The Hard Blue Sky: A Novel

THE WHITE AFTERNOON

GUESS WHAT I SEEN from the top of that old tree there, Robby Livaudais said, guess what?

He was just another island kid, small for his age and thin, with black eyes set too close together over the high bridge of his nose. Like the other boys’, his head had been shaved in June; now, in early August, the stiff black bristles stood straight up, unevenly. He was wearing a pair of striped overalls fastened on just one shoulder; the other strap had been torn off. The legs had been cut off, too, when the knees were worn through, and never hemmed. There was a fringe of thread on them now. Whenever Robby had nothing else to do, he would set himself to unraveling a bit.

I seen a sailboat heading right this way.

Go way, and quit bothering us, Gus Claverie said.

I seen a boat and I bet it Jean Lafitte coming.

The other kids did not look around. They were pushing the old tire that Menton Schesnaydre had hung by a rope from the strongest limb of the chinaberry tree.

Didi LeBlanc said: It my turn.

Leggo, Mercy Schesnaydre said.

They all yanked at the tire. Joey Billion, who was sitting in it, kicked at them.

Jeez. … Gus Claverie gave the tire a spin, a hard spin, making it whirl on its heavy rope. Joey Billion fell out on his back.

Look at him, Didi giggled, making a big old puff of smoke.

Joey sat up and, twisting around, began to examine the back of his thighs. He picked out a couple of cinders and flicked them away.

You know what I seen? Robby repeated.

Gus put his leg through the tire and pushed himself off. Joey had to fall flat again as the swing whizzed over his head. Gus kicked at him, but missed. Joey laughed and rolled out of the way.

I get me a knife and cut that there rope.

Yaaa, toe cheese! Gus went swinging back and forth, hanging by one arm and one leg.

What you see? Didi asked. Her hair was slightly longer and she was slightly taller—except for that, she looked like a boy. She was scratching her head with both hands as she asked Robby: What you see?

A sailing-boat.

A what? Gus put down one leg and with a puff of dry dirt stopped the swing.

Way, way out.

It ain’t there.

They ain’t no sailing-boats, Joey said.

"The Mickey Mouse now, that ain’t got no sails."

"Not the Mickey Mouse nor the Saint Christopher, nor the Hula Girl nor the Captain Z."

Gus pushed the swing back and forth slowly. There ain’t nothing you see I want to look at.

Bet it’s somebody out shrimping and waving a handkerchief.

Bet it’s somebody been blowing his nose and drying the handkerchief, Didi said.

I seen Lafitte coming, Robby said.

The afternoon got too hot for swinging. Joey went home. The others lay face down in the shade for a while and sweated.

My Aunt Marie, she been by Arcenaux’s this morning, Robby said and stared straight up into the sky. She got a box sweet crackers. A big box.

They turned and were looking at him. Robby sat up and squared his shoulders. She give me one to feed the fish this morning.

What fish? Mercy asked.

The ones I’m growing under the house.

Didi giggled. Got a mess of old half-dead fish.

They growing all right.

They stink.

You got to show us, Mercy said.

Marie Livaudais was lying across the bed, in her slip, dozing on the heat of the white afternoon, and listening to the sounds all around her. The buzzing drone of wasps building a nest under the eaves outside the window. The sleepy squak of the chickens. The muffled talking of kids outside. Then the squeaking board in the kitchen. She did not bother to get up or open her eyes. She yelled: Get out and stay out! Or I come fix you!

There was a pause, a little pause and some soft brushing sounds.

I hear you climbing out that window, she yelled.

Outside a kid giggled softly, behind his hand.

She listened again: nothing. She let herself slide back into her doze, wondering idly what they had taken.

They finished the box of graham crackers and stuffed it in the cracked trunk of the old chinaberry tree. Burt Richaud came, jangling a small net bag of marbles.

I ain’t gonna play, Robby said. Burt Richaud did not pay any attention. With the tip of his bare toe he drew a large circle in the soft dirt. Then he squatted down and stared at it.

The kids came up and stood around, waiting, carefully outside the circle line.

Burt put a single bright blue marble in the center of the circle. Then he stepped back and took out a cat’s-eye. He held it up, between two fingers.

That’s a pretty one, for sure, Didi said.

Never seen one so pretty, Mercy said.

My papa brought it from Petit Prairie.

Just a old marble, Robby said, and kicked with his heels in the dust, like a rooster.

Bastard, Burt said. Get out of here.

He ain’t got a mother, Didi said, and he ain’t got more than half a papa.

Ain’t so, Robby whispered. But he let Didi push him away.

The kids began their game. Robby watched them from a distance, quietly. Then he walked over to the tall thin palm tree. He squinted up along the trunk which curved very slightly away from the beach. And he began to climb.

Marie Livaudais scratched at her head. The sounds of the kids—the giggling and the laughing—irritated her. And the window shade kept blowing up in the light breeze and the sun flashed in her eyes. She recognized one of the voices: Robby’s.

She wondered sometimes why she had offered to take him. As if she didn’t have enough kids of her own. …

He was a Livaudais all right. Looked like them. She saw that the very first time she ever laid eyes on him, that day the priest from Petit Prairie brought him over to his father.

He was three then, and had been staying with his mother. But she had found a husband. A man from Biloxi, a foreman in a lumberyard and a good steady man. She had told him Robby was her nephew, and just stopping with her for company.

When the time came for her to go to Biloxi, she took Robby down to the priest and told the name of his father, and left the boy there.

So Eddie Livaudais got his illegitimate son to raise. And because his wife, Belle, wasn’t one to be kind to her husband’s bastards, Marie Livaudais had taken him in.

And me, Marie thought, I got to go opening my big mouth, and go saying I put him with my kids. All together. …

It was too hot for the pillow. She pushed it to the floor and bent her arm. The window shade flapped closed again. She sighed and stretched.

Robby was at the top of the tree. He yanked off a couple of the small hard yellow dates and, leaning out away from the trunk, he squinted carefully and dropped them. Didi LeBlanc jumped straight up in the air. The other kids looked at her without moving. She stood with her hands down stiff at her sides, her mouth wide open, her eyes shut, screaming. From the tree Robby dropped another date, but missed: it plopped into the dirt. Didi kept on screaming.

A little gust of wind released the spring and sent the shade flying up. Marie Livaudais heaved herself out of bed, mumbling softly under her breath. The damp slip stuck to her legs and she yanked it free as she went out on the porch.

She yelled at the kids, waving her arms. One of her big breasts popped over the top of her slip, but she did not seem to notice.

Marie looked up the palm tree, squinted, and then stomped down into the yard, hands on her hips.

Come on down out of that tree there, that’s been leaning and shaking in every little wind, before you break you fool neck!

The boy in the tree did not move. He wrapped his legs tighter around the trunk and yelled: Yaaaaaa, toe cheese.

She gave one more quick look up the tree and then began to scan the ground. She crossed the yard, pushing aside the kids and stepping through the middle of the circle of marbles.

She found what she was looking for: a piece of brick. She weighed it in her hand, decided it was too heavy and smashed it on an oyster shell. She picked up the two largest pieces and looked up the tree again. Then she closed one eye and very carefully and deliberately threw the first piece. It hit Robby’s hip. He yelped but did not move. She walked around the tree and threw the other; it clipped him in the center of the back.

He slid down the trunk quickly. The bark burned the inside of his legs, and he was rubbing them when she caught up with him.

Sal au pri! She grabbed him by one arm and almost lifted him up. He began to cry.

She yelled back at him: I got a mind to shake you till you brains fall out or you get some sense. And there ain’t no telling which come first.

His eyes shut tight, he screamed. The other kids came up in a circle, their heads sticking forward on their necks, watching.

Hey, Burt said. He’s popping blood all around, him.

Where you bleeding? Marie said. Where?

Robby stopped yelling and opened his eyes. He pointed to his legs. There were long red brushburns down the inner sides, still with pieces of the heavy rough bark sticking to them.

Marie half carried, half dragged the boy up the steps and into the house. All I got to do is take a rest, me, and you go find a way to mess yourself up good, and come screaming to me.

You hit me, Robby wailed.

And you got to say a prayer to the Blessed Mother that you didn’t come falling down with that tree that’s been shaking at its roots for I don’t know how many years, and you jumping around up at its top, like you was a monkey, and nothing come falling down.

She sat him on a kitchen chair. The other kids crowded up to the screen door. She got a bottle of iodine from the corner of the cupboard and smeared it across the brushburns. He yelled. She reached up and got a piece of sugar. Open up you mouth.

She dropped a lump in and yanked her finger away fast. Ha! … I ain’t so stupid I don’t know what you thinking. She went back to work with the iodine. Ain’t gonna bite me.

Burt said: He going to be decorated up like a Christmas tree, him.

You pay no mind to them, Marie said and glared at them over her shoulder. They ain’t got nothing but dirty feet and dirty noses and not one handkerchief.

He bent over studying the stained skin on his legs, pulling the broken skin apart with his fingertips.

Quit that! She moved over to the sink, took down a cup, shook a little bit of Octagon soap powder in it, filled it up with water so that the suds spilled over the rim. I almost forgot me what you call me, still up in that tree that ain’t no more than just brushing in the ground and shaking all over while you was up there.

He began to whimper again. Over at the door, the kids shuffled and pressed their noses on the screen.

She dragged a wood kitchen chair in front of the sink. With her still holding his arm, he scrambled up.

She swished the suds around in the cup. You remember what you was calling me.

He nodded, his eyes on the yellowish soapsuds.

You just keep thinking on that, and you start saying the Hail Mary and praying to God you tongue don’t drop out with cancer for saying things like that.

He didn’t move. He only rubbed one bare foot against the other ankle.

You started, huh?

He nodded again.

She released his shoulder and put that hand on the back of his head. She brought the cup of soapsuds up to his lips. He squirmed and kicked. The cup made a little clinking sound against his teeth.

Quit, you, she said, before I bust you teeth like they was acorns falling down.

She tilted the cup, and pressed his head back. Open you teeth or I going to pry them up like a hound dog.

The water was running down his chin and splashing off the chair. His mouth filled. He blew the liquid out, opening his clenched teeth. She poured the rest of the soapsuds down and clamped her hand around his mouth. She shook his head then, just the way she would shake a jar she was washing out. Jesus, Mary, she said, you got to get you mouth clean out of words like that, talking like a trapper out in the marsh.

She held his head over the sink and took away her hand. He sputtered so that his whole body shook.

Now wrench out.

He grabbed for the pitcher of water and took a mouthful from it.

She yanked it away from him. Ain’t you never learned to use a glass?

She tasted the water and made a face. Just wasting, and with the water so low that the wigglers is coming out the pipes. She sighed and went out on the porch. The kids scattered back to the edges, but she didn’t notice them. She poured the pitcher of water on the four scraggly wax plants growing in the rusty coffee cans by the steps. She picked up the mop from where it hung handle down over the railing, shook the small bright red roaches out of the head and went inside to mop up the soapy puddle on the kitchen floor. Then she hung the mop out of the window.

Finally she turned on Robby. You ain’t moved?

He shook his head.

Get out of here, she said. Go play around a million miles from here. Go feed the gars in the middle of the bay.

He scrambled away. The kids, who were still standing just the other side of the screen, pulled back to make room for him.

Once the door had slammed behind him, he stopped and looked at them. He let his lids fall until his eyes were half closed and he had to lift his chin to see.

Jeez, Burt said.

Robby blew a little saliva bubble, slowly.

Look at him, Didi said.

He still bubbling, Mercy said.

Jeez, Burt said.

Robby blew another bubble and, crossing his eyes, tried to look down at it. Then, because she was the closest, he grabbed hold of Didi’s shirt front and pushed her off the porch. She didn’t make a sound, just plopped down into the dirt. He made a wide left-handed swing at Burt, who ducked. He climbed to the top of the porch railing and jumped down from there, rolling over and over. Then he tried standing on his head.

Finally he stood up, blew a couple of bubbles very carefully, and started down the road. The other kids followed, first Didi, then Mercy and then Burt. Robby pretended not to notice them but every once in a while he turned and threw a handful of dust. And he swaggered so hard he wasn’t even walking a straight line.

Half an hour later he was perched up on the highest limb of the camphor tree behind the Arcenaux grocery, while the other kids climbed restlessly around in the lower branches. When they tried to come up with him, he kicked them away. Finally they all settled down and watched the white-hulled sloop that was beating toward the island.

TEN MINUTES AFTER HE had cast off from the sloop Pixie Inky D’Alfonso was approaching Isle aux Chiens. He throttled down the outboard and came in slowly.

Ahead of him was the island, a long low strip, perfectly straight on this side. He didn’t remember ever seeing such a straight line before. There was a sand-colored line and then a curving line of green, lifting up to a kind of point three quarters of the way to the east end. The trees looked glossy and heavy there.

He glanced over his shoulder. The sloop was moving east, on a reach now. And the main was luffing. A little. … Damn fool had no tiller hand. …

The dinghy swayed and quivered. All he’d need, he told himself, was a spill overboard. He was a fool to get himself in a crazy trip like this. Nothing about it was right.

And then he grinned. … Nothing was right, except that he couldn’t keep away from a sailboat.

He’d quit high school to crew on a West Indies job. And that was only the beginning. …

He got a splash of murky sour water in his mouth. He spat and wiped his lips and got back to business.

He came in around the eastern end of the island, through the narrow pass between it and Isle Cochon, where the charts said there should have been a line of reflectors. The sand fringe went around this side of the island too. It looked white and soft to lie on.

But there was nobody on it, not even kids. Maybe the afternoon sun was too much for them. He circled the end of the island and saw that it was a kind of point, jutting northward. Farther down in the circle, he could see the rigging of a lugger. And even at this distance he could smell the tar of the nets.

He swung the dinghy down into the circle. The edges of this side of the island were marshy: he could see the alligator grass and the cattails and the saw grass. A yellow and black ricebird whizzed over his head.

He saw a kind of rickety fishing-pier, and behind it a little path that ran straight into the trees. He eased the dinghy over and made it fast to the last pole. The pier was chest high and only two boards wide. He had to hoist and swing himself carefully sideways. The ragged edge of the board scraped his stomach. He sat for a minute, catching his breath, and staring into the heavy green shadows of the trees.

Somebody was watching him. He could feel it as plain as a hand on his shoulder. It was the sort of thing that made his spine prickle. He could feel himself begin to get angry, could feel it in a certain restless movement of his hands.

There wasn’t a thing he could see beyond the oaks and the oleanders and the vines and the low flat leaves of the palmettoes. The ricebird was sitting on the post nearest shore.

Almost as soon as he stepped ashore, he saw the houses, four of them, not a hundred yards from the water. In the fenced yard of the first was a dog, a fair-sized black and white animal who crouched quivering behind the gate, his teeth showing just slightly in a silent snarl.

Inky stopped and talked to him. Hi, boy. The dog hugged the ground tighter.

Okay, Inky said, okay. He looked at the house. Like the other four it was lifted off the ground on high foundations. The front porch was empty. Hey, he yelled, anybody home?

It was absolutely still. Inky waited a minute, scratching his ear. Then he walked to the second house. There was no dog this time and he went up to the front door. He pounded on the door frame. Nobody here either? He stuck his nose against the torn screen. He could see a center hall, with a dresser and some chairs in it—but nothing else.

Nobody here? He waited perched on the railing, picking the shells from the soles of his topsiders.

There was only the very faintest creak of a board inside. He got up and peered down the hall again. It was empty.

Hell, he said softly and went down the steps again. He lit a cigarette very slowly and flicked the match away in a high arc.

The other houses looked just as deserted, thin spidery houses with little threads of footpaths between them.

Take the one that goes west, Inky thought. There’s got to be somebody sooner or later.

Somebody who won’t hide, he said aloud. He felt better—let them hear him. And if he couldn’t get anybody to show them the channel—What did he care? Let Arthur keep sailing the god-damn boat up and down along the coast. God-damn fool who had to stop and wet his finger before he was sure where the wind was.

You looking for somebody?

He spun around. For a minute he did not see the woman. And when he did, he blinked and shook his head and looked again. Back under a tangle of bougainvillea and slung from the thick branches of a tough oak was a faded gray-black hammock. She was sitting on the edge, her bare feet dangling.

It was you yelling down at the houses, no?

You heard me?

She grinned. You was making enough racket to wake the whole island.

She slipped off the hammock. She was quite short, a stocky figure, wide shoulders and wide hips. But she had a very small waist—the sort you could put your two hands around, Inky thought.

I’m Cecile Boudreau.

Ignatius D’Alfonso—call me Inky.

You come off the boat that’s running up and down along the coast?

We been trying to find the channel.

It ain’t marked, she said.

You’re telling me, Inky said. What’d they do? Use it for a shotgun target?

She was a good-looking woman, he thought. Not more than twenty-five or so. She looked fine in the shorts—good legs and big breasts.

The charts say it’s marked.

She shrugged. It wasn’t nothing but a reflector at night.

She had brown skin—sunburned or not, he couldn’t tell—and black hair cut short, very short; and greenish eyes.

Any sort a mark and we could come in.

She grinned. Some of the teeth on the right side of her mouth—far back—were missing. It ain’t hurt you being out there.

Depends how long we got to stay.

What you coming here for?

Look, honey, he said, I don’t know anything. It’s not my boat.

She was staring at him directly. He’d never had a woman look at him quite that way.

This one now, she just stood staring right straight at him. Those light eyes began right at his shoes and went all the way up him. That should have meant just one thing. But this time he wasn’t sure. The way she was staring—appraisingly, interestedly but sexless too.

And then he knew where he’d seen that sort of look before. Back in the athletic club in New Orleans. (He’d worked there a couple of years, the time when he was crazy to be a fighter.) He’d seen wrestlers look at each other that way just before starting a match.

That was the way she was looking at him. …

Do you know the channel? he asked.

Sort of.

Could you get us in?

She shook her head. I wouldn’t take a chance with such a pretty boat, me.

Hell, he said, you want us to spend the rest of the year cruising up and down out there, waiting for the government to come put up new markers?

She slapped at a mosquito on her arm. You find somebody.

Where?

You tried the Rendezvous?

You been watching me ever since I set foot on the ground.

Not watching.

Okay … listening.

You was making so much noise, I couldn’t help it.

A black and yellow ricebird came and sat on the tip of a swaying branch. He’s following me too, Inky said—and found that funny. Don’t people ever come out when you knock on their front door?

They wasn’t home.

Hell, no, he said, I could hear somebody inside.

She slapped the mosquitoes on her bare thighs. That’s the Caillets.

They don’t answer?

Her light eyes crinkled with laughter.

A door slammed, the sound muffled by the trees.

That’s the Caillets’ now, for sure, Cecile said.

Look, Inky said, all I want to do is get in that channel.

She clucked her tongue. I keep telling you go try the Rendezvous.

Okay, he said. Where’s that?

She was staring at him, as if she wanted to remember just exactly what he looked like. I show you.

Which way?

There was a rosebush growing at the side of the path, an old climber gone wild, with thorns like a rooster’s spur.

Move, she said, or I get scratched up.

He hesitated for a moment, not seeing what she meant. She put a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back, hard.

He started to grab her hand and then stopped. She went on ahead.

Back this way here.

He found himself staring at the heavy back lines of her thighs. And he found himself thinking: That’s not fat, not one bit. That’s muscle. If you touched it, it would be hard.

You find somebody at the Rendezvous, for sure.

Won’t they be out working, this time of day?

She glanced over her shoulder. Not all.

They passed between the houses; their porches were still empty.

You know, he said, watching the way her shoulder blades moved through the thin shirt, I thought the place’d be full of dogs.

There plenty of dogs all right, Cecile said.

They crossed the little clearing where the houses were and took another path. There were hackberry bushes taller than a man’s head and clumps of thick heavy blueberries.

They just ain’t around now, Cecile said.

What?

The dogs. She turned around and stared at him. You was the one was asking.

Oh, he said, sure.

They came out of the bushes and the trees and were on the beach.

This here is easy walking, she said.

The sand is yellow. It hadn’t looked that way.

She looked up and down the beach, still not stopping her walk, and pursed her mouth. Guess so.

He kicked at a big piece of driftwood. That looks like a telephone pole for sure.

All sorts of things come up.

I bet.

My old man found a rocking-chair, upholstered and all.

Dry it out?

He’s been sitting on it ever since I can remember. She grinned, sharp, eager, boylike. (It was funny, Inky thought, with a shape like hers, how she could remind you of a boy.)

They passed a mass of seaweed drying and smelling in the sun. And a small dead starfish.

Man, she said, and stopped and stared out at the little surf. I’m seeing things, maybe.

Inky sat down on a half-buried piece of driftwood and rested his head on his hand.

Cecile watched for a few more seconds, then walked out into the surf. She bent forward, peering, and walked a few more feet down the beach. Then she reached forward and picked up something and dragged it back to shore.

Maybe it’s the short hair, Inky thought, or the way she moves, but how the hell can she look so much like a boy.

She had the object out on the dry sand now and was standing over it. Sal au pri!

Inky looked away. Bending over like that she didn’t look like a boy, for sure.

They’d been on the boat for a week now the three of them. And all that time there’d been Helen, in shorts and a halter, or sunning herself on the forward deck with nothing but a towel. Arthur hardly able to keep his hands off her.

It bothered a man after a while.

Look here.

He got up and walked over. Looks like a hunk of wood.

She clucked her tongue. Talking about chairs, I come to seeing them. … This piece now, looked like a chair.

Yea, Inky said.

The kind with no back.

I saw it, Inky said. It looked just that way.

She kicked at it. Maybe it dry out and be good for firewood. She curled her toes over the smooth round edges. Ain’t good for nothing else.

She grinned again, her bright hard animal grin. Her eyes crinkled up so that she looked more fierce than amused. Inky wondered what it would be like to have her in bed.

Oh hell, he said aloud. She probably wouldn’t be any good, just put her hands behind her head and let him. Hell, he said again, aloud.

She reached out and patted his shoulder. He almost jumped. You find somebody to take your boat in, for sure.

I’m not so sure, he said.

I can get my husband do it.

You promising for him?

Pay him?

Sure, Inky said, it’s not my money.

He do it, if nobody else will.

Inky stared off at the gray-blue Gulf. The Pixie was far down to the east now. You couldn’t make out the figures any more, just a hull and sails.

The charts say there’s plenty water down there, he said. That right?

I guess so.

Jesus, he said, all we got to do is go aground.

Somebody would pull you out.

And pull the keel out too, I bet.

She looked up, squinting her light eyes in the glare. Crinkling up her face made her look old, very old.

He thought: She going to make one of those round-faced old women, with round cheeks and a little round mouth all run together with wrinkles and folds, like a kewpie doll that’s been left too close to the fire.

A couple of kids passed them, walking down the beach, feet in the last edge of the surf. They were carrying crab nets, and they looked so much alike they might have twins.

What you say? Cecile said to them. A mosquito lit on her knee and she smashed it. Look at that there, she said, he’s full of blood—been chewing on somebody else real hard.

He bite you?

She shook her head hard, so that the short black hair fell in her eyes. She didn’t bother pushing it away.

Just back in the trees some kids were screaming, and a dog began to howl.

Inky squinted one eye in that direction.

It’s the Roualt kids, she said, they pestering the dog again. In a minute or so you’ll hear them yeowl too, when they mama comes out and belts them one.

There’s another piece of driftwood, Inky said.

Nothing but an old plank. She sniffed. Where do you reckon all this stuff comes from?

The driftwood?

What do you reckon it comes off?

I don’t know, he said. He glanced up at the small white spot of sail and wondered if Arthur and Helen were getting impatient.

And I heard you can tell what the weather is, miles off, from the way the waves come in. From the way they move.

You can?

I was asking you.

I heard something like that, Inky said, but I don’t remember.

She clucked her tongue. The dog stopped yelping and a kid began to scream, and then another one.

See, she said, I told you—their mama got around to giving them a belt.

You were right on the nose that time. Inky said.

Cecile dusted the sand off her legs, then she began walking slowly down the beach. He got to his feet, brushed off his pants and followed. When he had caught up she said: That building down there, the one that’s kind of sticking out on the beach, kind of half in and half out the trees.

Yea.

That’s where we going.

You sure there going to be somebody there?

If there ain’t, she said, Hector do it.

I’ll remember that, he said.

They walked rapidly toward the building. Inky began to feel the suspicious ache in the back of his calves. Damn the sand, he thought.

How do you do it? he asked.

Do what?

Nothing, he said.

Her heels did not sink deeply in the sand: he turned and looked back at the tracks. She walked markedly slue-footed, but she scarcely seemed to brush over the sand.

He was getting winded when they came to the Rendezvous. It was a narrow long wooden building and not more than twenty feet wide. From the arrangement of the windows he could tell that there was a large front room and then two smaller back ones. In front was a porch.

This didn’t used to be on the beach, Cecile said.

Where was it?

It hasn’t moved. … For the first time she sounded annoyed. But the beach come in to it.

You’re not old enough to see things like that.

But my old man, he say that when he was a boy, there was a little clump of oaks right out in front of this porch. He used to have a swing on them, that’s how big they was.

They’re sure not here now. Inky scuffed his toe in the sand.

There been two or three hurricanes since then, and no mistake about it. She laughed, softly and differently. Inky looked at her curiously. It wasn’t a laugh of amusement at all.

Pieces of the beach goes all the time, she said, with the water sucking away at it. And when it comes to a hurricane, big chunks of it goes. All the trees that used to be out here went with one of them, my papa says. And then it wasn’t no time till the sand moved up, right up to the porch.

She reached out and patted the bleached, sun-split boards, patted them the way you would a dog or a horse.

Inky said: I sure wouldn’t want to be in this place when a hurricane’s around.

I don’t know, me, she said. I seen old things not lose a shingle and new things get smashed into pieces and sunk in the bay.

I still wouldn’t want to be here.

Cecile shrugged. I don’t reckon it matters much what place you in.

Hell, Inky said, I sure think it does.

Well, she said, you go see who you can find inside. Just wait around and you find something.

It’s sort of funny to think of Arthur sailing up and down out there.

You work for him?

In a way?

You crewing for him?

Yea.

You never did say where you was going.

Just over to Galveston, that’s all.

Why’d you come to stopping here?

Inky squinched his eyes tight shut. Her god-damn teeth.

His wife?

You shoulda heard her moaning and yelling every wave hit the bow, Inky said, and wanting us to call the Coast Guard or the Navy or somebody to fly out and get her. He scratched his chin and propped up one foot on the lowest step. And then it comes out that she was having trouble with her wisdom tooth back in New Orleans a month or so ago, but she couldn’t stop to do anything about it. Hell, no.

Cecile said: So you want somebody to take her over to Petit Prairie too, no?

You’re right, honey. You’re absolutely right.

You better call the dentist there, account of he goes fishing for days on end.

Now, honey, Inky said, she wouldn’t go to him. They going over to find somebody there to drive them all the way into New Orleans. He watched the sharp bright white points of light on the waves. The god-damn tooth, he said very softly.

You stay here with the boat, no?

Smart like a schoolteacher. Sure I do. Until they make up their god-damn mind to come back, or send me somebody to sail it out with.

You give us the most excitement we got in months.

Hell, Inky said.

She pointed to the front door. I see Dan Rivé in there. By the back of his head and the way his ears wiggle while he listening to us. She picked up a bit of shell and threw it with all her strength against the wall. People can be real nice, she said. For sure. She began to walk away.

Hey, Inky said, aren’t you coming in?

What for? I showed you where it was.

Thanks, he said. Thanks a lot.

You going to be around, she said without turning. I’ll be seeing you, one place or the other.

He watched her for a minute, watched the steady wide roll of her hips. Damn, he said to himself, god damn.

He wondered if he’d been propositioned. For the first time in his life he wasn’t sure.

PERIQUE LOMBAS CUT ACROSS the island, walking fast in spite of the heat, heading for the wharf on the north side. Only one of the little fleet there was in, on its high white bow the red-lettered name, Hula Girl, the Boudreau boat. Hector Boudreau and his father, Archange, got it cheap ten years before over at Mobile. And when an accident crippled the old man’s hip, Hector bought him out too. That made the Hula Girl the biggest boat on the island to belong to a single man. So Hector was proud of her, kept her cleaner than most of the other boats, even scrubbed out the wheelhouse every month or so.

When they worked, the Old Boudreau still went out with them. For a cripple he could move fast—and there were those who hadn’t given him much of a chance to walk again. It was two years ago now that he’d got caught between hull and dock. They hadn’t thought he’d live when they took him over to the hospital at Petit Prairie, him conscious all the way, but not making a sound, not answering anybody, not seeming to hear, but all wrapped up in a tight little cocoon, just him and the pain.

He was tough and he could still work, but only the light stuff. Perique was the regular crew. He was just twenty, taller already than any man on the island, and very thin, with a long thin face, close-set brown eyes, and a heavy black beard that showed through shaving.

The engine hatch was open now. Hector was squatting in the little patch of shade from the wheelhouse, splashing his face and neck with water from the bucket he had set there.

Where the hell you been at?

Perique shrugged. You shoulda wait for me.

I can’t wait around all day.

Lets us see what you got.

Man, Hector said, not me.

You don’t want to do nothing more this evening?

Hector’s face was streaked with oil and his eyes were bloodshot. I been at it an hour, and I’m ready to quit.

They put the cover back on the engine hatch. Hector emptied the bucket of water over the side. Here it come—look out, you fish!

Bet the heat don’t bother them, Perique said.

How Annie doing? Hector winked.

I don’t know, me.

Hell, man, Hector said, don’t let it get you down none.

It ain’t bothering me.

They get like that sometime.

Yea, Perique said.

Only thing you can be sure of, it ain’t going to stay that way. They never stay one way.

You don’t see me crying none.

Two small brown pelicans were swimming in a wide circle around the boat. Perique whistled at them.

Hector said: I seen you over there one day, day before yesterday maybe.

Lay off, Perique said flatly. And after a pause: You sure you want to leave them nets like that?

Yea, Hector said, and rubbed the back of his neck. You see the kids down by the cleaning-shed?

The shed was right on the end of the wharf—just some two-by-fours and a low roof built onto the side of the icehouse. Fish were gutted there, at a big long wood table. And there was a hand pump and a hose that went into the bay about fifty feet away—so the place could be washed clean in a minute, even if it only was with salt water.

There was a bunch down there, in their mid-teens, most of them. Some were cleaning fish, the rest were watching and giggling and slapping each other on the back or trying to get a hand on a girl’s breast or thigh.

Look at the bucket there, Hector said. They got some croakers they don’t want. And they been putting lye in ’em and throwing it to the pelicans.

Fi d’poutain, Perique said softly.

I ain’t right fond of it neither.

That plain make me sick, Perique said, when he swallows it and goes flopping around in those big old circles.

You did it when you was a kid.

Don’t make me like it more now.

The giggling got louder and the group crowded around the table.

Fi d’poutain, Perique said again.

Sound like Charlie Alain, Hector said, "and I bet he stuffing that fish right now.

They saw the group step back. They saw the fish’s silvery underside glint for a second as it went sailing out into the waiting beak of a pelican.

Perique turned away and began to pull at the heap of nets. You want to do something about these, no?

In a while, man. Hector kept rubbing at the back of his neck: that was where the sun got you first, sometimes so hard it felt like a rabbit punch.

I come down here to work, Perique said, And I ain’t gonna sit on my ass all day long.

Hector shifted and stretched and scratched through the buttons of his shirt in the thick hair of his chest. Go on ahead.

Why don’t I run ’em up, so we can see how bad they torn.

I know how bad, Hector said.

Perique dragged at the heap of nets. His sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his back and shoulders. He straightened up. Enfant garce! He unbuttoned the shirt and threw it to the deck. His body was brown and very thin; the edges of the spine stuck up like knuckles, and the muscles were like cords. There was a tattoo high up on his left arm, almost to the shoulder: an eagle with a flag in its mouth.

You fixing to get sun stroke for sure? Hector asked.

Perique did not answer. By the time he’d fastened the net and cranked it up, man-high, by the little hand winch, he was covered with sweat.

All of a sudden Hector looked over the rail and grinned. Hi, what you say? He got up and sat astride the rail. Perique man, look who we got here.

Annie Landry took her pirogue within ten feet of the lugger, and then with a single quick stroke, turned it sideways and stopped it dead on the water.

See that? she grinned up.

Always did say you could handle a pirogue like a man. Hector took a cigarette from his pocket.

Me, too, Annie said.

Hector tossed one. She caught it with a quick downward motion of her hand. The pirogue bobbed lightly but steadily.

Perique came and stood just behind Hector. Where you going? he asked her.

She ignored him and was looking at Hector from under her lowered lids. No light?

Come get it. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and held them out.

She was looking at Perique now, fluttering her lids. You want me to fall in the bay, huh?

I don’t want you to do nothing, me, Perique said. You was yelling for matches and he’s giving it to you.

How I’m going reach it?

That your problem, Perique said.

Think I can’t get it?

She shifted her paddle and dipped with it. The pirogue jumped almost sideways. The water swirled to the top, but not a drop splashed in. She flicked the paddle dry and laid it across the narrow boat. She waited until the water was quiet and the hull had stopped vibrating. Then she put out her hands, one on each gunwale and lifted herself to a crouching position.

Sure glad you know how to swim, Hector said.

She shifted her feet slightly; the pirogue swayed.

If anybody come along now, Perique said, you go over for sure.

Bet I can do it. She stood up finally, one foot on each side of the sloping shell. Her head was just above the deck of the lugger.

Look at that, Hector said, no hands, even.

She stuck up the cigarette between her lips. Perique struck a match. Not you, she said. I wouldn’t trust you. The cigarette dropped down again. You likely to burn my nose off just to get me to fall in the water.

Me? Hector asked.

She stuck the cigarette straight out again.

Okay, Hector said. He snapped a match against his fingernail and, leaning down, lighted the cigarette.

She puffed at it, hard, the way a beginner always does, her eyes squinted against the smoke.

"If