In for the Kill

23

Bocanne, Florida, 1980

Sherman was dreaming, and suddenly he was awake and unable to recall the dream.

It had frightened him, though. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart was pounding in his ears, the loudest thing in the night other than the buzz of insects in the nearby swamp.

Then the voices. Like the ones in the dream. Sam's deep voice, and Sherman's mother's. His was calm; hers higher-pitched, faster-paced. It sounded as if Sam and Myrna were arguing in the bedroom down the hall, where they slept in the sagging double bed. Sherman's body grew rigid and he realized he was squeezing his thumbs in his clenched fists, a habit he'd pretty much gotten over since Sam arrived.

There was a sound that might have been a slap. Flesh on flesh-hard.

Sherman's grip on his thumbs tightened so that they ached.

His mother's voice, then, much louder. Even though Sherman couldn't make out the words, he was sure she was furious, cursing at Sam.

Sam's voice was softer but not as calm, as if he didn't want to wake Sherman, trying to get Myrna to regain control of herself. Another slap. Then another, terrible sound Sherman had never heard. He was sure his mother was weeping.

Sam again, speaking angrily but softly, in that slow, reasoned tone he used when patiently teaching Sherman to fish or telling him something interesting about the Civil War.

There was a war going on in his mother's bedroom, Sherman thought. One he wanted no part of.

He lay motionless for a long time, waiting for more noise from the bedroom down the hall, but there was only the buzzing of the swamp in the night. He could smell the swamp through his open screened window, the rotting death scent of it, the fear and the fight of it within its lush green beauty. Thousands of cicadas were screaming now; Sam had told Sherman it was their mating call. It sounded desperate. Amidst the shrillness came a faint splashing and a deep, primal grunt. Something moving in the blackness not far away from the house. Not far away at all.

In the bedroom down the hall there was only silence.

The next morning, Sherman thought he was first up, but when he padded barefoot down the hall, there was his mom in the kitchen. She was lighting the butane stove to cook some eggs that were lying on the sink counter. Her hair was wild and there was a thoughtful expression on her face, but she didn't look upset. She had on her old pink robe, its sash yanked tight around her narrow waist. Like her son, she was barefoot, the way she liked to be most of the time. Her toenails were painted red and one of them looked broken and as if it had been bleeding.

Sherman didn't think she'd seen him. He changed direction and trudged toward the bathroom, seeing through the inch-wide crack where his mother's bedroom door was open. There was Sam's bare lower leg and foot on the bed. He must still be asleep.

Sherman thought that maybe last night-everything he'd heard-had been a dream. It was possible. Dreams and reality sometimes met and became entangled in his mind.

He urinated and then flushed the leaking old toilet so it would drain to the septic tank buried alongside the house. The washbasin's ancient faucet handles squealed when he rotated them. He washed his hands and dried them carefully before leaving the bathroom.

The plank floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he returned to the kitchen. He noticed that now his mother's bedroom door was closed all the way. He slowed so he might try the knob, see if it was locked.

"You want some eggs?" she asked.

"Toast is all," Sherman said, picking up his pace.

"You go get some pants on first."

Sherman was wearing only his Jockey shorts. He nodded and went back to his bedroom and put on his jeans. The morning was already hot and humid. He tried wrestling back into the T-shirt he'd worn yesterday, but it stuck to his damp skin so that it was difficult to pull down in back. He peeled it off and tossed it on the floor, then went shirtless back to the kitchen, this time not pausing near his mother's bedroom door.

There was a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk where Sherman always sat at the table. His mother was being nice to him this morning; usually he prepared his own breakfast.

She'd cooked up some eggs for herself. Now she used the rubber spatula to slide them onto a plate. Next to them she plopped down the second slice of toast from the old toaster.

Without speaking to or looking at Sherman, she sat down across from him at the table and began to eat.

"Sleep okay?" she asked, through a bite of egg she'd forked into her mouth.

"Always do." Sherman took a big bite of toast.

"You're young and you got no troubles," she said, smiling.

"Got some."

"Yeah, I guess ever'body does."

They continued to eat, not looking at each other.

Then Sherman became aware that he was the only one eating.

His mother slowly raised her fork with a bite of egg halfway to her mouth, then set it back down on her plate. The expression on her face changed, like she was aging right in front of Sherman. She slid her chair back with a loud scraping sound, stood up from the table, and hurried into the bathroom.

She hadn't even taken time to shut the door. Sherman could hear her retching in there.

Absently carrying what was left of his toast, he got up and walked to where he could see into the bathroom.

His mother was kneeling on the tile floor, her head hung over the yellowed porcelain toilet bowl so that some of her long brown hair dangled down into the water. Her face was as pale as Sherman had ever seen it.

She made a horrible grunting sound like the one Sherman had heard last night from the swamp, then retched and vomited into the toilet bowl. Sherman saw that a lot of what she was bringing up was blood. There was a smear of blood on the floor near her broken toenail.

So last night had been real, not a nightmare. There'd been a fight for sure. At least it had sounded like a fight.

Sherman moved closer to the open door, still staring into the bathroom.

"Mom…?"

"G'way!"

"You want me to wake up Sam?"

"Let him sleep," said Sherman's mother into the yellowed bowl.

She stayed the way she was, kneeling and staring into the toilet, for a long time. Sherman didn't move, either.

Finally his mother reached up and worked the lever to flush the bowl. She scooted back away from it, lowered the wooden seat, and swiped the arm of her robe across her mouth.

"You okay, Mom?"

"Gonna be. Gotta be."

She twisted her body to the side, then reached up and used the washbasin for support to haul herself back to her feet. Her breathing was deep and loud. Leaning with both arms on the basin, she looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, then quickly looked away.

The faucet handles squealed.

For a long time Myrna stood hunched over and holding her wrists beneath cool running water. This wasn't like her because, as she often reminded Sherman, there was a limited amount, mostly rainwater, in the holding tank, and the pump water smelled bad and was unfit for washing or drinking.

Finally she turned off the water and looked over at Sherman. It gave him a chill, the way her eyes were, so sad and at the same time…something else. Something that frightened him.

"You and Sam were goin' fishin', as I recall."

"Yes'm." He couldn't look away from her eyes.

"You go ahead, and he'll meet you when he's been up and had some breakfast."

Her eyes.

Sherman didn't move.

"Sam know how to find you?"

"Yes'm. We been goin' to the same place."

"Then you go on, Sherman. Sam'll be along. You take your toast with you."

Sherman took one hesitant step. Two. Her stare was like heat on his bare back.

"Sam'll be along," his mother said again.

Sherman could feel her eyes following him as he went out onto the porch, munching the last of his toast. He brushed his hands together to get rid of the crumbs and wiped his buttery fingers on his jeans.

He reached for the fly rod Sam had been letting him use, but on second thought took his old bamboo pole from where it was leaning against the house. It was already rigged with a line, bobber, and hook, and he could find some worms or bug bait where he'd be fishing. Let Sam use the rod and reel and colorful fly bait this morning.

Sherman went to where they'd been having luck lately, near the gnarled and twined roots of an ancient banyan tree, and sure enough he had no trouble finding worms in the moist soil.

But his luck didn't hold. The fish weren't biting this morning.

Sherman listened to the muted sounds of the swamp, thinking he could almost hear things growing. A mosquito buzzed very near. Hundreds of gnats glittered in the light and lent motion to a slanted sunbeam. There was no breeze, and yet foliage rustled. He watched water spiders adroitly traverse the dark surface near the shore, saw a brown-and-gray moth the size of his hand flutter into the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

He stayed there a long time, standing in the shade and staring into the water at his cork that never bobbed in any way meaningful, looking into the dark ripples, thinking about his mother's eyes, waiting for Sam, hoping Sam would show up grinning with his rod and reel balanced and resting easy in his right hand, knowing he probably wouldn't.

Thinking about his mother's eyes.