22

Dressed in waist-high waders and flanked by crates of rotting trash fish, Ralph Angel sat on the German’s tailgate, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong with pulling traps for $7.25 an hour.

The night of the hurricane, he took the last of Gwenna’s check and headed over to Tee Coteau, where he asked around in the seedy bars and dark parking lots until he found what he was looking for. Then, drunk and stoned, he rode out the storm and a few days after in an abandoned house. But when Ralph Angel came to, sobered up, he found that he was plagued by the same dark thoughts as before: how he’d made a fool of himself at the bakery (Go, Johnny had said, bending to pick up all the ruined loaves. Don’t worry about it. Please, just go); how Charley accused him of pushing ’Da on purpose (’Da shouldn’t have gotten in his face like that; why wasn’t anyone talking about that?), stealing his father’s money (How could he steal what should have been his?), that he was jealous of Hollywood (You call that a business? Any idiot could mow a lawn.).

All told, Ralph Angel stayed gone five days. Blue refused to speak to him when he reappeared; pouted and turned his back every time Ralph Angel called him. That had been the worst part; he’d never left Blue behind like that before, but sometimes a man had to step away for a while. Blue only came around when Ralph Angel offered to read him another Bible story, and even that didn’t ease Blue’s fears entirely. He followed Ralph Angel around like a duckling, cried when Ralph Angel said he still had to go to school.

As for the rest of the family, coming home was easier than he expected. Charley ignored him, and ’Da was so happy to see him she smothered him with all her hovering and coddling until he told her to give him some space. She apologized and left him alone after that, which was good, because he’d come up with a plan.

While everyone was at church, he took the newspaper to his room, spread the want ads on his bed, and circled jobs he thought he was cut out for. After Blue went to sleep, he found Miss Honey’s old Underwood and pecked out a cover letter, filling in the missing keystrokes with a leaky black ballpoint.

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to inquire about the position listed in Sunday’s paper. I attended Southern University where I studied Civil Engineering. I have extensive sales experience resulting from my years with Rancher’s Pride Meat Direct and the Phoenix Water Services Department . . . I am flexible about the salary and benefits. I would welcome a chance to discuss my qualifications further and explain the gaps in my employment.

Yours truly,

Each afternoon, he walked down to the post office, imagining that he would see, there among the bills and circulars in ’Da’s box, a letter inviting him for an interview. One day, a thin envelope arrived.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your interest in our sales position. At this time, we have decided your work experience does not coincide with the job requirements. Good luck in your continued search.

Sincerely,

Ralph Angel jammed the letter in his sweat suit pocket and walked across the street to the gas station, where he bought three Snickers and a king-size Baby Ruth before boosting a Schlitz forty-ouncer from the display near the door.

In the next round, he answered ads for home health care aids, security guards, dishwashers at the Waffle House where he worked the summer before he went to college. But no luck. Finally, he signed up with the job-training center in Lafayette, where the clerk looked at him as though he were a recent parolee and told him to take a seat until she called his name. Two hours later, he had the name of a crawfish farmer and a number to call. Which was how he wound up sitting on the German’s tailgate next to a crate of rotting fish.

•   •   •

“You there,” the German said, pointing. He was a large man with arms sunburned terra-cotta and fingers thick as sausages. “You ever pull traps?”

“I’m an engineer,” Ralph Angel said. “Went to Southern.” He wondered if the German had even graduated from high school and guessed he probably inherited this place from his father, who inherited it from his father, since that was the way luck worked down here.

The German squinted. “Well, then you’re smart enough to know I can’t pay you unless you put in a day’s work. This ain’t no beauty contest. Get off your ass and start hauling bait.”

“I don’t know what the agency told you,” Ralph Angel said, sliding off the tailgate. “But I’ve got management experience.”

The German held Ralph Angel in his gaze. “I don’t care if you won the fucking Nobel Prize. I need a man to pull those traps. Can you do the job or not?”

•   •   •

The first two crawfish ponds bordered a strip of raised ground where the pickup was parked. Fringed with willows overhanging the soggy banks, each pond measured forty acres and looked bottomless beneath the willows’ reflection. Twenty more man-made ponds just like this one were scattered through the woods.

A burlap tarp concealed the bait crates. Ralph Angel peeled it away and forced himself to look at the hollowed eyes, the gaping mouths, the maggots inching their way through the bloody gills. His stomach rolled as he hoisted two crates into his arms.

Down at the dock, two young men—one black, one white—stood by an aluminum bateau beached in the cattails along the bank. Ralph Angel eyed the bateau warily, and couldn’t help but wonder how quickly he’d drown if it capsized. The black boy—chinstrap beard, wave cap over his cornrows—jammed his fists in his pocket and spat into the water while the white boy, in a guts-smeared T-shirt, baseball cap set sideways like a music video gangster, scratched his belly and exchanged a knowing glance with the black kid as Ralph Angel set the crates on the dock.

“’Sup?” said the white kid.

Ralph Angel had been around long enough to know how he had to play this. You couldn’t come off as too aggressive with guys like this, since you were on their turf; but you couldn’t come off as a pussy either. “Nothing, man.”

“The boss is a hard-ass,” said the white kid, “but he’s a’ight. Don’t ride us too hard long as we be filling sacks. Yo, it ain’t personal, know what I’m sayin’?”

Ralph Angel nodded. Why did white kids think it was cool to talk like black kids from the ’hood? “Yeah, okay,” he said.

The black kid carried the crates to the bateau, where he stacked them neatly, as if it mattered.

“I’m Jason,” the white kid said. “That’s Antoine.” Antoine ignored them; someone, apparently, had to load the bateau. Jason kicked at the marshy ground; his rubber boots made a sucking sound in the mud. “This your first time?”

“Yeah,” Ralph Angel said. “You know how it is, man. Got to make a little paper.”

Jason laughed. “True, dat.”

“What about you?” Ralph Angel ignored the swipe of a glance from Antoine, who was now retrieving crates from the pickup. “Been doing this long?”

“Since eleventh grade,” Jason said. “I be making enough paper to get me a new truck and my girlfriend’s teacup Chihuahua; paid eight hundred dollars for that damn dog. Boss says I keep working like this, one day he’ll give me a percentage.”

“What about school?” Ralph Angel said. “You ought to finish. Go to college. Get your degree.”

“Fuck school, man.” Jason rubbed his fingers together. “This here’s the money.”

“Wanna know the real money shot? A diploma, man. Got mine in engineering. Southern.” Which, for purposes of this discussion, Ralph Angel figured was close enough to the truth.

Jason’s gaze narrowed. “If it’s all about the diploma, how come you ain’t hooked up in an office?”

“This?” Ralph Angel looked out over the ponds. “This here is temporary, while I figure out my next move.”

“I feel you,” Jason said. He signaled to Antoine, who set down a crate, wiped his hands, front and back, on his shirt, and shook Ralph Angel’s.

“Hey, man,” Ralph Angel said. “What kind of fish is this anyway?”

“Shad,” Antoine said, shrugging. “Maybe a little carp. Hard to tell when it’s all rotted and shit. But that’s how the crawfish like it. They go wild for this shit, man.” He climbed into the bateau. “We grading ’em or just running?”

“Just running,” Jason said. “Not catching too many number ones, so the boss says throw ’em all together.” He tossed Ralph Angel a pair of black industrial rubber gloves.

•   •   •

The necks of the crawfish traps rose just above the surface of the water. The bateau’s hydraulic engine turned the paddle wheel, whose blades churned up mud and grass as it pushed the shallow-bottomed boat deeper into the pond. While Jason steered and worked the pedals, Antoine positioned himself at the small metal table in the center of the bateau. Woven sacks, the electric green of Easter excelsior, hung along one side of the table. As the bateau rumbled through the water, it was Ralph Angel’s job to lean over the side, snatch each wire trap by its neck, and dump the contents—crawfish, gnarled fish heads and backbones, baby snapping turtles and weeds—onto the table, then replenish the bait and sink the trap back into the pond, all before the bateau reached the next trap, a few yards farther on. At the table, Antoine picked out the crawfish. He tossed the smallest ones over the side and shoved the larger ones through the chutes into the waiting sacks until they bulged like udders. It was simple work, but there was a rhythm to it, and the rhythm was cruel. The first few times, Ralph Angel was too slow emptying a trap, or he forgot to refill the bait, or he sank one trap too close to another and the bateau had to make a wide sputtering circle back.

“People be making some cheap sacks, man,” Antoine shouted over the engine. “Sacks keep popping.” Rogue crawfish scrambled around at his feet.

“Keep it going,” Jason yelled, and motioned for Ralph Angel to speed it up.

•   •   •

By noon, Ralph Angel’s shirt was soaked with pond water, his pants speckled with mud, blood, and fish guts. His back ached from bending. His shoulders cramped from lifting and dumping. On the sorting table, crawfish, like chunks of carnelian, glinted in the sunlight. The sight of them writhing at the shock of warm air, tails slowly flapping, tiny claws mechanically grabbing for futile salvation, struck Ralph Angel as ecstatic. Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore, Ralph Angel thought, before he could stop himself.

When they broke for lunch, Ralph Angel dragged himself up the bank and sat alone in a half-circle of shade. He choked down his gummy cheese sandwich, struggling against the craving for a hit. Heat rose from the ground as he lay in the grass.

In his dream, he was back at the Piccolo Club with Gwenna and a stranger who had a marble for a glass eye. The marble rolled wildly in its socket as the stranger licked Gwenna’s ear. Ralph Angel couldn’t protest; his lips were stitched shut. He woke to see the German standing over him.

“Time’s up, sleeping beauty.”

Ralph Angel smelled rotten fish on his sleeve. Every muscle in his upper body had stiffened. He made his way down to the bateau.

On the pond, he worked the rest of the afternoon in silence. Jason and Antoine talked about girls, cars, and music, but Ralph Angel was too tired. What little energy he had, he used trying to forget where he was—pulling trap on some cracker’s pond for minimum wage—until Jason steered the bateau toward the bank where the German waited for them to load the forty-pound sacks into his truck.

“Nice work,” the German said, as Ralph Angel walked past him with the last sack.

“Thanks,” Ralph Angel said.

“Tomorrow we’ll hit the last two ponds on this side,” said the German. “The front pond ain’t producing as good as these. Still got some of that seaweed from the storm.” He pulled out his keys.

And maybe it was the fact that the German had acknowledged his work, and maybe it was that he was being included in tomorrow’s plan, but Ralph Angel felt himself buoyed. He followed the German to his truck. “Say, boss, I’d like to ask a small favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I wonder if I could get an advance.”

“I pay on Fridays,” the German said in a flat tone. He climbed into his truck, which dipped under his weight.

“Yeah, I know.” Ralph Angel put his hand on the truck door. “But I’m riding on fumes. I don’t fill my tank tonight, I can’t make it back tomorrow.” He didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but the German’s face flushed. “Not trying to be a smart-ass. I’m just being straight with you.”

“And I’m going to be straight with you,” the German said. He dug in his ear with his key. “I don’t give a shit where you went to school, or whether you wipe your ass with a silk handkerchief or the back of your hand. I pay out on Fridays; not Thursday afternoon, not Saturday morning. You want this job, Professor, you’d better figure out a way to gas up and get here by seven o’clock tomorrow. Not here at seven, I got ten other guys to take your spot.” He pulled the door closed.

Ralph Angel stepped away as the German turned the engine over. “I’m not a professor.”

•   •   •

Half a mile down the dirt road, the Impala sputtered then stopped. Ralph Angel sat behind the wheel, debating whether to sleep in his car, then got out and started walking. It had been years since he’d passed anywhere near a cane field. Now he cut through the rows. By dusk, he’d made it back to the Quarters and paused at the railroad tracks to look down into the dusty streets. The church, the school yard, the narrow road leading into the woods.

The screen door announced him. ’Da was at the stove. Blue, Micah, and Charley were setting the table.

“Where’ve you been?” asked ’Da.

“Got a job.”

Blue ran over, then backed away. “Yuck, Daddy, you stink.”

“A job,” ’Da said, like he’d just told her he’d been elected mayor.

“I’m working with this guy. He’s got a serious crawfish farm out past Bayou Duchein. Must have thirty-five, forty ponds.” Ralph Angel hung his jacket over a chair as though it were a suit coat and looked at Charley. “He says if I keep doing what I’m going, one day he’ll make me a partner, give me a percentage. What do you think about that, sis?”

“Congratulations,” Charley said.

’Da looked at him expectantly. “What’s he have you doing?” It was the same expression she had the first time he won the Junior Baptist Bible Verse Competition. He could still remember her, sitting there in the front row.

“Right now I’m out in the fields, managing the crew. He wants me to see how the whole operation runs, then he’ll bring me inside.”

“That makes two farmers in the family,” ’Da said. “God is good all the time. I’ve been praying for something like this. All that talent you got?”

“I’m not sure the Lord has much to do with this,” Ralph Angel said, “but thanks.”

“What do you mean?” ’Da said. “The Lord’s got everything to do with this. ‘And all these blessings shall come on thee, and overtake thee, if thou shalt hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God.’ Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-eight, verse two.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then slung it over her shoulder. “You’re not sure what the Lord has to do with this? I know I raised you better than that.”

“Denton says some farmers will lose as much as seventy thousand dollars if their cane doesn’t stand up by the end of the week,” Charley said.

Ralph Angel looked at Charley. On another day, her farm talk would have made him want to rip her face off. Could she really not see how much it bothered him? She must be doing it on purpose. But today, listening to her talk was like drinking castor oil: you wanted to vomit for a few seconds, but the feeling passed. “Speaking of money, ’Da,” Ralph Angel said. “I need to borrow some. I ran out of gas; had to walk back.”

“Why didn’t you call? I’d’ve come get you.”

“This place is way out. Walked half a mile just to get to the main road.” Before he said another word, ’Da had reached for her purse. “Just enough to fill the tank. I get paid on Friday.”

’Da pressed forty dollars into his hand. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow if you need more,” she said. “Now go shower.”

Ralph Angel turned to Charley. “If you can find it in your heart to help your brother, after dinner maybe you can give me a lift to the gas station then drop me at my car.”

•   •   •

“So, one more week till grinding,” Ralph Angel said as he and Charley pulled out of the Quarters. “Must be a lot of pressure.”

“It’ll be close,” Charley said. She was quiet for a minute, then looked at him. “Congratulations on finding something. I’m happy for you. I mean it.”

Ralph Angel looked at Charley and felt a small pocket of warmth—the same pocket of warmth that had first opened between them the day she took Blue for sno-cones—open again. For a moment, he considered telling her the truth about his job: that the German treated him like shit, lower than shit, actually, and that he’d never worked so hard in his life, didn’t think his body would ever recover; that a kid young enough to be his son, for Christ’s sake, had more seniority, was more successful than he was beginning to think he’d ever be; that if he thought about it too hard, he’d have to admit his life, other than Blue, was a total failure. He thought about telling Charley all that. It would feel good to confide in her, a load off his chest. But in the end, he just said, “Thanks.”

“You’ve been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing,” Charley said. “I’d never have guessed.”

Ralph Angel leaned back. “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to say anything till I was sure.”

•   •   •

Above the gas pumps at the Quick Stop, neon lights burned through the night. Charley cruised along the pumps, parked, then held out two singles. “Can you buy a bottle of water and some gum when you get your gas?”

“Sure thing.”

Inside, Ralph Angel found the shelf of auto supplies, checked the price of a plastic gas can with a detachable funnel, and put it back on the shelf. At the counter, he set down Charley’s bottled water. “You got any empty containers back there?” he asked the girl behind the counter. “Anything plastic? I need something to put some gas in and that gas can you’re selling is a rip-off.”

“No, sir. Not really,” the girl said. She thought for a moment. “I guess you can buy a Big Gulp, but I’ll have to charge you for the cup. Ninety-nine cents.”

With Charley’s singles, Ralph Angel bought the bottled water and the giant cup. He bought gas with ’Da’s money, pocketed the change, fished a fistful of peppermint balls from the tub by the register, and tossed four dimes on the counter, then on the way out, when the girl wasn’t looking, boosted a pack of Juicy Fruit.

“You can’t do that,” Charley said as Ralph Angel set the Big Gulp filled with gas in the cup holder.

“They wanted seven dollars for a stupid plastic gas can,” Ralph Angel said. “The cup was practically free.”

“I don’t care. Not in my car.”

“Here.” Ralph Angel tossed the peppermint balls on the dash, where they scattered like marbles.

“It’s completely illegal,” Charley said. “What if we have an accident?”

“Then we’ll be dead anyway. Chill out, sis. We’re fine.”

Out on the road, Ralph Angel crushed peppermint balls between his teeth while Charley, driving ten miles under the speed limit, glanced nervously in her rearview mirror. The country looked different at night and it took Ralph Angel a while to find the road where he’d left his car. Charley flipped on her high beams so he could see, but he still spilled most of the gas down the side of the Impala.

“I should get back,” Charley called. So much for being happy for him.

Ralph Angel waved the empty cup. “Thanks. I got it from here.”

When Charley was gone, he tossed the cup into the cane and stood in the dark. The night smelled of tea olive, swamp lily, and magnolia—the smells of his childhood—and for a moment, Ralph Angel understood why people loved it here, why no one ever left.

•   •   •

Seven hundred nickels, which was thirty-five dollars after he paid for the cup and the gas, and cashed in the rest, weighed far more than Ralph Angel expected. He set his plastic bucket on the stool next to him, balled his jacket on the floor. He fed the nickels one at a time into the slot machine, yanked the handle, and watched the numbers spin. When the waitress came back with his free drink, he asked for Amber.

“Who?” the waitress said, distracted. She stepped back, looked past Ralph Angel’s shoulder to where high rollers were cheering at the craps table.

“Young girl,” Ralph Angel said. “Wavy red hair.” He could barely taste the alcohol in his Manhattan.

“Don’t know her,” the waitress said. She glanced at his bucket. “You’re on the slow boat with those nickels, you know. Dollar slots or even the quarters, you’ll have better luck.”

“Thanks, but I got a plan.”

“A guy won ten grand last night playing dollar slots five bucks at a time.”

Ralph Angel rolled his drink around his mouth. “You’re really working for that tip, huh?”

“I’m just trying to be nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ralph Angel set his glass on her tray. “But right now, I’ll just take another drink. With some bourbon in it this time.” He pushed another nickel into the machine.

•   •   •

Three coins left in his bucket. Ralph Angel’s eyes stung from all the cigarette smoke, so thick the air looked milky. Hours of handling the filthy nickels had left his fingertips stained the metallic gray of trout scales. He could still hear the German’s mocking voice. What he needed was something harder, a little horse to slay the beast. Ralph Angel pushed the last three nickels through the slot, yanked the handle one last time, and was turning away when the machine rang wildly and a spat a stream of coins into the tray. Three sevens bobbed on the centerline.

“I’ll be damned.”

•   •   •

Fifty dollars, crisp.

If he hurried, he could swing through Tee Coteau for a little nightcap and still be back at the ponds to catch an hour’s sleep, maybe two. The German would be impressed. He’d recognize his potential, maybe apologize for the bad start. End of the week, he’d be talking to Ralph Angel about a raise, maybe benefits. Ralph Angel pushed through the glass doors. The guy from his old life, the professional, would be back in the game.

At the ponds, Ralph Angel turned on the radio and stretched out in the backseat, where he caught a whiff of Blue’s urine each time he changed position and had to grip the edge of the seat to keep from rolling onto the floor. When he was comfortable, he lit his cigarette, then held the lighter under the square of aluminum foil until white smoke snaked into the air. In a few seconds, he was chasing the dragon, Delta blues providing an eerie sound track to his dreams.

•   •   •

Morning. The rumble of Jason’s truck rattled the Impala. Ralph Angel crawled out of the backseat and urinated in the weeds, then trudged down to the dock, where Jason was already loading bait. He’d stopped chasing the dragon, but the last of its effects, the feeling of being inside a cocoon where nothing—not Charley, not the German, not even his father—could get to him, hung with him still.

“Holy shit, man. Who dug you up?”

“Hey, man,” Ralph Angel said. He hung his jacket over a branch, then lifted two crates off the stack and dragged them over to the dock. “I want to drive.”

Jason glanced back at the crates. “I don’t know, dog. You don’t look so good.”

“No, no,” Ralph Angel said. “It’s cool. I watched you yesterday. I get it.”

“It ain’t that easy, man,” Jason said. “You fuck around, run over them traps, the boss is gonna be hella pissed.”

“I said I can handle it. Don’t worry.”

•   •   •

The sun had just risen over the trees as Ralph Angel stepped into the bateau. He slid into the driver’s seat.

“I got a bad feeling about this, man,” said Jason.

“Relax,” Ralph Angel said, and practiced working the pedals.

Antoine came down to the dock. He shot Jason a look when he saw Ralph Angel in the boat.

“Yo, man.” Jason tapped Ralph Angel’s shoulder. “Just one time around. Then you gotta get up.”

•   •   •

The bateau was surprisingly easy to maneuver and they slipped smoothly through the water, the pond’s surface, this early in the morning, smooth as freshly blown glass. Everything in the world, Ralph Angel thought, seemed brighter, more intensely defined—the spiked yellow petals of the lily pad’s flower, the silvery blue iridescence of a dragonfly’s wing—it was all a miracle.

Ralph Angel worked the pedals while Jason stood at the bow and kept an eye out for clumps of grass and reeds that might catch in the paddle wheel, nervously calling out, “Right, yo!” or “Left! Left!” making angular gestures as they crawled along. As he got the feel for the steering, Ralph Angel leaned back. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

Then all at once, Jason was yelling, “Shit, man. Fucking A! Go back!”

Ralph Angel snapped awake in enough time to see Jason race to the back of the bateau.

“What’d I do?”

“Ran over a trap.” Jason leaned over the stern, reached for the paddle wheel.

Ralph Angel heard a bump, then a scrape of metal under the boat.

“Turn off the fucking motor, man!” Antoine said.

Ralph Angel lunged. But before he could hit the switch, they ran over another trap. The engine whined crazily as it surged, ground through its gears.

“Cut the engine, motherfucker!” Antoine said again.

“I’m trying,” Ralph Angel yelled back, fumbling. “Where’s the switch? I can’t find the switch.”

Jason staggered forward. He reached for the switch and the engine died, but not before a third trap snagged on the paddle wheel and rose out of the water looking monstrous and strange. The crawfish inside the trap’s bulbous belly scrambled and clicked like balls in a bingo tumbler, and as the paddle wheel continued to roll forward, it crushed the neck of the trap lodged against the stern. Smoke billowed from the hydraulic engine. It took almost an hour to paddle to the dock.

The German was waiting. “How the hell?”

“I can explain,” Ralph Angel began, but the German pushed past him and leaned over the stern. “Who did this?”

“Give me a minute, Jesus.”

But the German was having none of it. He plowed into Ralph Angel, knocking him out of the bateau onto the dock. “Get the hell off my pond.”

“Just hear me out.”

“Get off my farm before I fucking kill you.” He grabbed Ralph Angel by his shirt and dragged him to the bank. “You piece of shit. I knew you were trouble. You have any idea how much you’ve cost me?” He took a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off two twenties and a ten, and tossed them on the ground. “I’m making an exception. Consider yourself paid,” the German said, then turned and walked away.

Ralph Angel knelt in the muddy grass, which was still wet with morning dew. He gathered the bills. Across the pond, morning fog had burned away, revealing storm-ravaged woods. Leafless branches, splintered tree trunks, underbrush littered with trash from the surge. At last, Ralph Angel stood up and walked to his car. He laid his head on the wheel. He felt himself falling through the blanket of damp leaves and steamy humus; through the horizons of loam, through clay and bedrock, and finally, through the fire.