Zack (12 page)

“I … well … I took auto shop at school.”

“Up there in Ohio.” He pronounced it
Oh-high-uh
.

“Yeah.”

“Tell you what, Mike. I got a old pump over yonder in the shed, don’t run at all. I use it to pump water up from the bayou when the well’s low. If you could get it goin’ again, I’d be glad to pay you for your trouble.”

I almost jumped out of the truck. “Sure.”

“Park in the driveway, then. They’s tools in the shed, you need any.”

And with that he turned and walked to the gallery.

Behind the house, the yard was shaded by live oaks trailing grey scarves of Spanish moss. A jetty jutted into the still, caramel-coloured water of the bayou, and a lawn chair was tied to one of the pilings with a length of frayed plastic rope. On the opposite shore was a cypress swamp, its skeletal trunks rising into the hard blue sky and striping the water with shadows.

The pump motor, an old four-stroke, hadn’t seen a wrench in a long time. The oil in the sump was black with age. The gas tank was full. I pulled the starter a few times and got no response, not even a cough. I lifted the pump onto the wide, waist-high shelf built
into the side of the shed, then looked inside the shed for the tools. The spark plug was so fouled it would never fire again. The carburetor parts were varnished from sitting inactive for a long time, so I cleaned them with a brush and steel wool.

Working on the pump relaxed me somewhat. When I had reinstalled the carb I stood and stretched. It was then that I noticed the mud-smeared licence plate on the front of the truck and remembered that in most states cars carried plates only on the rear bumper.

I sneaked a glance at the house, then quickly removed the plate, skinning my knuckles in my haste, and tossed it under the seat. Then I scooped a gob of grease from the plastic container I had seen in the shed and smeared it over the word
Ontario
on the rear plate. And not a second too soon. I heard a screen door creak open and slap shut. My grandfather limped over to my work place, a glass of tea in his hand.

“Thought you might like something,” he offered.

“Thanks, Mr. Straight.”

“Call me Lucas, Mike.”

“Um, okay.” I held up the spark plug from the pump. “If you can tell me where to go, I’ll pick up a new one for you. This one’s shot.”

Lucas gave me directions to a garage on the edge of town. “Don’t go to the Texaco,” he stressed. “White man owns that one.”

I got there just as they were closing and bought the plug. Back at the house, I installed it, and on the second pull of the starter cord the motor fired and purred away like new. I let it run for half a minute and shut it off—without water flowing through it the pump mechanism would overheat. Then I disassembled the pump, cleaned it up, greased the parts and put them back together.

By the time I finished, night had begun to fall and the lights were on in the house. I cleaned my hands on a rag and knocked on the front door.

“Come on back into the kitchen, Mike,” I heard.

I stood there for a few moments, savouring the odours of pipe smoke and cooking meat—I was hungry—until I remembered that I was Mike. The door opened into a small parlour with a fireplace and a couch and chair with tattered upholstery. Passing through, I noticed his book,
Panthers in Chains
, on an end table and faded photos of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X on the wall.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, and it wasn’t exactly a contender for a home-and-gardens magazine. There was a single tap over the sink, a two-burner propane stove, a few cupboards. On a small round table two places had been set.

“Y’all can wash up at the sink yonder,” Lucas said, putting a platter of fried chicken on the table. “Supper’s ready.”

I was ready too. The cold fried chicken, bread and
butter and iced tea were followed by raisin oatmeal cookies right out of the bag. We didn’t talk much as we ate—which was a relief to me since I didn’t have to think up a bunch of lies while I munched.

“Guess you’ll be movin’ on tomorrow,” Lucas said, settling back into his chair and wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah.”

I knew he was waiting for me to tell him where I was headed. I had realized by then that he thought it was bad manners to ask a lot of questions. I said no more. I nibbled on a cookie instead, putting off the moment when I’d have to leave.

Lucas reached into his pocket and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.

“‘Preciate your help with that pump,” he said.

“No, that’s all right, Mr.— Lucas. I was glad to do it.”

“Mike, I asked for your help. Don’t let’s talk no more about it.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I took up the money.

“Where you plannin’ to spend the night?”

“The truck’s rigged for camping. I’ll find a spot somewhere.”

“Y’all’re welcome to camp right out there in the driveway if you want.”

“Okay,” I said, hoping my relief didn’t show. “Thanks.”

I bedded down in the truck, my stomach full, my
head ringing with thoughts and questions. In a way I was satisfied now. I had met my grandfather. He seemed like an okay guy. And now that he was a real person to me rather than a distant abstraction I felt more confident. Tomorrow I would tell him who I was. If he threw me out, I’d go home without regret. But not until I found out what had happened between him and my mother, although I was beginning to have an idea. I had a right to know for sure. I was his grandson. He owed it to me.

I
slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the heat, until a sharp noise down by the river woke me. The damp, sticky air was dead still, heavy with ripe odours from the bayou. Straining to hear more, I caught only the
chirrup
of crickets,
galump
of frogs and the hum of insects. The memory of the cops’ attack pushed into my mind, setting my nerves on edge. Leaning on my elbow, I craned my neck to see out the front of the truck.

Down at the jetty, a strong light was trained on the water. A shadow passed in front of it.

My heart began to pound and my breath came faster. I willed my eyes to see more and failed—the sky was a black dome without moon or stars. Momentarily, something blocked the light again and I heard a faint splash.

I pushed my sleeping bag away and climbed through the narrow window into the cab, feeling for the keys in the ignition. If I had to, I could start the truck and get out of there within seconds. I sat behind the wheel in my underwear, eyes fixed on the light. Who was on the jetty? What was he doing there in the middle of the night? Had
he come from the bayou to burgle Lucas’s house, knowing only an old man lived there?

The figure moved again. He had something long and slender in his hand.

A rifle.

The invader bent over, stood, bent again. Another splash. Now fully awake, my brain began to function. I had to warn my grandfather. I put my hand on the door handle, let go, letting out a long breath. I had almost made a mistake. I reached up and flicked the switch on the cab light so it wouldn’t come on when the door was opened.

Moving in slow motion, I slipped out of the truck, letting the door hang open. The ground was cool on my bare feet. I crept through the dark, along the side of the shed, my fingers gliding over the rough planks to guide me. I crouched behind a tree, held my breath and watched the figure on the jetty.

And I felt a fire of anger working its way into my limbs. Who did that jerk think he was, sneaking onto my grandfather’s land with a gun in his hand? A desperate plan formed in my mind.

I slipped back to the truck, reached inside and switched on the headlights.

In the white glare of the truck’s high beams, on the end of the jetty, a man rose and turned my way in one jerky motion, throwing one arm up before his eyes. As if in a photograph I saw that in his other hand he held a fishing rod. Beside him, next to the lawn chair,
was a white plastic bucket. A second fishing rod leaned against a piling, the line curving gently from the tip to a bobber in the centre of the pool of light on the water.

It was Lucas.

“What the —” he exclaimed as he took a step backwards, hitting the chair with his game leg, and toppled off the jetty, uttering a cry as a fountain of water rushed up into the glare.

I began to run. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I shouted as my feet pounded on the jetty. I jumped off the end into the warm chest-deep water. My feet sank into mud that squished obscenely between my toes. Frantically I reached to grab Lucas and was rewarded with a clout in the eye from his thrashing arms. Unable to get his feet under him, he beat the water uselessly, throwing up a confusion of foam and muddy water.

Wading behind him, I wrapped my arms around his chest and dragged him onto the slippery bank.

“What in the name of all that’s holy d’y’all think you’re doing?” he thundered, spluttering and sitting up. His voice, carried on the damp night air, echoed back from the far side of the bayou.

“I heard a noise. I thought I saw someone with a gun.”

Lucas wiped his face and spat river water onto the ground. “A gun? Y’all seen too many movies, boy. Now, go on back in the drink and fetch my pole!”

I waded into the bayou, grabbed the float and
pulled on the line, hand over hand, until the fishing rod rose to the surface. I tossed it onto the jetty and waded to shore, shivering with disgust at the sucking mud around my feet.

Lucas stood dripping in the harsh light, his sopping shirt and overalls clinging to his bony frame. When he saw me scrabble onto the bank in my underwear he began to laugh.

“What’s so damn funny?” I said, though it wasn’t him I was angry at.

“Mike,” he chortled, “y’all look like a bull catfish done had a bad night!”

He threw back his head and his laughter echoed across the bayou once more.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely for a third time. “Are you all right?”

“Turn off them darned lights,” he rasped, “and let’s go inside and get dry.”

Later, we sat on the jetty in the tranquil darkness, a vacuum jug of hot coffee between our chairs, two red-and-white bobbers floating in the light on the still water. Three small crappies and two catfish bumped their noses against the sides of the white bucket and worked their gills.

“You know,” Lucas said slowly, “when I was a boy the swamp and bush over yonder was full of fish and wild game.”

“Were there panthers?”

He chuckled as he threaded a fresh wriggling minnow on his hook. “Panthers? In Mississippi? Where’d you get such an idea?”

“I saw your book.”

Lucas laughed again. I was beginning to feel like the straight man in a comedy duo.

“That’s a history of the Black Panthers,” he told me, casting his line. “They was a militant Black Power outfit back in the sixties. Done a lot of good, too, even though some of ’em preached armed rebellion. The system done ’em in, though, like it always does.”

He slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck. “How’s that eye of yours?”

Gingerly, I touched the pulpy flesh under the prize-winning shiner that half closed my eye. “It’s all right. Maybe it’ll make me look tough.”

Lucas laughed. “It will that,” he said. “It will that. Hey! Y’all got a bite.”

We fished all night, sitting quietly together, listening to the night sounds of the swamp and watching the stars appear when a breeze came up to clear off the clouds. A few hours before dawn we returned to the house and washed up.

“Y’all grab some sleep in the spare room,” Lucas said, hoisting the pail of fish onto the counter beside the sink.

I dragged myself into the small bedroom beside his and without turning on the light, kicked off my shoes, lay down and fell into a dreamless sleep.

W
hen I padded into the kitchen the next morning, yawning and knuckling the sleep from my eyes — and yelping when I mashed the tender flesh of my shiner—Lucas was pouring coffee. On the table were two plates, each bearing a sandwich made with thick slices of white bread.

Clean-shaven, and dressed in black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt with a black tie, Lucas looked unlike the fisherman of last night. A suit jacket hung on the back of one of the chairs.

“Mornin’, Mike. Sit down and dig in.”

Hungry from staying up all night, a bit bleary-eyed with fatigue, I took a bite of my sandwich. Whatever was between the bread was warm, crispy and delicious. I finished in four or five bites and drained my mug.

“How’s the eye?” Lucas asked, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice.

“A bit better. The swelling’s gone down a bit.” Lucas nodded.

“That sandwich was good,” I said. “What was it?”

“Fried catfish. More coffee?”

“Er, sure.” The image of one of those ugly flat-headed
and whiskered creatures with the black eel-like body slithered into my mind. I was glad I had asked him after the meal.

“One of the ones we hauled in last night. The rest of our catch is in the freezer.”

Lucas set my refilled cup on the table. “Mike, I hope you’ll forgive my bein’ rude, but, are you plannin’ to move on today?”

I had been looking out the window across the yard to the gold sunlight on the bayou, and his question caught me by surprise. Leaving that peaceful place was the last thing in my mind.

“Um, yeah. I guess so,” I stammered.

“Reason I ask,” he continued. “I got to go to a funeral today. I should phone my nephew soon. He’ll carry me to the church in his car.”

I felt hurt. My own grandfather was rushing me out the door. Okay, I was being stupid. I knew that. To Lucas I was a stranger named Mike from up north who he’d known for a day. But we had spent the whole night fishing together, him telling me stories about the places and people around Natchez, his quiet voice and our laughter drifting like smoke into the inky darkness. He had shown me how to bait a hook with a worm or minnow—which he pronounced
minner
—and how to tell the difference between a crappie’s anxious strike at the bait and the cagey tug of a catfish. Now it was over.

“It’s okay, Mr. Straight,” I assured him. “I understand.
I was planning to—Hey! Wait a minute. Why not let me take you to the funeral? I’d be glad to. I’ll drop you off and leave from there.”