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“Bunny’s got to make plans,” I said. “She’s got to, you know, decide whether to stay in Katydid—”
Eddie whipped around and grabbed me by the wrist. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, girl.” His words made hissing sounds through his teeth. “You’re messin’ in adult stuff, and you got no idea what’s goin’ on. That’s how you messed all this up to begin with. You’re still a child but you’re pretendin’ to be a woman.”
I tried to shake loose, but his hand was locked around my wrist. His other hand fidgeted. I was afraid he might hit me, so I ducked and pulled back, but he yanked me toward him, still torturing my wrist. Suddenly, Bunny shouted behind us. “Hey!” she yelled. Eddie dropped my arm. “Hey!” Bunny yelled again. “There’s a weird raccoon here.” Eddie jumped up and ran toward her.
“Don’t get near it,” he screamed.
> Bunny was on her hands and knees in the middle of the tablecloth, eye-to-eye with a raccoon, about three feet away. The animal looked sick. It was shivering and foam was coming out of its mouth. I ran up beside Eddie just as the coon seemed about to collapse. Its eyes rolled up in its head, and it teetered a few steps to the side, but then it pulled itself back and glared at Bunny again, baring its teeth and making a gurgling growl.
“Rabies,” whispered Eddie.
“Get it out of here,” moaned Bunny. She seemed mesmerized by the animal’s stare. She crawled back a few inches, and the coon lurched forward, as if about to attack. “Aii-eee,” she screamed.
“Don’t move!” ordered Eddie. Then he shoved me away. “Go get the fishermen,” he said.
I backed up a few steps. “But, Bunny—”
“Go!”
I turned and ran to the river, then dashed up the thin path along the bank. My feet sank in the wet soil, and mud soaked my sneakers. Low weeds sliced against my legs. I started yelling when I was still twenty yards away. The fishermen heard and hurried toward me, running in slow motion in the thigh-deep water. I recognized one of them from the News Depot, a short, stocky, dark-haired man with a flattop. His friend was younger and was wearing a White Sox cap. They both had on wading boots that came to their chests. They clambered out of the river, shook off the water and ran down the path, carrying their spears in front of them like a couple of native hunters.
Back at the picnic spot, Bunny was still on all fours, slowly backing away from the coon. Eddie was crouched beside her, one hand on her backside and the other holding an empty Coke bottle, gripped around the neck for use as a weapon. He guided her with his hand, making sure she moved gently. Still, the coon jerked closer, its eyes locked on Bunny’s. No one spoke. The animal’s madness seemed to poison the air. I didn’t want to breathe. Finally, Bunny slipped her knees off the tablecloth and then her hands.
“Now, stand up slowly,” said Eddie, in a low voice. She rose cautiously onto her bare feet. The raccoon gurgled and suddenly hopped forward. We all stumbled back. It snarled. “Now, back off,” Eddie told us. The man with the White Sox cap held his spear in front, pointing at the animal. When the rest of us were about ten feet away, Eddie stooped slowly and picked up a corner of the tablecloth. The coon stared at Eddie, shaking its head, a long string of drool dropping out of its mouth.
With a growl, it sprang at him.
“Yowww,” screamed Eddie, leaping back and flipping the tablecloth over the animal. The remnants of the picnic scattered in the air, but the coon got caught in the cloth. The more it struggled to get free, the more tangled it got.
“Should I spear it?” asked White Sox.
“Don’t,” said the other fisherman. “The blood’s poison.”
Eddie turned to Bunny and me. “Get back,” he said. “Go to the river.”
Bunny pulled me away. The raccoon was still thrashing around under the tablecloth, making growling noises, like the sounds of a car engine trying to turn over on a cold morning. Its claws kept ripping through the cloth and then getting tied up. The men circled around. Eddie still held the Coke bottle and the fishermen waved their spears. White Sox kept setting up and taking aim, but then dropping his weapon, as if he couldn’t get off a clear shot.
“What’ll we do?” said flattop finally.
Eddie stopped circling. “You got a gun in your truck?”
“No. Back in town.”
“A rock,” said Eddie. “Find a rock.”
The men searched the ground. Bunny and I looked along the river edge. “There aren’t any rocks in swamps,” said flattop after a minute.
“How about a log?” yelled Bunny. She pointed to a branch about four inches thick that had drifted down the Little Carp and was lodged in the bank on the other side. Eddie ran over. Without pausing, he leaped off the bank into the middle of the river. He came down in a mud hole and sank up to his shoulders. “Jesus!” he cried.
“Don’t drown,” shouted Bunny, flapping her arms to show him how to swim.
Eddie hauled himself out of the mud and pushed through the water to the other bank. He pulled out the branch and then came back, flopping on his belly and dog paddling over the mud hole. Wheezing and coughing, he pulled himself out of the water and ran back to the spot where the fishermen were still circling the coon.
“You gonna club it?” asked White Sox.
Eddie stared down at the balled-up tablecloth. Little tufts of brown fur were visible through rips in the material and a thin, bony leg poked out underneath. The coon was almost still now, the only movement was an occasional twitch. “Looks like it’s dyin’ on its own,” said Eddie. The three men cautiously leaned down. “Maybe it’s already dead,” he added.
“You better kill it,” said flattop.
