Alligator (25 page)

Stan tried everything he knew, but the cold, empty house and stony, disinterested parents called to Maurice more strongly than anything Stan could devise. The desperate fear that perhaps he might be missing something—a touch of warmth, a word of concern—plagued Maurice all the time he was gone and chilled him more thoroughly than his constant disappointment at home.

Maurice could picture his Uncle Stan kneeling by the fire, pulling out potatoes burned coal-black and smoking. He felt that in some way he'd repaid a debt he owed today.

Just then he noticed a red day-glo hat with sharpshooter badges floating near the skiff. He reached over the side and picked it up. He wrung it out, and was about to put it on his head when he suddenly remembered where he had seen a hat like it before. It looked just like Clete's hat, though Maurice knew that was impossible. They'd left Clete and his father back at the Rod and Gun Hotel with five hundred dollars in their pockets. Maurice thought it was just a coincidence; then he saw the hand-sewn camp label in the hat band. It read: CLETE HUTCHINS. In the excitement of the hunt, he'd forgotten all about the trick. It was a stupid thing to do; he'd felt that when they did it, and now that he knew Lee, he felt it even more.

He looked out at Rye and Lee, who were heading back to the boat. For a moment he was tempted to tell Lee about the trick, but, seeing Rye wading through the water, his chin thrust forward, his face red from the sun and exertion, he knew he could never betray him. Maurice wadded up the hat and stuffed it into his pocket just as the men reached the boat.

It was only nine o'clock when Rye turned in, which was much earlier than he'd ever dared to try for sleep before. He crawled into his tent with high hopes. He was so exhausted that the skin around his eyes was the color of raw meat. When he got to that point, he was usually able to sleep.

Maurice and Lee remained by the campfire, sipping scalding-hot coffee and listening to the night. Maurice shifted his position; there was something in his pocket that was bothering him. With a pang of regret, he remembered that Clete's hat was there; he'd forgotten to get rid of it.

Lee pretended to stoke the fire, but actually he was watching Maurice out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what to make of the man. Maurice was one of those fat cats from Miami, and a sellout to Rye Whitman, but there was something sympathetic about him. In many ways, he was a coward, yet he'd saved Lee's life. Lee liked to pigeonhole a man as either black or white; he always found the shadings very unsettling.

"I owe you one," he said finally. "Matter of fact, I owe you several. Most people wouldn't figure I was worth the savin'."

Maurice could feel Clete's hat pressing hard against his thigh. "You have nothing to thank me for," he said. "I knew about that storm too."

Lee angrily stoked at the dull gray ashes until they split into vermilion sparks.

It killed Maurice to think he didn't deserve Lee's thanks. He respected Lee, and it would have meant something if a man like that respected him too. "I'm sorry," he said sadly.

"Two men are dead because of that storm. Why the hell did you do it?"

"I had no choice," Maurice answered.

"There's always a choice," Lee's voice was bitter. "Well, I hope Whitman's enjoyed his fun and games. If you ask me, the price of admission was awful high."

"Look," said Maurice, "I don't know what's between you two..."

"As much space as possible."

Maurice glanced back at the tent where Rye lay trying to sleep, fighting his night horrors. He didn't know why, but he wanted to explain Rye to Lee. Perhaps he felt that if he explained Rye, he'd be making an explanation for himself. "You don't know Rye like I do," Maurice said.

Lee erupted. "Know him? Oh, I know him all right. I've met a million like him. I saw him in Viet Nam doing things no man should have to see, things it'll take a whole life to forget. Don't tell me I don't know him. I know him better than you think."

"No," said Maurice. "You've got him wrong. I've worked for Rye Whitman for ten years, and I've gotten to know him better than I know myself. Sure, I've seen Rye do a lot of bad things in my time. I've seen him screw the pants off of more people than you've probably met in your whole life. I've seen him take land and crush it under his bulldozers and throw up his tacky homes and condos in a few weeks, but there's more to Rye than that." Maurice could see that Lee was sneering, yet still he continued. "The thing is," said Maurice, "he believes in what he does. He thinks it's progress. Rye could be the only man left who still believes in the American Dream. He's swallowed it whole. I've seen him stand at his office window for hours looking out at Miami. It's like a father looking at his kid. He thinks all those bricks and stones and telephone poles, all those men going off to work and those women standing in their kitchens frying red snapper, are there because of him. What Rye does isn't strictly for money. He doesn't want people's money, he wants their gratitude, he wants their love."

"Touching," said Lee caustically. "You really think Rye Whitman's the kind of man who understands gratitude?"

"He understands mine," answered Maurice.

It seemed impossible to Lee that Maurice really believed that. Didn't he know he was just a tool of Rye's? "I wouldn't bet on it," Lee said fiercely. "Rye doesn't care about anybody but himself. People ain't nothin' but property to him. There are those he owns and those he's fixin' to own. There isn't anything in this world that man respects, except maybe the gator. Yes, I think he's beginning to respect the gator."

"And you," said Maurice. "Rye may not know it, but he respects you."

"Maybe. But that's only because he can't buy me. It makes me more valuable. Man sells himself for short money, even the man who's buyin' figures he's gotten a bad deal."

Maurice understood immediately. "You mean me, don't you?"

"What's between you two is none of my business."

Lee stood up. He knew he had gotten to Maurice; he'd wanted to. What he'd said had the cruelty that only the truth could have, and now he felt sorry. "It's getting late," he said softly; the bitterness was gone from his voice. "You coming?"

"No," answered Maurice; he tried to sound undisturbed. "I think I'll stay out here a while longer." He watched Lee leave, then turned back and stared into the fire. What Lee had said disturbed Maurice. He'd always known Rye didn't respect him. Up until now it hadn't bothered him, because he could see no reason why he should. Now, after all the years, he wondered if if wasn't too late to try to change Rye's mind.

Rye came out of his tent, scratching himself like a bear that was just out of hibernation. As he pushed past Lee and made for the coffeepot, he yelled, "Maurice! Get your ass in gear!"

He downed the steaming-hot coffee and felt the warmth spread through his body. Then he yelled again, "Maurice! Come on. You know it takes you longer to get ready than anyone else."

Still there was no answer, and he strode over to Maurice's tent, threw back the flap, and bellowed, "Get up, you lazy son of a bitch!" Rye pretended to throw his cup of coffee at Maurice's sleeping bag; then he realized it was empty.

He called to Lee, who was walking back from the water, "Hey, Boone, you seen Maurice?"

"No," answered Lee. "I thought he was in his tent."

"Well, he isn't." Rye crawled into Maurice's tent and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: His sleeping bag had been slept in; most of his supplies were still scattered on the floor. But something was wrong. It wasn't like Maurice to go wandering off alone. With increasing anxiety, he pulled apart Maurice's things, and noticed some of them were missing. His knapsack wasn't around. Neither was his gun.

Rye came out of the tent and found Lee watching him. "You got any idea where Maurice could have gone to?" he asked, trying to keep calm but beginning to be alarmed.

"No," answered Lee, and instantly knew that he did.

Rye picked it up immediately. "I got a sneakin' suspicion you know more than you're tellin'."

Lee didn't feel like giving Rye an explanation, but he too was apprehensive. "We had a talk last night," he said. "Maybe he took offense."

Rye's voice was like a crack of thunder. He was more than worried now; he could smell trouble. "A man doesn't wander off in the middle of the swamps because he takes offense, especially not a man like Maurice. What the hell went on last night? Let me guess. I'll just bet you gave him a little lecture featurin' some of your horseshit ideas on manhood, eh, Boone?"

"What I said was the truth. I don't take it back."

"The truth!" screamed Rye. "What the hell is the truth, and what makes you think you're the only one jvho owns it?"

Lee flared up. "You want to know what I told him, well, here it is, plain and simple. I told him to be his own man."

Rye exploded. "Who appointed you God? So you were tellin' Maurice to be his own man. Poor guy wouldn't know where to begin. You think I take advantage of him, but you don't know the half of it. That man couldn't get another job if he was to pay them for hiring him. He needs me. Take that away and he's got nothin'."

Rye fell silent for a moment. He was overcome with worry, but also with remorse. He had walked all over Maurice a million times and excused it because down deep he cared about him. When he spoke again, it was with great sadness. "You want to know what I think? I think that asshole went out after the gator."

"Afraid he might surprise you and get it?" countered Lee.

Rye was trembling with fury. "Just how long do you think he'll survive out there?" he hissed. "One day, two? The poor sucker couldn't even last three hours in downtown Miami. The truth! Why, you do more harm with your honesty than I ever done with my lyin'." Rye's eyes burned like hot coals. "Everything ain't so black and white as you see it, my friend. You got a lot to learn about life and the livin' of it."

"I don't need no lessons from you!"

"Well, you're gonna get them, like it or not."

Lee's face was compressed into a tight smile of fury. "Could be I got a couple lessons of my own to give."

"That right?" said Rye. "Well, I'll be lookin' forward to 'em. Yes, sir, I will. But I tell you right now, if so much as one hair on Maurice's head is ruffled, you ain't gonna live long enough to teach nothin' to no one." Rye paused for a moment, then yelled, "Get your gun, you hear me, big mouth, get your gun. We're goin' after him."

Rye and Lee stared at each other, neither of them moving or speaking a word. Then they broke off and went for their guns. Each felt the burden of his own guilt.

The connection in Maurice's mind between his Uncle Stan, whom he had disappointed so many years ago, and Rye, whom, he was beginning to feel, he had disappointed all along, may have prompted Maurice to go out into the swamps after the alligator, but common sense intervened not long after. By that time it was too late. He was lost.

Maurice sat down on a log and tried to get his bearings. A phrase from the
Hunter's Bible
kept coming back to him:

If you get mixed up, don't call yourself lost! You may just be confused for a few minutes. Remain calm, sit down and relax. Have a smoke or chew some gum—think things over—don't panic...

Maurice found it very difficult to do anything else but panic. He was lost and tired and very scared.

Maurice had been walking for two hours. When he had set out, he headed in a westerly direction, following the alligator trail, but after a while he lost the trail and realized he was going south. He decided he'd better head back to camp.

He doubled back on himself and looked for familiar reference points: a tree that he had passed, a boulder he had seen. Everything looked alike. He couldn't distinguish one tree from another; all the rocks looked the same. It was then he remembered the phrase from the book and sat down.

Maurice looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. By now they must have discovered that he was missing and set out after him. If he just stayed put, they would find him. Or would they? If the swamp all looked the same to him, why wouldn't it to them?

The sun glared down white-hot. It felt like it was boring into his head. Sweat poured off his body; his clothes were wet with it. It added to his confusion and panic, intensifying everything until he could hardly bear it. He wondered how long he would last in the sun. He tried to convince himself that moving on wouldn't solve anything. The best thing to do was wait where he was. Perhaps Lee would be able to follow his trail. But the jungle seemed to be pressing in on him. He felt like he was being crushed.

He jumped up. He had to do something, go somewhere. The noise of the jungle seemed to be getting louder. He felt as if he were being watched and he had to get away.

He started to run. There was the feeling that he was being pursued, although he didn't know by what. Danger lurked all around him. At first he thought it was his imagination, but after a while he felt it was real. Trees melted into horrifying creatures, then back into trees again; the eyes of animals flashed, disappeared, only to return again, shining even more vividly. He felt his mind was flickering between reason and madness, but he was no longer sure which was which.

Huge spider webs were strung between the trees, and Golden Silk spiders hung from them on long mucus-like threads. Maurice ran through the jungle blindly. He crashed through the spider webs, and they stuck to his face and trailed from his clothes.

A large spider landed on his arm. He felt it move up his arm and onto his neck. Shuddering violently, he tried to bat the spider away, but it clung tightly to his skin.

Panic squeezed his heart tightly. He couldn't breathe. Everything around him was whirling and shimmering, shrieking and whispering. His panic fed upon itself, until there was no room in his mind for anything but a fear beyond fear.

He screamed. The sound of his own voice reached through to him, and with great effort he forced himself to slow down and look around.

The brassy sun glinted off the dark, warm swamp water. Its reflection raced giddily across the surface, making the earth spin from him. He tried to keep his eyes away from it and concentrate on a fixed point on the ground. Sound returned to him, and the choked, agonized, but familiar cries of waterfowl reassured him. Thought was still impossible, but the ability to feel anything for more than a second calmed him.