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"Are you an oyster fisherman or
a carpenter?"
"I ain't a lawyer," he said and laughed. "I fish some. I hunt some. I sell Spanish moss to the furniture people to stuff them chairs and sofas, and I do odd jobs when I got to," he said. "My daddy left me a little money, too. 'Course, most of its gone down the gullet," he added and cackled again, his Adam's apple bouncing against his sandpaper skin.
As we made the turn around the bend, Buster poled as hard as someone being chased.
"How did my mother get out here?" I asked suspiciously.
"She come from the other end," he said quickly. "What other end?" I asked.
"Stop asking so many questions," he snapped. "I can't pole this pirogue and talk at the same time."
I felt my heart begin to thump. I spun around and gazed back. Cypress Woods was miles behind us. We entered another, even narrower canal. At times I could almost stretch out my arms and touch both sides. The mosquitoes looked bigger, and the clouds of them were thicker. The water was darker, too. Something slithered off a rock and slipped into the water just ahead of us. I cringed again.
"I don't like this," I said. "We're not getting anywhere. Take me back. I'll get someone to drive me to the other end," I said, but Buster didn't look at me, nor did he slow down. "Mr. Trahaw, I said . . ."
He turned and looked behind him.
"There it is," he announced as we broke out of the narrow canal and into a pond.
I saw a trapper's shack ahead. It sat about six feet off the marsh on pilings lined up in rows. The planks appeared to have been slapped together with chewing gum. Some dangled precariously over the windows. The railing of the gallery was cracked on the far end, and even from this distance I could see there were gaping holes in the floor. How could my mother ever go to such a place?
"My mother wouldn't be there," I declared.
"Why not? You know whose place that was?" he said with his lips in a tight smile. "That there was your great-grandpere's shack, missy. That's where the likes of you come from, so don't sit up so high and mighty, hear?"
"My great-grandpere's?"
"That's right. Jack Landry. He was a trapper and the best hunting guide in these parts. 'Course, now I am," he added. He poled faster, and I strained to see signs of Mommy.
"Where is she?"
"Lying on the cot inside, sick as a dog, I told ya. Happy you come now?"
I didn't reply. Cautiously I sat back and waited for him to reach the dock and tie up the pirogue. There was a very shaky stairway up to the gallery. He planted his foot against one step and reached for me.
"Come on. help you up," he said. I stood up slowly, but the pirogue rocked and I nearly fell overboard. I cried out, and he laughed. "Reach out," he demanded. Reluctantly, I did so, and the moment his hand found mine, he pulled me forward with such force that I lost my footing and fell into his huge arms. He laughed again, held me there a moment and then lifted me out of the pirogue as if I weighed no more than a baby. I found as firm a footing as I could on the stairway and walked up to the gallery. He followed close behind.
Scattered over the gallery in a disorganized fashion were nets for oyster fishing, piles of Spanish moss, empty beer bottles, dirty bowls crusted with dried gumbo, and the only piece of furniture, a rocking chair tipped over on its side, the right arm snapped off. I paused. The planks dipped. I was sure I would step through one.
"It's all right. Go on inside," he said, waving toward the door. I walked forward slowly and entered what he said was once my great-grandpere's shack.
It was only one room. There was a plank table directly in front of us, covered with old dishes and empty beer and whiskey bottles. To the right was a cot, the stained gray blanket dumped beside it, the sheet brown stained and torn. Skins and furs dangled of nails along the walls. On a long shelf near the table were jars of pickled frogs, snakes, and the ugliest water insects I had ever seen. Everywhere I looked, I saw strewn clothing and sacks. The two windows were both caked with grime so thick the light was practically kept out.
"Where's my mother?" I asked.
"Well, I'll be," Buster said. "Looks like she just up and left and didn't clean up after herself neither." He laughed, and I turned when I heard something rattle. He was standing in the doorway behind me, a long metal chain in his hand.
"I want to go back immediately," I demanded.
"Well, that ain't very friendly, now, is it? And after all I done for your mother?" He laughed again.
"Right now," I said and started toward the door. He laughed again and wrapped his arms around me, lifting me up and carrying me to the cot while I screamed. He slapped me down hard, wrapped the chain around my right ankle, and snapped a padlock before I had a chance to resist.
"And the key's right here," he said, showing it to me before putting it in his right pants pocket. When I sat up to protest, he lifted his enormous right palm and threatened to slap me down. I took one look at the callused dirty fingers and that thick wrist and recoiled.
"What are you doing?" I cried.
