Sketcher (21 page)

The cops had helped Pa Campbell to his feet, and Ma had just calmed him down, when the creature came back at us, swoopin' down lower this time. It was so low you felt a hum in your chest. The monster dipped towards the trees. We saw the massive wings, and what looked like two eyes and a mouth. We waited for claws to come out. This was a chargin' blackbird, an angry eagle, a stingray – and then somethin' else.

“It's a
bat
!” Pa was lookin' out from behind his fingers now.

He leapt from the chair again and tried to wrangle the rifle from the officer's grasp, but failed. He was face down in the dirt when the monster dropped in on top of us again. The shadow swallowed both houses, their backyards, part of the bayou and all the people on the ground. When the thing zoomed overhead, all the trees bent over backwards. Our clothes fluttered. Tin roofs rattled. We saw that the monster had a smooth underbelly, and it whistled as it went by. And that smell, that strange city smell was trailin' behind it.

Ma Campbell couldn't raise the man up by herself, so she lay on the ground, holdin' his face and grimacin' at the madness in her husband's eyes. The officers were busy cheerin'
as the thing flew away. We Beaumonts all looked towards the train tracks instead of followin' the beast into the sky. Secretly, we wanted to know that Tony had seen those wings on his way back into the city. We wanted him to turn that car around and come runnin' back to explain this shape our eyes had never seen. But the train tracks were quiet, 'cept for a willow tree out at the very edge of L-Island, still writhin' in the wind, like a tail that lost its lizard.

Then those cops stood there high-fivin' about this thing, while Pa was still gaggin' on what he just saw. They argued about what they thought it was, and one even said he saw
another
UFO before, over in California. But like Backhoe Benet said, the police don't know anything. That was no UFO. And if Tony didn't come back and say what that thing was... and if it looked like a bat and flew like a bat, then a bat it was goin' to be. And any kind of bat in the daylight is a bad, bad sign.

Ma Campbell cried all night. We heard her above the low thunder that complained over the Gulf but never fulfilled the wonderful threat of rain. It was as if the wing of that thing got snagged on some black thunderhead clouds and dragged them in over our heads. We waited for the beatdown. In the flicker of blue lightning over the ocean, I swear I could see all the way to the edge of the world – the curve of that glass bowl they keeps us in.

Moms got up and took a piece of rope and made a clothes line inside of the shack. Then she threw a bedsheet over it and pulled that sheet all the way across the room, separatin' herself from us boys. We heard sobbin', but we dared not ask her about what was already becomin' quite clear. Pa Campbell's bullet had found his friend's leg when he took that shot in the dark at the shindig.

And that night after we saw the big ol' day bat, Frico started the drawin' for the competition, sittin' at Alrick Beaumont's desk. We had two weeks to do it. And even with all
the strange goings-on, I was as excited as a hen layin' multicoloured eggs. I saw when Frico took up the T-square, like a cross. He laid the head flush against the work table. His breathin' became shallow. He dusted the drawing paper with a bit of cornmeal for cleanliness. And when he raised the blue pencil and drew a line with his left hand, I stopped my breath for a beat. That was the Beaumont line in the sand, the end of an error, the startin' point of the fulfilment of a lesser-known prophecy. And it was right on time too, cos you could see it was happenin' on the night when the darkness had just gotten deeper in the room.

Twenty-Three

That summer was full of cicadas. And suffocatin' heat. And Pa Campbell mumblin' nonsense under his breath. But I was happy. It must have been ninety-six degrees under the trees, but I was cool as ever. I could feel a celebration comin' on, like the one that was happenin' in the city. Yep, round about that time, the Pope was in the New O'lins on a ten-day visit. Welcome banners were everywhere. People lined the streets. Even those who weren't Catholic came out to see the cool popemobile rollin' from the French Quarter to the Super-dome. I heard that some people cried when the shadow of the vehicle passed over them and laughed when the Pope tried on a sparkly Mardi-Gras mask with big, purple-and-yellow feathers on it. Ma Campbell couldn't contain herself. She came back into the swamp wearin' a white rosary tangled up in all her usual hoodoo talismans, sayin' that the Papa's visit was the best thing she ever saw happen to New O'lins. It didn't matter that she had only gone to the lakefront mass with Mai's mother for a couple of hours.

Pa stayed with us while she was gone. It was awkward. Moms fed him boiled vegetables and dandelion tea. She kept him cool and made sure he took his meds. You could see she wanted to ask him things about the shootin', but you really shouldn't do like the police and try to interrogate a person who's sick and tired – even if it's about your family.

Anyway, to be honest, it was as if Ma Campbell had stayed out the whole ten days. One day was a long time to sit on the porch with Pa Campbell those days. I kept myself busy by movin' his wheelchair from time to time, playin' hide-and-seek with the sun. But I couldn't ask him anything, and all his
stories had dried up. At least he made me know he was alive every hour with a few ramblin' sentences, or maybe a shudder every so often.

“Skid. Those bugs. After a couple years or so, they come up out of the goddamn ground. They shake the grave dirt off themselves. Then they break their own backs open and come on out with a new body. And they leave theah carcasses behind, like a shell, just standin' there still, clutchin' a tree and starin' at nothin'. Meanwhile the new body grows red eyes and green wings and flies away like they don't know that other dead guy.”

I didn't know all that about cicadas at the time – I thought it was only crabs that did that – but I wasn't goin' to ask him anything more. Even though I'm not nearly as superstitious as him, I felt it in my bones that Pa Campbell was fixin' to be a bad omen on Frico's work. That's why this whole time I never told him anything about it. I knew where he was goin' with this insect story, so I tried to change the subject.

“That cloth... what is it?”

“Cherokee. Beadwork and cotton. About sixty years old, this one.”

I looked over at the cloth and then followed the plait of his white hair down his shoulder to the place on his finger where that turquoise ring used to be.

“Are you...”

“Not a single Cherokee bone is in my body, kid. I'm Cajun.”

Then he turned to me shakin', more cataracky than ever.

I did a drum roll in my head, cos I knew he was just warmin' up. Then he brought in the violins.

“I spent my woman-chasin' years also chasin' tribes across the Americas: from Delaware to the Rockies to Ecuador and Peru into Tierra del Fuego, where the world ends. I hopped around the Caribbean: San Tainos, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Haiti. Sat in volcanoes and caves and in the rain and listened.
I heard different languages, but the same voice, from the people befo' my eyes and from dose long dead and gone. So I marked myself with a symbol from every tribe. Because they were all the truth. Then, I left my heart all over the place like lost luggage, kid. I went nuts. And I'm so glad I did.”

Oh man. Guess I asked for it. I thought that was the end of it, but right before nightfall he brought up the Benet boys again.

“Those two boys. They had Taino in them. From their mother. So when they died, they went to
Coay Bay
. The place for spirits. Know what that means?”

I didn't really care what that meant. Especially at night. Five minutes passed. Maybe he forgot his train of thought.

“That means... That means right now they're comin' back around this place after the sun disappears, like bats, lookin' for fruits to eat!”

Aw, man—

“You got to know them different, kid. You can tell an Op'a – dat's a spirit – you can tell 'em different from a live human. If they have a face and a navel, they're a live human. If not, you're screwed. Likewise every mornin' you get up, check for your goddamn face and your navel!”

He snickered.

Well, that old man knew he ruined my night with that Taino Op'a story. See, even though my pops used to tell me all kinds of Cajun junk and Pa himself had a couple crazy beliefs, there was nothin' was as scary as the idea that there was somethin' lookin' like a human bein', walkin' around like a human bein', but without a face to
identify
them as a human bein'. Hell, no.

So when I saw the Mitsubishi Montero pull up with Ma Campbell inside it, I couldn't wait to roll Pa gently off our porch – no lie. Mai waved at me from the back seat. I didn't know she had gone to the city. I'd have to have a word with her about that. She didn't smile, but maybe she was just tired
after bein' among thousands of people at that lakefront mass.

Everything was weird, anyways. Not even the Montero had the usual wet tyres, on account of having no creek to drive through. It got weirder. That night I had a dream about Mai. She was in a church. She was walkin' up the aisle with a white veil over her face, carryin' a bouquet of water lilies. I was excited and waitin' at the altar for her. Then, when I looked, I saw that her white veil was turnin' black all of a sudden, like some invisible hand was pourin' ink on top of her head. I tried callin' out to her. But you know that inside most nightmares they don't allow shoutin'. And that girl, she just walked up and told me to be still and stood there happy with her bright eyes shinin' under the black veil like it was all OK. I could feel everything she was feelin', and it was beautiful. Like between us there was a new, secret language that had no words in it. And when it was time for me to put the ring on her, she raised her hand, and I saw that she had fourteen fingers, seven on each hand, fully formed with bones and everything.

“It's OK, Skid, I just want to help,” she said, and smiled.

And I jumped up out of the bed and landed on the wood floor of the swamp shack fully vertical, wide awake and walkin' towards Frico. He stopped sketchin' the city and looked over at me.

“Hey, easy there, man. You really got time for a bad dream? I thought you were supposed to be helpin' me with this.”

I sat back down on the bed and held my head in my hands. Moms stirred in her sleep and told us to quiet down. I got Frico a Coke and told him the dream.

“Frankly, dreamin' 'bout marriage means death, Skid – ask Momma. And funeral means marriage. So go dream about your girlfriend's funeral, and you should be fine.”

He was being a jerk as usual, but he knew he could get away with it, especially now. On any other occasion I woulda gone to war with him in the middle of the night for sayin' that
about Mai, the same way he knocked me out over Teesha Grey. But it would be a new day soon. No time for all that.

Frico turned up the lamp, and I saw the sketches. Oowee. Brilliant. He was workin' on the New O'lins map. But he'd also done a few close-up buildin' sketches based on some black-and-white photos he took in the city. He also took photos of the swamp. But when I asked him what the swamp photos were for he said:

“Just for reference.”

Well, I didn't like that kind of short answer. It made me wonder if he was seein' through my whole plan. But I didn't sweat it. Frico Beaumont was finally goin' through with the plan. Even though he didn't know it. And even though I wasn't even goin' to give him a dime. Well not before we won that five grand, at least.

Anyway, this boy was not just an artist, he was a frickin'
architect
. His sketches showed he was clearin' land. He was movin' highways and sailin' them over into the swamp. There was a library and post office and a train station.

Then, when I thought he was done, he took the construction paper and glue and colours from his paints and built a wicked scale model of L-Island. Lam Lee Hahn was as big as a Walmart, and an all-inclusive hotel called The Beaumont Resort stretched from the bayou to the edge of the coast. Prime beach-front property, raised above sea level. Frico measured elevation and distance on the map. One inch equals just over a mile and a half in real life. Damn, that's some stuff I didn't even think about. Well, just when I thought we were on our way to winnin' this New O'lins 2020 hands down, Miss Teesha Grey, she appeared in the swamp the night before the competition. Aw, man. Frico would have ignored her I think, but she came there with some guy. The dude was obviously drivin' his dad's car, and she asked him for a ride into the swamp just to make Frico feel jealous. Well, that wuss Frico fell for it and went outside to talk to her. They were out there
for two full hours – holdin' hands. Then when they started kissin', the poor sucker in the car honked the horn and Moms stuck her head out and said it was time Teesha headed home. I was ticked off that, with just hours to go, he'd gone off and left the future unfinished. Your girl is sweet, man, but makin' up can wait – c'mon now.

The next day Tony was late again. Said he had to get his hair cut. Anyway, he turned up for us in canvas shoes and a Miami Vice sports jacket in the hot sun. I looked down at my dirty boots and went and changed into my new Chuck Taylors that Moms said was only for back-to-school.

Tony took us to the library in Algiers where the judgin' would take place. Well, the long and short is: we didn't get the five grand. We placed second.
Second.
Can you believe that? Some kid from Plaquemines took it home. Got beaten by one or two lousy points. But Moms, she was proud as ever. She got a big ol' picture frame made with a compartment for each sketch, and she put those second-place drawin's in it and put it up where our few visitors could see it.

That stuff was so cool I can't believe we didn't win. Anyway, what really mattered was that the thing was now written in stone, so to speak – so any day now...

But every day after that was like a summer solstice.
Long
.
I twisted and turned on the bed all night listenin' to that aquamarine paint crack and curl off the wood inside the shack.

Nights weren't easy on Moms neither, 'specially since my pops' disappearance. Worryin' about Tony livin' in the city and his road-trippin' only made it worse. Many times she would just sit straight up in her bed and throw punches with her eyes still closed. Damn near clobbered me a few times when I tried to wake her up.

Shattered nerves – that's what the doctor said. He recommended Moms drop some of her workin' hours in the city. Mai's mother recommended ginseng and rest. Ma Campbell anointed her with some water blessed at the lakefront mass.
Pa Campbell said it was too late. He said it was clear that the Op'as of Broadway and Squash had finally entered into our house. He stared out at the lake from his chair.

“Captain Backhoe should have seen to it. Those boys needed a traditional Taino burial, in a cave. Or at least a Cimarrón-style wake. He shoulda put nails in those feet and tied their big toes together. He shoulda leant up their beds on the wall and burned some frankincense.”

That did it. I was never gonna sleep again, so I decided to have a nightwatch like we did back in the day. That good ol' tamarind tree would be my lookout point to see any evidence of the city advancin'.

Well, I was up there every single night and didn't see nothin' except that one night when I heard a rumble and saw lights, but it was a stupid freight train makin' fun of me. So I climbed down and ran beside it and flung rocks and cursed it until it disappeared like a snake in the dark.

Then one evenin' before sunset a bunch of guys came into the swamp in an official-lookin' eighteen-wheeler. They stopped over on the Benet side of the tracks. They had a huge sign, some equipment and no time to waste. Big steel pipes came out of the back of the eighteen-wheeler. They laid the pipes on the ground and started joinin' them together like they were buildin' the bottom of some kind of scaffoldin'.

Over the next few days they put up a chain-link fence and then dropped the sign behind it. I told Frico about the goingson, and said that we should go check out the sign and everything, but he was busy writin' love letters to Teesha Grey. Yeah, love letters. Now, don't get excited, cos look, I went ahead and read one of those things with a flashlight under the bed when everyone was asleep. Damn, that boy should learn to spell. But really the love letter wasn't nothin' hot and nasty or anythin'. More about
birds
than pretty words. That girl had my brother by the bells, I tell ya. You could see he was tryin' to show interest in her environmental stuff. Her birthday was comin' up,
and he bought her a Hallmark card and everythin', and he was taking his time to find the right words. Aww, sweet. So far he'd gotten to the “Dear Teesha” part. Pathetic.

Anyway, I didn't bother Doug neither, cos he was busy calculatin' how much fish and shrimp we'd have to sell to give Pa his share and still have money to leave the swamp.

But soon I didn't have to call anybody's attention to the fact that we had real trouble in the swamp. Our part of the bayou was dying. The water in front of our house was low and stagnant just like the Benet side had always been. Moms banned us from goin' anywhere near the water, not even to set a trot line or a pot. She said the summer days of jumpin' off the roof into the bayou were over. And if we were fishin' or swimmin', it was to be in the lake towards the Gulf or further east in the swamp. Soon Al Dubois came callin', sayin' he wasn't seein' much swamp seafood comin' in, and he had customers. So we were up a creek. We could always find somethin' to feed ourselves, but hell, we had a client to satisfy.