listened to Mary Ann's plan. Whenever Loyce visited the Bertrams, someone had to protect her from the rooster since she couldn't see to kick at him herself. That was another aggravation of being blind. She had to wait for someone to take her everywhere outside the house or the plank walks. Not that there was anywhere to go.

Getting out and about was what she missed the most about school. Finding her own way through the well-marked halls to classrooms and play areas had been easy; she didn't have to wait for someone to lead her. Then there were daily outings when teachers escorted groups of students along the sidewalks of Baton Rouge. They would stroll past a French bakery or a flower shop, inhaling the fragrances that sighted people couldn't fully appreciate. There were field trips, where they learned to swim and ride horses. The music students played concerts for the public and also attended professional musical performances in town.