Scarder than a Sinner in a Cyclone
Sunlight glistened off the water crests, and a motor hummed in the distance. Slouched back, I tilted my head skyward. Jet anchored near a sandbar, and Katie Lee passed out cans of Bud Light. Bobbing in the current, I watched prisms from the brooch pinned to my shirt dance on the underside of the boat canopy.
Jet popped her tab top, and cold beer spritzed in my face. I jumped.
“You wore your grandma’s brooch on spring break?” Francine asked.
“Puts me in an oyster kind of mood.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but that pin is butt-ugly,” Katie Lee said.
Francine and Jet giggled.
Defending the brooch, I said, “It’s unique, the type of gift a king would give a mistress.”
“When did you land on Fantasy Island?” Francine asked.
“She spent the night with Stone, and now she’s royalty,” Katie Lee chided.
“Tell us Bird Boy’s secrets,” Jet said.
Unpinning the brooch, I held it for the girls to see. “My oyster may be a bit unconventional, but what’s inside makes it a treasure.”
The boat dipped and rose with a passing wake, and I clutched it for protection against the swaying motion. When the boat steadied, I reopened my palm. Pressing the same two gems and twisting as Stone had made it pop open.
“Ohhhh,” Katie Lee said.
“That’s cool,” Francine announced.
“How’d you figure that out?” Jet asked.
“Stone has the magic touch. There’s an inscription,” I said and read it to the girls, then filled them in on the Wallis Simpson story.
“Is that why Ahmed admired it? Did he know the significance?” Katie Lee asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. I’m giving it back to my grandmother. If it did belong to Wallis Simpson…the last thing I need is to be responsible for a piece of jewelry with that kind of history.”
BY THE TIME WE got back to Shucks, the sun had dipped, and a breeze kicked across the water. There was a flurry of activity at the docks where the shrimp boat had landed before us. Dozens of picnic tables lined the shore, and commercial grills coughed smoke signals. Jet steered the skiff near the dock, and a man with a Shucks t-shirt under dull green fisherman pants waved us in. Wearing a bright smile and a weathered face, he reached for Jet as she leapt out of the drifting boat.
“Daddy, these are my roommates, Katie Lee, Rachael, and Francine.”
Tipping a baseball cap that read Nippy’s Fish, he said, “Welcome, ladies. Y’all come on out and get some of the fixings before they disappear. I’m gonna make sure the catch gets inside.”
The air hung thick with mesquite, and as we neared the back of the warehouse, I realized this was no intimate get-together. There were hundreds of people holding beers and paper plates mounded with food.
“Come on,” Jet said. “I’ll introduce y’all around.”
A man with skin the color of molasses smiled at Jet. Midhug, she said, “Hey there, Earl.”
His hair was shaved to within a quarter inch of his scalp, and round, wire-rim spectacles rested on the crook of his nose. I pegged him in his early fifties. Between his missing front teeth, he spoke deep southern with an air of pride. “Away at school and look at you, you’ve gone and become a worldly scholastic.”
“I haven’t gone far. I’m just over the state line. Still got two and a half years to go before I get a degree. Even then, it’ll still be the same me. These are my roommates,” she said, introducing us.
“Pleasure,” he nodded. Noticing my brooch, he said, “Whoo-wee, we have an oyster lover among us?”
“I love the look of them; not so sure about swallowing one.”
Earl Simms held a wax-coated paper cup. Reaching her hand over his, Jet tipped it to see inside. Under a crooked grin, she asked, “Got any more shooters?”
Turning to a table behind him, he gathered four cups and handed them to us. “Careful now. These’ll prick your skin before they go down smooth.”
I looked into my cup. Cloudy water covered a gray blob. “What is this?” I asked, even though I had an inkling.
Jet’s smile stretched like the Grinch’s. “This is a slice of South Carolina you don’t often get. On the count of three, swallow.”
Earl chuckled.
“One.”
“It looks like floating bird poop,” Francine said.
“What exactly’s in here?” Katie Lee asked.
“A sweet oyster marinated in vodka,” he said.
“Why’s it murky?” Francine asked.
Jet smiled at Earl.
“That’s the magic potion,” he said. “Tabasco and brine.
“Two,” Jet shouted.
I psyched myself up, like preparing to jump into cold water.
“Three.”
With closed eyes, I tipped my cup back and, in one gulp, took my medicine like a woman. A shiver crept up my chest, and my taste buds pinged from the sweet ‘n’ salty with alcoholic aftertaste.
Francine gripped her throat.
“Wicked,” Katie Lee wheezed.
Earl howled. “Not many’ll go where you ladies just did. Takes a fine palate to appreciate God’s gift from the sea.”
“What’s been going on around town?” Jet asked.
The three of us listened while she caught up on the local scene.
“Earl Junior’s playin’ high school ball this year.”
“How tall is he now?”
“Six foot two and growin.’ Mama-T’s arthritis been actin up so she’s ain’t been getting around like she used to. One-Eyed Birdie still causin’ a scare. Mumblings of a sightin’ down at Cooper’s Pond. Dog’s gone missing. Colton and some of the boys went out with shotguns but came back empty. Near fourteen feet ‘n’ elusive as ever. Don’t get to be around that long and not have some smarts,” he said with a wink.
“Birdie?” I asked.
Jet reached into a cooler and handed us each a beer. “Story goes, back in the fifties a golfer clutched a nine iron while getting his ball out of a pond and was attacked by a alligator. To save himself, he speared the overgrown lizard’s eye socket with the tip of the club. Since the incident happened on a golf course and the guy was supposedly one under par before he sunk the ball, the gator was nicknamed Birdie.”
Earl shook his head and in a serious tone said, “Birdie’s been mean and causin’ trouble around these parts ever since. Every year a handful of people round the county have the one-eyed gator sighting.”
“Have you ever seen Birdie?” I asked.
He nodded. “Back in seventy-six. I needed some firewood for a camping trip and was in the thicket when I spotted the tip of his snout. His good eye watched me go back the way I came.”
Mrs. Jetteson slipped her arms around Earl and Jet. “You two quit telling tall tales. You’re gonna frighten Jet’s friends off.”
“Don’t you worry about scaring me off,” Francine said. “I come from the Louisiana Bayou where blackmail, voodoo, and foot-long frogs are nothin’ special. There ain’t much that’ll surprise me.”
“It’s too gorgeous down here to be afraid of anything,” Katie Lee said.
“Y’all enjoying Hilton Head?” Mrs. Jetteson asked.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “The beach house is killer. It was really kind of you to let us spend the week there.”
Jet’s mama winked. “You’re most welcome. My brother likes it to be used. Y’all get a plate, the frogmore stew’s ready. It’s a good batch. Hope y’all like oysters. The ladies outdo themselves at our potlucks. There’s po-boys, baked Rockefellers, and more. Around here we eat ’em raw, stew ’em, bake ’em, grill ’em, steam ‘em and can ’em.”
“What’s your favorite?” Katie Lee asked Mrs. Jetteson.
“Mostly I prefer fresh half shells at the shucking table.”
“Mama, Rachael’s never shucked.”
Her mouth gaped. “Anyone wearin’ a Virginica pin I figured a connoisseur.”
I shook my head.
“Guess they don’t have seafood up there in Indiana?”
“Ohio,” I corrected.
Hooking an arm in mine, Mrs. Jetteson guided me to a wooden picnic table where ice and oysters covered the top. A round cut had been taken out of the center of the table and a garbage can rested underneath. “Oysters,” she said, “are a God-given delicacy. Tasting one in the raw is a rite of passage that you’ll never forget.”
A moist sweat broke out around my hairline, and I tried to think of something to say. I mean I’d swallowed one, with vodka. Didn’t that count? I had planned on sticking with the frogmore stew and didn’t need a side tour down Oyster Alley. The marble-sized delicacy fell in that culinary texture category that I avoided. I thought that once you were an adult, you chose the foods you wanted to eat and not those that you felt deserved avoidance. I’d already gagged on one and didn’t know if I could do it again without choking or, worse, retching my breakfast.
Mrs. Jetteson was a solid woman. She wore jean pedal pushers and a sleeveless blouse. The French twist in her hair grayed on the underside above her neck. Letting loose of my shoulder, she squeezed my hand. “Are you ready for this?”
I looked for my roommates. They were at another picnic table and had filled paper plates with everything oyster. “I’m not really a big fan of slippery food.”
She placed a closed shell in my palm and one in hers. “From the outside, oysters look daunting. It’s their secret weapon. Scares a lot of people from givin’ ’em a try. But like riding a bike or learning to swim, once you slide the briny goodness over your taste buds, it’ll leave you in a momentary state of grace, and you’ll feel as though an angel has cried on your tongue.”
Picking up two shucking knives, she said, “You’re gonna find yourself wondering why you were skeptical in the first place.”
Setting her mollusk down on the tabletop, she instructed, “Knife goes in the hinge, then twist it like a car key.”
The outside was rough. Placing a small towel between my palm and the shell, I followed her lead.
“Listen for the hinge pop, then slide the knife away from you to separate the shell.”
It wasn’t as easy as it looked. Her shell opened, mine did not. After assisting me, she slid her knife under the putty-colored meat that rested in a puddle and placed the oyster she’d opened in my palm. “Ready to drink the May River?”
I rubbed my tongue over my eyetooth. To me, slurping a raw shellfish was the equivalent of catching a rattlesnake. Neither was on my must try list. But her face beamed. My eating a raw oyster that her family had harvested was important. Tilting the shell in my hand, I gave myself a pep talk. Buck up. Show some respect. These are good people who fish these waters for a living.
“Would you like lemon or Tabasco on it?”
“Let’s just do this.”
“Tip her back,” Mrs. J said.
Pretending it was medicine, I did as instructed as quickly as I could. Oyster water dripped down my chin. It wasn’t a burst of flavor, but mellow with a salty rinse. I heard clapping and was blinded by a camera flash. My roommates had gathered on the opposite side of the table and were delighting in my oyster swilling technique.
“Have another?” Katie Lee said.
Jet’s mom gave me a squeeze. “What’d you think?”
“It was okay. Different. A quiet flavor, not too flashy. Will you show me how to open the shell again?”
“Mama,” Jet said, “you’ve gone and converted her.”
I worked my way through half a dozen raw oysters. I tried one with lemon, one with Tabasco, but mostly I preferred them plain. Like potato chips, they were addictive. Hanging around drinking beer and sampling all the homemade local foods gave Jet a chance to catch up while Katie Lee, Francine, and I people-watched.
As the party plowed on, the sun began to sink in the horizon. It was that magical time between dusk and nightfall. I excused myself to use the ladies room inside the warehouse. Loud voices chortled at the party, and someone began picking a banjo and washboard. I had to shake my head. Small-town stuff that these people thought was everyday I thought extraordinary.
THE DOOR HANDLE TO the bathroom twisted from the outside, and I called out, “I’m in here.”
There was no reply. Just a scraping, like a chair being dragged across the floor.
I washed my hands and checked my hair. I’d driven us in the Galaxie and realized that I had a buzz. I’d need one of my roommates to drive us back.
Outside the bathroom was an open room with desks covered in paper piles. It looked like a shipping and receiving area where all the invoicing was handled. Swinging double doors led to the warehouse where they processed and packed the seafood. Curious, I pushed one of the doors and peeked in. The room was dark, and it took a moment for my sight to focus on the metal tables and stacked pallets. A few paces into the chilled room, my nostrils were bombarded with a hefty waft of eau de seafood. Something behind me creaked, and I heard footsteps. Before I spun completely around, a hand clenched my arm.
“Been a while, hasn’t it, Raz?”
“Billy Ray, what are you doing here?” my voice squeaked.
I tried to break free, but he gripped harder. A streak of disappearing sunlight glinted off his gold loop earring.
“Is that any way to greet me on Saint Patrick’s Day?”
My Irish luck had abandoned me.
“Let go of me.”
He pulled me close. “Oh no, not this time,” he said, puffing nasty whisky breath in my face.
With a struggle, I hiked my knee toward his groin. All I managed was a firm foot on his toes.
Pushing me around, he forced me facedown against a metal table, and a shucker blade bit into my cheek. He twisted my arm and thrust his hips into mine with his chest pressed against my back. Purring into my ear, he said, “Being with you’s like old times, ain’t it?”
My senses heightened beyond my breath. I would’ve screamed if I thought someone from outside could hear me. With the motion of a snail, I slid my free hand forward until the tips of my fingers grasped the wooden handle of the shucking tool. “Stop fooling around, Billy Ray. Let’s go outside and have a beer.”
He laughed. “You think you know how to charm a fella. Just like you do Bubba.”
I worked my fingers around the supple wood. “Is that what this is about?”
“Like you don’t know. You’ve made me an outcast and destroyed my work.”
“That’s a fancy name for forgery and drug trafficking.”
Billy Ray wrenched my arm backward. “I’ve been watching you. You have a string of pretty boys you manipulate. I warned Bubba.”
The fingers of his free hand slid under the waistband of my pants, and he started to work them over my hips. As his excitement grew, he loosened his grip on my arm.
In a swift motion, I threw my torso back and twisted, flashing the blade at his face. I missed completely, but the element of surprise was enough for him to release me. He blocked my path to the party, so I took off running toward the far side of the building where there was an emergency exit door. I had nightmare visions of being trapped, but the stars aligned in my favor and I slipped outside.
His heavy footsteps were close behind. Oyster shells crunched under my feet. I snapped my head back—for a heavy man, his legs had surprising giddyup. I wove between cars and ducked down near the Galaxie. Silently I cursed. If I’d had my car keys, I’d have sped down the road, but I’d left my belongings on the skiff. Billy Ray was off his freakin’ rocker, and there was no doubt in my mind what he intended to do to me. As I popped my head up near the hood, a ping dinged my car. Big surprise, NOT, Billy Ray had a gun with a silencer.
Coolness from the earth rose beneath my feet as I gasped hungry breaths of brine and barbecue. If I backtracked directly to the water I’d be an easy target. On my knees, with my face almost flat on the ground, I could see his olive suede loafers scurrying between cars.
“No use runnin’, darlin’, unless you like a chase.”
Night crickets began to chirp. Crouched down, I started moving. At the last row of cars, it was decision time. I weighed my chances of ditching him in the woods across the street. It had to be better than losing him in the parking lot. I figured I’d pop into the tree line for ten yards, cut right, and then backtrack to Shucks.
A yellowed crescent moon hung in the sky, casting brightness on the clear night. Car headlights came down the highway, illuminating a No Littering, One Hundred Dollar Fine roadway sign. As it passed, a fast food bag flew out the window. With adrenaline propelling my feet, I zigzagged across the street. Brush crunched beneath my soles. Whizzing past my ear, two bullets pinged bark, splintering the tree next to me. Ignoring the twigs that snapped against my arms and legs, I hustled into a sprint.
The deeper I moved, the louder the peepers croaked. He was behind me. I could hear his breathing. Another bullet fired from behind tore through the dense vegetation overhead. As I pushed forward, the ground began to soften, and my tennis shoes sank in pockets of mud. Moonbeams cast a glow on the forest floor. I stopped running and hunched down in front of an algae-covered pond that was big enough to discourage me from attempting to cross.
Water. I hated to think that my mother and her nut-so aura-reading friend actually had an accurate premonition. This was all wrong. I’d screwed up. The woods idea was stupid, and now I needed to get out. Sidestepping around the edge of the pond, I encountered a kudzu barrier that slowed me to a crawl. Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker worked into the night, and other creatures, some with high chirps, serenaded the still evening.
Beyond the trees, metal clicked.
My brooch weighed heavy on my pounding chest.
Somewhere behind me, hidden in the thicket, Billy Ray shouted, “Our little game is almost over, ain’t it, Raz?”
Scrambling to find cover, I said, “What game is that?” and realized too late that I’d just given my position away. How dumb was that?
“Such a shame, pretty thing like you just vanishing. I was hoping to have some fun first. But you’ve gone and made things difficult, again.”
Trapped by a mosquito-infested pond to the left, a wall of vegetation to my right, and Billy Ray behind, my options seemed limited, and my pulse went spastic. He stepped out of the tree line, closer to me than I expected. I unpinned my oyster brooch and considered tossing it into the trees like a Hansel and Gretel clue to my whereabouts. Then a better idea sparked.
“You’re gonna end up lonely if those are the kind of words you use to flatter a girl.”
Arching his back, he released a hearty laugh.
I turned to face him.
Smiling, he lifted the pistol and moved a few paces closer to the pond.
Reflex took hold, and I imagined his forehead a dartboard. Taking aim, I released the amethyst brooch, and like a dart on target, it popped his clock on the twelve, right between the eyes, then bounced off his noggin.
His head jerked back, wiping his face of emotion. Aiming the handgun, he said, “Take a good look at your final resting place.”
I backed up and braced myself to receive the bullet. The shot echoed louder than the others, and oddly I felt no pain, anywhere. Maybe I was dead and didn’t know it. Reflexively I’d closed my eyes. When they opened, I saw Billy Ray standing with his mouth open, staring at me, surprised. With an unbelieving expression, he looked down at his chest that burbled blood like a drinking fountain. Cherry-sized droplets splashed at his feet, staining the pond’s edge.
Lifting my palms, I inspected them. I hadn’t squeezed any sort of trigger. He couldn’t have shot himself while he aimed at me. I strained to look into the dense brush and glimpsed movement in the tree line. Someone was out there.
Billy Ray’s legs stumbled, and his feet sloshing created circular ripples in the water. His balance wavered, and like a collapsible chair, he tipped to his knees, resembling a sinner in a confessional. Without warning the pond water parted. Snakelike in its precision, a one-eyed gator as big as a surfboard leapt from the murk and snapped Billy Ray’s torso in its jaws.
A silent scream tore my vocal chords as I watched the reptile, with its good eye fixed on me, sink its prey beneath the algae-covered surface. Once submersed, the thrashing water subsided, and the swamp settled back into stillness. I stood in a dreamlike trance, not feeling or hearing, only seeing as my brain processed what had just happened.
The sharp crack of a branch triggered a reality check, and the instinct for self-preservation kicked in.
To escape this swamp, I had to pass where Billy Ray had been standing. As I approached the bloody spot, the twilight shone on all that was left of Billy Ray: his gun and a shoe. I scanned the muck for the brooch, but didn’t see it. Picking up the shoe, I flipped the weapon over with my toe, but uncovered nothing. When I stepped a firm foot on the gun, it settled into the mud.
In fear of being the next course for Birdie, I sprinted over the dried pine needles that covered the wooded thicket. When my heart threatened to explode from my chest, I found myself fifty yards up the road from Shucks with the stupid shoe in my hand. An orange roadside garbage bag rested on the berm. Untwisting the top, I put Billy Ray’s suede shoe inside and knotted it back up. Relief overcame me and tears flooded my cheeks. The terror of my last year was gone.
NOTE TO SELF
Southern tall tales, folklore, and hearsay…Whoever said, “Don’t believe everything you hear?” I’m a believer.