Hidden Jewel

  Buster Trahaw could leave at will without worrying about my escaping. I was chained inside and guarded by every creature that lived in the swamp, I thought. What was I going to do? Afraid of what Buster would do if he returned and I hadn't cleaned, I started to straighten up the shack. I picked up and folded all the clothing, most of it filthy. I gathered the dishes and pans and put them in the sink. The water was rust brown, but I washed the dishes as best I could. When that was done, I scrubbed the plank table, straightened up what little furniture there was, and made the cot bed. I found a broom in the corner. Half of it was gone, but there was enough for me to sweep the plank floor. I took a wet rag and cleaned the windows. I looked everywhere for my clothes, but I couldn't find them. I guessed he had thrown them into the swamp along with my watch and bracelet.

  There was a small wooden box in the far right corner. I was hoping there was something in it, perhaps a tool that I could use to tear off this lock and chain, even though I didn't know what I would do once I was free of it. There was no other canoe outside, and I certainly couldn't swim in the canal with alligators and snakes just waiting. I had no shoes either, so even if I made it to the marsh, I would be terrified stepping through the tall grass.

  There were no tools in the box, just a pretty linen tablecloth with hand-embroidered birds; but under the tablecloth I found some old sepia-tinted photographs. They were pictures of a pretty young woman standing barefoot on the grass in front of my greatgrandmere Catherine's shack. When I studied the face, I realized the woman resembled Mommy. Buster had claimed this was my great-grandpere Jack's trapper shack. I guess it was and this was my grandmere, Gabriel.

  If only her spirit were here now, I thought, hoping for the only thing that could help me . . a miracle. There were pictures of an older couple who I imagined were my great-grandmere Catherine and my greatgrandpere Jack. In one of them, Great

  Grandmere Catherine was holding a baby, who I imagined had to be Mommy. Seeing their faces and realizing who they were gave me some comfort and for the moment I felt a warmth and a sense of hope. Somehow, some way, I would get out of this horrible situation.

  I put the pictures back and closed the wooden box. Then I stood up and gazed about the shack. Where could I hide? What could I use to defend myself? A trapper's long knife hung on the wall. I seized it. I had never imagined myself stabbing anyone, even the likes of Buster Trahaw, but when someone was desperate, even someone like me, she could reach down into places she never thought existed within herself and find the strength. I was sure of it.

  Suddenly I heard his thin laugh. Then Buster shouted for his wife to come to the door. I put the knife back, intending to use it when I had the best opportunity, and then I tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to peer out. I saw him poling up the swamp toward the shack, pausing every few moments to take a swig from his jug.

  "Wife! Get out on the gallery and greet your husband!" he screamed. "Get your rump out there or I'll beat it till the skin comes offl Hear? Get out!"

  Terrified to disobey, I stepped out on the gallery. Even the cottonmouth must have heard him and fled, for it wasn't there.

  "Now, that's more like it," he cried. "Wave. Go on. Wave."

  I lifted my hand and limply did so. He laughed again and poled harder until he reached the dock. The whole shack seemed to shake when he stepped up. He staggered for a moment and then smiled and handed me a bag of groceries.

  "Got us our wedding dinner," he said. "And lots to drink. Buster's finally going to celebrate his marriage. Take it." I moved quickly and did so. Then I turned and went into the shack. He came in and stood gaping.

  "Well, now, this is a wife. I knew it. I knew a Landry wouldn't let me down. Good woman. We gonna have a good life together."

  "What is this?" I asked timidly when I took out what was in the bag and unwrapped some of it. "Pig's feet and gizzards and all the fixin's for a gumbo. Don't you know how to make a roux?" I shook my head. "What! Sure you do, woman. You just stand there and work until you get it right, hear? I'll just sit back here, drink a little rotgut, and watch my good woman work. Go on. Do it! And if it ain't good, I'll take it out on your hide. You got one nice hide, too." He put his large hand on my back and slid it down over my buttocks and squeezed until I cried out, which only made him laugh harder.

  "First we eat; then we consummate the marriage," he said in a hoarse whisper. His lips were beside my ear, and his breath smelled like a dead rat. My stomach churned, and my legs felt as if' they would crumble, but I closed my eyes and held myself up, fearing that if I did faint, it would only be worse.

  Fumbling with the ingredients, I tried desperately to remember what our cook did. I had watched her work a few times. A roux was only a brown sauce, but every Cajun cook did something different to make it special. My hope was that Buster would be too drunk to know what anything really tasted like. For the time being, I had to pretend I knew what I was doing. And so I started to prepare the meal, which to Buster Trahaw was a celebration but to me was more like a last supper.

  Buster sprawled on the cot as I worked, and after a while, when I turned to look at him, I saw he was asleep. I gazed up at the knife. I could get it off the wall quietly, tiptoe over to him and . . . Could I do it? Of course. I had dissected frogs and worms. I knew where the blade should go, but I had never deliberately killed anything. I cried if I accidentally stepped on a grasshopper. I knew, however, that if I didn't do something, Buster would have his way with me.

  Maybe I could just frighten him into giving me the key to the lock, I thought. I could put the knife to his throat and tell him to get the key out of his pocket, or maybe I should just hit him hard over the head with the cast-iron frying pan. My body was shaking with all these choices.

  I heard him grunt and then snore. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned to the wall. This was my chance to get the knife. I put down the mixing spoon gently and just as gently started toward the knife, holding the chain as I moved so it wouldn't rattle over the floor.

  Buster grunted again and I paused, holding my breath. He blew air through his thick lips, snorted, and then began to snore again. I tiptoed closer to the knife, reached for it, nearly dropped it, and then clutched it to my bosom. I turned slowly and just as carefully made my way back. When I was only a foot or so from him, I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength.

  Mammy could do this if she had to, I told myself. My father and poor Pierre were waiting for me to find Mommy and bring her home. I couldn't remain a prisoner in this shack much longer, and all that was standing between me and my freedom was this cruel man who didn't deserve an ounce of mercy. I stood there, hardening my heart against him until I was convinced I had the courage to do what had to be done. Then I stepped forward, raised the knife, and pressed the blade against his ugly Adam's apple, which resembled a small rodent under his skin.

  I pressed it quickly, and his eyes snapped open.

  "Wha . ."

  "Don't move a muscle," I said, "orI'll slice your throat the way you slice a pig's." I pressed the blade tighter.

  "Hold on, now, hear?" he said. "That's a sharp knife."

  "Then don't move until I tell you to move," I said.

  "I ain't movin'. Damn," he said, sobering up quickly. "This ain't no way for a man's wife to behave."

  "I am not your wife and I never will be," I said. "I'd rather be dead, so don't think I won't cut your throat," I warned. I was surprised at the fury and the determination in my voice. "I have this knife right up to your jugular. Your blood will spray all over that wall you're staring at," I warned him. I could see his eyes widen and bulge with the imagined sight.

  "Easy, now," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. You be my wife."

  "I told you. I'm not your wife. Now reach slowly into your pocket and take out the key to this lock you have around my ankle. Go ahead, but slowly. Slowly!" I cried, pressing the blade against his throat again.

  "I'm movin' easy," he cried. He slipped in his hand into
his pocket and came up with the key. I took it quickly.

  "Don't move. Put your hand back into your pocket," I ordered. "Go on." He did so.

  It was a bit of a contortion for me, but I lifted my foot up to the cot, threaded the key into the lock and turned it. It snapped open, and I took it off, loosening the chain so I could slip my foot free.

  Now my problems were just starting, I thought. Once I took the knife from his throat, what was to prevent him from turning on me and attacking me again? Thinking quickly, I realized I could just duplicate what he had done. I picked up the chain and put it over his leg.

  "Whatcha doin'?"

  "Lift this leg. Lift it!" I screamed, keeping the knife pressed tightly to his throat. He did so and I pulled the chain under and around, threaded the lock through the links just the way he had done to tighten the chain, and snapped it shut. Then I took a deep breath to try to slow my heartbeat.

  "You're crazy, woman. You can't do this to Buster Trahaw."

  I counted to three and pulled the knife away and stepped back just a second before he took his hand out of his pocket and reached out to grab my wrist. Only an inch of space fell between us, but it was enough. I ran for the door as he turned on the cot and lunged.

  He had enough chain to reach a foot or so out the front door, so I had to get out and to the pirogue before he reached that point. I nearly slipped and fell into the water when I hurried down the steps. I grabbed the railing. It cracked, but held my weight and I swung around to get my footing again.

  Buster was out the door, waving his malletsized fist in the air and cursing. "You git back here and unlock this chain, hear? Git back here!"

  I flung the key into the air and it plopped into the water. Buster's eyes bulged with fury. His face was cherry red; he looked as if the blood vessels in his cheeks and forehead would burst. He was so shocked and angry he couldn't form sensible words. He stuttered and stammered and waved his fist wildly, pounding his own thigh. Then he jerked on the chain, straining so hard the veins in his neck popped against the skin. Fortunately, he couldn't get the chain over his knee. However, the effort and the pain filled him with even greater frustration.

  I didn't wait to see what he would do next. I stepped into the pirogue, untied it, and took the pole into my hands the way I had seen him do it. I pushed away from the dock.

  "Don't you dare leave Buster Trahaw!" he screamed. "Don't you dare!"

  I pushed down. The pole went so deep, I thought I would never reach bottom. I nearly fell over with the attempt and my effort to steady myself. The pirogue started rocking precariously. Terrified of falling into the murky canal water, I sat down hard and waited for the canoe to steady itself. Buster continued to scream, his voice driving birds out of the branches. I think even the fish swam away.

  I rose again and, more carefully this time, stuck the pole into the water until I found something solid. I pushed and the momentum sent the canoe forward. Another thrust moved it faster. I felt more confident and did it again. When I turned, however, I saw that I was driving the canoe toward a pile of fallen cypress trees. I switched sides quickly and poled to the opposite direction. Then I looked back at the shack. Buster had been quiet for a moment. He was staring at me, disbelieving; but when he saw I was making headway, his anger rushed back in an even greater wave of rage. He stepped back into the shack and then charged forward, tearing the spike from the floor and freeing the chain.

  His momentum carried him over the railing and into the swamp. He fell with a gigantic splash. For a moment I just stood there watching, and then I saw him pop up. Chain and all, he started to swim after me. I dug the pole in frantically, my fear making my efforts clumsy. The canoe went too far to the right, hit a rock, bounced, then went too far to the left and almost got caught up in weeds. I pushed and tugged.

  Buster drew closer and closer. His powerful body cut through the swamp water almost As quickly as an alligator. I could see his red face drawing nearer. I cried and dug the pole down, pushed and pushed, sobbing as I struggled to stay a few feet ahead of him.

  "I'll get you and whip you good!" he vowed. "Stop that canoe." He paused to wave his fist at me, and I dug in again so I could make the turn and pass through the narrow opening to enter the wider canal. For a moment he was gone from sight. I developed a smoother rhythm and pushed with more accuracy, but I hadn't realized that the canal was shallow at the turn. When Buster reached it, he gathered the chain in his hands and walked over the mound. Just when I thought I might have put enough distance between us to make his catching up with me impossible, he appeared only a half dozen feet away on the shore.

  I pushed harder. Desperation gave me needed strength. He scampered through the narrow water and then dived in again, holding the chain with one arm for a moment, like a lifeguard saving a drowning swimmer. His power and determination were overwhelming. Surely he could catch me soon, I thought, and I would be doomed to a terrible punishment.

  When the water grew deeper, he released the chain and began to swim with both arms. Now he was less than a half dozen feet from the canoe. I was only going to have a few more moments of freedom, I thought, and I contemplated diving into the swamp myself if he seized the canoe in those big hands of his. He might very well pull it over anyway, spilling me into the canal.

  I was so tired. My thrusts grew shorter and the length of time between them longer. My hands were stinging with the effort, the skin on my palms blistered and bleeding. My shoulders ached, and my chest felt as if I had swallowed a rock which lay there, just under my pounding heart.

  "Leave me alone!" I cried when he drew close enough for me to see his clenched teeth and snarling lips.

  He dug his arms into the water with more determination, and then suddenly he stopped with a jerk.

  "What the . . ." he cried with surprise. I saw him duck down and pull on the chain. "I'm caught on somethin'," he yelled. He treaded water as he struggled to free the chain.

  I hesitated, held the pole, and let the canoe drift on its own for a moment. He could be faking it, I thought, but he did look as if he had been surprised.

  "Help me!" he called. "Don't leave me out here like this. Get back here."

  Something splashed on my right.

  "Alligator!" he yelled.

  What was I going to do? If I went back and saved him, he would surely hurt me, but . . . to leave him there, helpless . . .

  Maybe he would be grateful and too tired to take any revenge, I thought. I just couldn't leave him. A side of me was shouting warnings as I attempted to stop the pirogue and turn it back toward him. It took more effort than I imagined, but the canoe finally stopped its forward motion. He was waving and shouting. A good distance had developed between us.

  I dug the pole in and pushed, using all my weight to start the canoe back. It inched forward and then picked up some momentum.

  "That's a good woman," he cried. "That's a good wife. Buster ain't goin' to hurt you anymore. You can do what you want. Just get me out of the water fast. Come on, push on that pole. Good."

  I pushed again and then I heard him splashing water and screaming at something. "Get out of here, go on, git."

  I looked back and saw Buster lift a long, green snake out of the water and fling it. Then he shouted again, his voice far more shrill. The reason showed itself in the form of an alligator tail slapping the water nearby and then another one and another one. Buster was spinning around, fighting them off, but suddenly his head bobbed.

  "Oh, my God," I muttered.

  His head emerged. I saw him gasp for air and then go down again. He rose once more, but this time his body was limp and his arms weren't swinging. He floated there a moment and then went under. Bubbles formed where his head had been, and then they popped and all was still. I waited and watched. My stomach churned. I had to sit down because I started to dry-heave. I gasped and held my breath and then gasped. Every time I looked back at where he had been, I felt nauseated. Finally, that feeling subsided, but it was followed by a w
ave of fatigue that made my legs feel as if they were made of cement.

  I gazed at my torn up hands, felt the aches in my arms and shoulders, but stood up and began to pole again anyway. I did so slowly, methodically, realizing I was slipping into a state of shock. I was terrified of what would happen to me if I passed out in the swamp.

  When I looked ahead, I realized I was going through a canal, but there were other openings along the way. Which one would take me back to Cypress Woods? Should I turn right or left, take the first or second? All of the canals looked the same right now; the vegetation, rocks, and fallen cypresses resembled the ones I had seen when Buster poled the pirogue to the shack. Panicking, I made a choice, only to discover it led to a shallow, brackish cove with no other outlet. I had to turn about and pole back.

  My stomach ached with an emptiness that made me feel light-headed. Here I was, a girl who had grown up in the Garden District of New Orleans, living in the finest home, catered to, spoiled, dainty, now dressed in a potato sack, poling a half-rotted canoe through a swamp filled with insects, alligators, snakes, and snapping turtles. And I was lost!

  I started to laugh. I knew it was a hysterical reaction, but I couldn't help it. My laughter echoed around me and soon turned to sobs. When I succeeded in getting the canoe into another, wider canal, I paused and sat down. My throat was so dry I couldn't swallow and my tongue felt like a lump of sand. I gazed about helplessly, looking for some sign, some indication of direction. How could the bayou people make their way through these swamps? I wondered.

  Exhausted and defeated, I lay back. The pirogue rocked with the movement of the water. Two egrets flew over me and peered down curiously but cautiously before flying off. They were followed by a more courageous cardinal who landed on the bow of the pirogue and did a small tap dance with its eyes on me.