Lost in the River of Grass (20 page)

One of the search planes combs the horizon near where I think we started from. Due west and a little north. The orange Coast Guard helicopter is a bit closer and directly north of me. For the heck of it, I wave, even though it's so far away I can't hear its engine.

It takes me nearly an hour to reach a point where I can actually see the camp through the trees. The closer I get, the harder it is to get my legs to work. My dad likes old movies, and I remember seeing more than one where a man who's dying of thirst in the desert sees a water oasis. He crawls and drags himself toward it, not knowing until it's too late that it's a mirage, just sun shimmering on sand. I keep my eyes locked on the cabin, afraid that if I look away, it will vanish like Andy's fishermen. Each step is an effort in slow motion. When I finally reach the open water of the dredged pond that separates me from the rickety dock, dry land, and the cabin, my legs are like lead.

As close as I am, I can't move another inch. I sit down in the shallow water and let Teapot out of the sling. Won't it be something if the searchers, days from now, found me still here, ten yards from the likelihood of food? I lie back in the water and close my eyes.

I don't know how long I lie there; it's impossible to care. Only Teapot swimming over, climbing onto my chest and snuggling up next to my chin brings me back. I open my eyes. The sky is pink above my head, red and orange in the west. I put Teapot back in the water, sit up, and pull off my boots. I fling them across the pond, swim slowly over, and belly out onto the grass.

When I try to get up, my legs tremble like my arm muscles sometimes do after I carry something heavy. I walk the plank dock to the front of the cabin. It's dark inside, but by the dim light coming through the screen door I see Andy curled on the floor, moaning and holding his stomach. He's surrounded by a litter of empty cans: peaches, pears and pineapples. If he hears me enter, he doesn't look up. I walk over and stand dripping beside him. If it wasn't for the pain in my feet, I'd kick him. I look instead to see if there is anything he hasn't eaten.

There are a few cubes left in the bottom of the can of pineapple. Since Andy has pulled every drawer open looking for the can opener, I don't have to search for a fork. I finish the pineapple, closing my eyes to relish the sweetness, then drink the juice.

The cabin is much nicer than the one we left, which isn't saying a lot. It's set up the same, with bunk beds, and windows with rusty metal rods for braces rather than broomsticks. When I pop one open, Teapot chases down and eats a cockroach, then another that has been startled by the addition of light.

The sink is newer, though not cleaner. There are a few more cans of food on the plank shelves along with a Coleman stove. I lift the fabric skirt someone made to cover the pipes under the sink. There is a can of Raid, a trap with the fur-covered skeleton of a mouse caught by the neck, a tin of saltines, and a rusting propane tank, which is light but not empty.

Though the tin hasn't kept the saltines fresh, they taste wonderful. I break some up and scatter them for Teapot, then inspect a can of Hormel chili. It doesn't look swollen, although when I wipe the dust off with the hem of my wet shirt, the expiration date is three years ago. I get the opener from the floor beside Andy, open the can, and sniff it.
Smells okay
.

After studying the stove for a minute or so, I figure out how to attach the propane tank to it. I find waterproof matches in a drawer and after a few tries get the Coleman lit. I empty the chili into a saucepan that I've wiped clean with my shirt. In no time, the room fills with the smell of bubbling hot chili.

I take two spoons from the drawer by the sink and go to sit on the floor with Andy.

He's been watching me. “What happened to your arm?”

“I slid down the side of the levee and landed next to a pygmy rattlesnake.” I should know by now, guilt doesn't work very well on Andy.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Nothing else.

I look at him for a moment then shrug. “It doesn't matter.”

“I couldn't think of anything except getting something to eat.”

I hand him a spoon. “Want some chili?”

“My stomach's killing me.”

Serves you right.

Teapot comes over and stands on her tiptoes and stretches her neck, trying to see what I'm eating. I break up more crackers for her and crumble some into the chili. When I've eaten enough to stop the pain in my stomach, I hold the pot out to Andy.

He shakes his head.

I eat slowly until I finish it all and push the pot away.

Andy crosses his arms over his stomach, rolls back into a ball on the floor, and moans. “I think some of that fruit was bad.”

“You can't go without food for three days, then stuff yourself.” Even my stomach starts to hurt again, but it's from the shock of food, not the empty ache I've felt for days.

The bedding is filthy, so I lie down on the floor beside Andy. I stare at the water stain on the plywood ceiling for a moment, then turn, put my arm across his shoulder, and fall instantly to sleep.

When I wake the first time, it's dark. Andy's on his back, snoring, one arm flung out to his side, the other bent behind his head for a pillow. My last thought before I drift off again is how much more comfortable this is than a tree limb.

The next time I wake it's because Andy's tickling my arm. “What?”

He doesn't answer.

I feel it again and open my eyes. The cabin's pitch black, and I have to pee.
The moon should be up soon
. I decide to wait until then to go outside. I roll toward Andy and hear something crunch under my right hip.
Teapot!
I sit up. Something's crawling on my leg. I brush it away, but feel another on my neck, then another on my arm. Bugs. Lots of them. I scramble to my feet. It's like being blind. I can't see what's on me or make out any shapes in the room. Whatever they are, they're climbing my legs. I scream and dance in place, knocking them away with my hands.

“What?” Andy says.

“Something's crawling on me.”

“Jesus. Me, too.” It's so totally dark in the cabin that I only know he's gotten up because he grunts from the effort. I hear popping sounds as he feels his way to the sink where I left the matches.

“Be careful,” I cry. “I don't know where Teapot is.”

I hear his hand hit and knock the matchbox to the floor.

“Hurry, please.” As fast as I knock a few away, I feel others land on me. They are in my hair. My back is covered with them. One flies and lands on my cheek.

“Get outside,” Andy says. From the location of his voice, he's on his knees trying to find the matchbox.

“I don't know where the door is.”

His hand hits the box. He tears it open, scattering the matches, but finds at least one because he strikes it. In the momentary burst of light, before the match fizzles and goes out, I see roaches. Roaches everywhere.

Andy strikes another match. Roaches on the walls, on the floor, in the chili pot, a layer of them covering the screened part of the door, blocking all light. “Teapot,” I cry. “Where are you?”

The match goes out, but not before Andy reaches the front door. When he touches it the screen seems to crack like plaster as the roaches fly into the room. Moonlight splashes in and illuminates the rippling mass of insects cascading over the counter top and up the walls. I see Teapot run from beneath a bunk, headed for the door.

My bare feet squish roaches as I cross the room, open the door, and flee outside with Teapot. I run with my knees bent to absorb the shocking pain in my feet, cross the yard, and plunge into the pond with Andy.

The taste of chili rises and burns my throat.

 

…

We sleep side by side on the grass at the water's edge. It's nearly dawn when I wake to Andy's racket in the cabin. I tilt my head back. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up a little.”

He's sweeping the empty cans toward the door.

“Are there still roaches in there?”

“Palmetto bugs. No. They're gone. I put the chili pot on the step, will you wash it out?”

“Yeah.” I get up. “Don't come out 'til I tell you, okay? I've got to pee.”

Teapot stands, stretches one leg then the other, and pads after me to the cabin, then back to the water. “Go eat,” I tell her. I fill the pot with water to soak off the dried chili, then go behind the croton hedge to pee. I'm just pulling my pants up when I hear the
whop, whop, whop
of rotary blades. I step out from behind the hedge as the helicopter's belly number goes right over my head. I can't see the pilot and know he hasn't seen me.

I run into the cabin and grab my backpack. Andy and I try to get back out at the same time, jamming the doorway. He pushes through, runs down to the water, plunges in and wades to the middle where it's the most open.

I unzip the bottom of the pack and dump the contents onto the grass. A bit of morning sun shines through the trees in splinters of light. I find my mirror and flick my wrist until I catch the light, then reflect it toward the helicopter. It's too late. The bright white circle deflects off the tail of the chopper. I drop my arm. What difference does it make? We'll walk back to the levee this morning and be out by afternoon. Still, when I squat to put everything back into the pack, tears roll down my cheeks.

20

Knowing how close we are makes it harder to think about getting into the water again. I feel like I've used up all my luck. I look at my wrecked feet, then at my legs, which are covered with bites and crisscrossed with saw-grass cuts. I touch my swollen, lumpy cheek, wet with the tears I can't control. “Look back, please,” I say to the departing helicopter.

It has banked a little to the right, enough for me to see the copilot's profile. I flick the mirror again. The little circle of light hits his right earphone. Before I have time to wonder if maybe, out of the corner of his eye, he's seen it, he turns and shields his eyes.

I wave.

Andy's wading back toward shore. When he realizes the helicopter is returning, he begins to shout and wave his arms. “We're here,” he hollers. “We're here.”

I flash the mirror across his face, smile and drop it into the pack.

The sound of the helicopter frightens Teapot, who flees into the cattails at the edge of the pond. Calling her is pointless. The noise of the helicopter drowns out everything. I'll have to go after her.

Overnight the socks have dried black and as stiff as cardboard. I hunker at the edge of the pond and float them in the water, trying to soften them up. It hurts just thinking about putting them on again—ever. I toss them on the shore, rinse, and gingerly slip my feet into the remains of my boots. It feels as if I'm pouring alcohol on open wounds. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.

Andy reaches shore. “Where are you going?” he shouts over the roar of the helicopter.

“Teapot's in the cattails.”

He glances that direction. “I don't see her,” he hollers.

I look at him, then step off into the water.

He catches my arm. “I'll get her.”

The helicopter comes in and hovers near the end of the dock, about the only spot open enough for the blades to clear the treetops.

I watch Andy wade into the wildly blowing cattails.

The copilot opens the side door of the helicopter and prepares to drop a sling-like chair, which is attached to the end of a cable. I hold up one finger, then point to my wrist where a watch would be. A moment later Andy breaks out of the cattails with his big hands wrapped gently around Teapot.

I take her from him, zip her into the top of the pack, then put it on backwards so I can hold it against my chest. The copilot slowly lowers the chair, at the same time signaling the pilot as he maneuvers the helicopter until it's almost directly above my head. The downdraft from the rotating blades nearly knocks me off my feet as I try to catch the chair and hold it still enough to get into. Andy comes up behind me and, after two tries, catches and holds it for me. Almost immediately I feel my feet leave the dock.

When I'm dangling just outside the door of the helicopter, the copilot reaches, grabs the cable, and pulls me and the chair inside.

“I'm Joe. Nice to see you,” he yells over the
whop, whop
of the blades.

“Sarah, and ditto.” I shake his hand. Tears swim in my eyes.

Joe lowers the chair to Andy, and while he reels him in, I look out at the landscape we've crossed. Miles and miles of saw grass, tree islands, and the sparkling patches of nearly open water. I remember how I felt on the observation tower four days ago. How ugly and desolate I thought it was—nothing but a hideous sameness. Now from the helicopter I can see the white ribbon of the levee and the trail that I cut across to the camp, and Andy's path, less direct than mine. I wonder how long it will take for those traces to disappear. I look down to smile at Andy and see the chili pot and Andy's socks by the water's edge.