The old man shoots a quick glance in Jay’s direction, making it clear that he intends to take no instruction from the pregnant woman, not without her husband’s say-so, which only infuriates Bernie. “Stop this boat,” she says again.
In the end, the old man relents, starting on his own for the captain’s cabin.
Jay grabs his arm. “Don’t.”
“Somebody’s in trouble out there, Jay!”
“There are
“Leave it alone,” he hears himself say.
Bernie stares at Jay, her voice hushed. “What is the matter with you?”
Her disappointment in him, no matter how it cuts, is not the point.
“Somebody’s shooting out there, B,” he says. “You got me and him on this boat . . .” he says, pointing to the only other able body on board, a man almost seventy. “And my wife,” Jay adds, lower ing his voice to match hers, trying to get her to see it his way. “I, for one, am not willing to put you or myself at risk to step into some trouble we don’t know the first thing about. We don’t know that girl, don’t know what kind of trouble she brings,” he says, hearing the cynicism in his voice, hating it, but feeling pressed to speak it anyway. The oldest con in the book, he thinks to himself, is the damsel in distress, the girl with the flat tire by the side of the road, the one with a boyfriend waiting in the weeds to jump you as soon as you stop to help. “Just leave it alone,” he says.
Bernie stares at him for a long, painful moment, squinting around the edges of her eyes, as if she’s trying to place him, someone she used to know. “Oh, Jay,” she say with a sigh.
“We’ll call the police,” he says, deciding it just then.
It’s a good plan: clean, simple, logical.
The old man is sheepish, slow to move, shuffling the ball of his right foot on the deck’s floor. “We ain’t got a city license to run this thing after hours.”
“What?” Jay says.
“Oh, God,” Bernie mumbles.
“Call the police, man,” Jay says firmly.
The old man sighs and walks to a dirty white phone that’s smudged with oil and grime and resting outside the door to the captain’s cabin. He lifts the phone, what looks more like a walkie-talkie or a CB receiver. He dials, then pauses, listening, straining, it seems. Jay and Bernie wait, watching as the old man punches the buttons on the phone a few times. Hearing nothing, he finally slams the receiver in its cradle. The phone, apparently, is not working.
“Fucking Jimmy,” the old man says.
There’s another scream, closer this time.
Bernie grabs the flashlight from the old man’s hand, swinging the cloudy white light toward the embankment in time to see a flash of motion in the trees, a rustling in the brush. They watch as a body drops, rolling zigzag down the steep bank, bumping up against weeds and uneven soil. It rolls all the way down the embankment, then . . . it disappears. Jay hears a quiet splash, a sucking sound, the bayou swallowing something whole.
Then . . . nothing. For what seems like an eternity.
Bernie looks at Jay. He can hear his own heartbeat, low in his throat.
A moment later, a ripple breaks the still water, its waves spread like arms offering an embrace. “Somebody’s moving out there,” the captain mumbles.
There’s a burp and gurgle of air. Something surfaces on the water.
Jay hears splashing, then a cry, hoarse and starved for air.
Bernie waits for no one’s permission. She marches into the captain’s cabin. The old man makes a move to stop her, then thinks better of it. Bernie can barely fit her body inside the small captain’s cabin. She has to reach past her belly to touch the key sticking out of the control board, turning it to the left.
The engine sputters, then falls quiet.
No one on the deck moves, no one says a word.
Bernie and the old man are both looking at Jay.
He moves quickly, without a word being said, removing his watch, but not his wedding band, thinking to himself that this is one of those times when being a man, or rather trying to play the part to any convincing degree, trumps his better judgment. He’s not exactly a big guy to begin with, and the years have softened his once wiry frame. He kicks off his shoes, then lifts his shirt from his pants, past the slight paunch around his middle. He starts to take it off, but changes his mind. He makes an awkward climb onto the deck’s railing, takes a deep breath, holding it tight and precious in his chest, and jumps.
The water is warm and bitter. It comes in everywhere, in his mouth and throat, through his clothes. Beneath the black sur face, the bayou is alive, pulling at him, tugging at his arms and legs. He feels twigs and leaves and what he hopes are only fish brushing against his arms and legs. He has some vague sense of the light from the boat, but his eyes are burning. It’s impossible to see clearly. He moves blindly through the darkness, reeled in by the sound of her voice.
When he feels something stringy in his hands, tangling around his fingers, he knows he’s found her; her hair is in his hands. She’s gurgling, spitting and coughing. He wraps an arm around her sternum and pulls. He turns toward the boat, momentarily disoriented by the white light shining in his eyes. He pulls and swims, swims and pulls, until his legs burn, until his arms ache, until he is sure they will both drown. Within a few feet of the boat, he pushes harder, past what he thinks is his limit. When he reaches a thin ladder at the back of the vessel, he strains to lift her body overhead. The captain reaches over the side of the rail ing to help lift the woman, weak and limp,
