St Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

Ava Wrestles the Alligator

My sister and I are staying in Grandpa Sawtooth’s old house until our father, Chief Bigtree, gets back from the Mainland. It’s our first summer alone in the swamp. “You girls will be fine,” the Chief slurred. “Feed the gators, don’t talk to strangers. Lock the door at night.” The Chief must have forgotten that it’s a screen door at Grandpa’s — there is no key, no lock. The old house is a rust-checkered yellow bungalow at the edge of the wild bird estuary. It has a single, airless room; three crude, palmetto windows, with mosquito-blackened sills; a tin roof that hums with the memory of rain. I love it here. Whenever the wind gusts in off the river, the sky rains leaves and feathers. During mating season, the bedroom window rattles with the ardor of birds.

Now the thunder makes the thin window glass ripple like wax paper. Summer rain is still the most comforting sound that I know. I like to pretend that it’s our dead mother’s fingers, drumming on the ceiling above us. In the distance, an alligator bellows — not one of ours, I frown, a free agent. Our gators are hatched in incubators. If they make any noise at all, it’s a perfunctory grunt, bored and sated. This wild gator has an inimitable cry, much louder, much closer. I smile and pull the blankets around my chin. If Osceola hears it, she’s not letting on. My sister is lying on the cot opposite me. Her eyes are wide open, and she is smiling and smiling in the dark.

“Hey, Ossie? Is it just you in there?”

My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather. One such melting occurs in summer rain, at midnight, during the vine-green breathing time right before sleep. You have to ask the right question, throw the right rope bridge, to get there — and then bolt across the chasm between you, before your bridge collapses.

“Ossie? Is it just us?” I peer into the grainy dark. There’s the chair that looks like a horned devil’s silhouette. There’s the blind glint of the terrarium glass. But no Luscious. Ossie’s evil boyfriend has yet to materialize.

“Yup,” she whispers. “Just us.” Ossie sounds wonderfully awake. She reaches over and pats my arm.

“Just us girls.”

That does it. “Just us!” we scream. And I know that for once, Ossie and I are picturing the same thing. Miles and miles of swamp, and millions and millions of ghosts, and just us, girls, bungalowed in our silly pajamas.

We keep giggling, happy and nervous, tickled by an incomplete innocence. We both sense that some dark joke is being played on us, even if we can’t quite grasp the punch line.

“What about Luscious?” I gasp. “You’re not dating Luscious anymore?”

Uh-oh. There it is again, that private smile, the one that implies that Ossie is nostalgic for places I have never been, places I can’t even begin to imagine.

Ossie shakes her head. “Something else, now.”

“Somebody else? You’re not still going to, um,” I pause, trying to remember her word, “elope? Are you?”

Ossie doesn’t answer. “Listen,” she breathes, her eyes like blown embers. The thunder has gentled to a soft nicker. Outside, something is scratching at our dripping window. “He’s here.”

You know, Ossie’s possessions are nothing like those twitch-fests you read about in the Bible, no netherworld voices or pigs on a hill. Her body doesn’t smolder like a firecracker, or ululate in dead languages. Her boyfriends possess her in a different way. They steal over her, silking into her ears and mouth and lungs, stealthy and pervasive, like sickness or swallowed water. I watch her metamorphosis in guilty, greedy increments. Ossie is sweating. Ossie is heavy-breathing. She puts her fist in her mouth, her other hand disappearing beneath the covers.

Then she moans, softly.

And I get that peculiar knot of fear and wonder and anger, the husk that holds my whole childhood. Here is another phase change that I don’t understand, solid to void, happening in such close proximity to me. The ghost is here. I know it, because I can see my sister disappearing, can feel the body next to me emptying of my Ossie, and leaving me alone in the room. Luscious is her lewdest boyfriend yet. The ghost is moving through her, rolling into her hips, making Ossie do a jerky puppet dance under the blankets. This happens every night, lately, and I’m helpless to stop him. Get out of here, Luscious! I think very loudly. Get back in your grave! You leave my sister alone….

Hag-ridden, her cot is starting to swing.

I am so jealous of Ossie. Every time the lights flicker in a storm, or a dish clatters to the floor, it’s a message from her stupid boyfriend. The wind in her hair, the wind in the trees, all of it a whistled valentine. And meanwhile who is busy decapitating stinking ballyhoo for the gators? Who is plunging the Bigtree latrines, and brushing the plaster teeth inside the Gator Head? Exactly. At sixteen, Ossie is four years my senior and twice my height. Yet somehow I’m the one who gets stuck doing all the work. That’s the reward for competence, I guess. When the Chief left, he put me in charge of the whole park.

Our family owns Swamplandia! the island’s #1 Gator Theme Park and Swamp Café, although lately we’ve been slipping in the rankings. You may have seen our wooden sign, swinging from the giant kapok tree on Route 6: COME SEE SETH, FANGSOME SEA SERPENT AND ANCIENT LIZARD OF DEATH!!!

All of our alligators, we call “Seth.” Tradition is as important, the Chief says, as promotional materials are expensive. When my mother was alive, she ran the show, literally. Mom took care of all the shadowy, behind-the-scenes stuff: clubbing sick gators, fueling up the airboats, butchering chickens. I didn’t even know these ugly duties existed. I’m pretty sure Ossie is still oblivious. Osceola doesn’t have to do chores. “Your sister is special,” the Chief has tried to explain to me, on more than one occasion. I don’t cotton to this sophist logic. I’m special too. My name is a palindrome. I can climb trees with simian ease. I can gut buckets of chub fish in record time. Once Grandpa Sawtooth held a dead Seth’s jaws open, and I stuck my whole head in his fetid mouth.

There are only two Swamplandia! duties that I can’t handle on my own: stringing up the swamp hens on Live Chicken Thursdays, and pulling those gators out of the water. This means that I can’t compete in the junior leagues, or perform solo. It doesn’t bother me enough to make me braver. I still refuse to wade into the pit, and anyways, I am too weak to get my own gator ashore. Our show is simple: the headlining wrestler, usually the Chief, wades into the water, making a big show of hunting the sandy bottom for his Seth. Then he pulls a gator out by its thrashing tail. The gator immediately lurches forward, yanking the Chief back into the water. The Chief pulls him out again, and again the infuriated gator pulls my father towards the water. This tug-of-war goes on for a foamy length of time, while the crowd whoops and wahoos, cheering for our species.

Finally, the Chief masters his Seth. He manages to get him landlocked and clamber onto his back. This is the part where I come in. Aunt Hilola strikes up a manic tune on the calliope—ba-da-DOOM-bop-bop! — and then I’m cart-wheeling out across the sand, careful to keep a grin on my face even as I land on the gator’s armor-plated scutes. My thighs are waffled with the shadow of those scutes. Up close, the Seths are beautiful, with corrugated gray-green backs and dinosaur feet. The Chief, meanwhile, has taken advantage of my showy entrance to lasso black electrical tape around the Seth’s snout. He takes my bare hands and holds them up to the crowd, splaying my little palms for their amusement.

Then he closes them around Seth’s jaws. I smile and smile at the tourists. Inside my tight fist, the Seth strains and strains against the tape. The Chief keeps his meaty hands on top of my own, obscuring the fact that I am doing any work at all. The Chief likes to remind me that the tourists don’t pay to watch us struggle.

At some point, I must have dozed off, because when I wake up the screen door is banging in the wind. I glance at my watch: 12:07. When Mom was alive, Ossie had a ten o’clock curfew. I guess technically she still does, but nobody’s here to enforce it. She lets Luscious possess her for hours at a time. It makes me furious to think about this, and a little jealous, Luscious taking Ossie’s body on a joy ride through the swamp. I worry about her. She could be deep into the slash pines by now, or halfway to the pond. But if I leave the house, then I’ll be breaking the rules, too. I pull the covers over my head and bite my lip. A surge of unused adrenaline leaves me feeling sick and quakey. The next thing I know, I’m yanking my boots on and running out the door, as if I were the one possessed.

Strange lights burn off the swamp at night. Overhead, the clouds stretch across the sky like some monstrous spider-web, dewed with stars. Tiny planes from the Mainland whir towards the yellow moon, only to become cobwebbed by cloud. Osceola is much easier than an animal to track. She’s mowed a drunken path through the scrub. The reeds grow tall and thick around me, hissing in the wind like a thousand vipers. Every few steps, I glance back at the receding glow of the house.

Several paces ahead of me, I see a shape that turns into Ossie, pushing through the purple cattails. She’s used hot spoons and egg dye to style her hair into a lavender vapor. It trails behind her, steaming out of her skull, as if Ossie were the victim of a botched exorcism. The trick is to catch Osceola off guard, to stalk her obliquely behind the dark screen of mangrove trees, and then ambush her with my Flying-Squirrel Super Lunge. If you try to stop her head-on, you don’t stand a chance. My sister is a big girl, edging on two hundred pounds, with three extra eyeteeth and a jaguar bite. Also, she is in love. During her love spells, she rolls me off her shoulders with a mindless ox-twitch, and steps right over me.

What is she going to do with Luscious? I wonder. What does she do out there with Luscious for hours every night? I’m more fearful than curious, and now she is waist-deep in the saw grass, an opal speck shrinking into the marsh. At odd intervals, rumbling above the insect drone, I hear one of the wild gators bellow. For a monster, it’s a strangely plaintive sound to make: long and throaty, full of a terrible sweetness, like the Chief’s voice grown gruff with emotion. Ever since he left us, I am always listening for it. It’s a funny kind of comfort in the dark.

As I watch, Ossie moves beyond the clarity of moonlight and the silver-green cattails, subsumed into the black mangroves. A new noise starts soon after.

I pace along the edge of the marsh, too afraid to follow her, not for the first time. This is it, this is the geographical limit of how far I’ll go for Ossie. We are learning latitude and longitude in school, and it makes my face burn that I can graph the coordinates of my own love and courage with such damning precision. I walk along the dots of the invisible line, peering after her. There’s a syrupy quality to this kind of night: it’s humid and impenetrable, pouring over me. I stand there until Ossie is lost to sight.

“Ossie…?” It’s only a half-yell, the very least I can do. Then, spooked by the sound of my own voice, I turn and walk quickly back towards the bungalow. It’s her body, I think, it’s her business. Besides, Ossie likes being lovesick. How do you treat a patient who denies there’s anything wrong?

Behind me, the bellows intensify. I walk faster.

Most people think that gators have only two registers, hunger and boredom. But these people have never heard an alligator bellow. “Languidge,” Ms. Huerta, our science teacher, likes to lisp, “is what separates us from the animals.” But that’s just us humans being snobby. Alligators talk to one another, and to the moon, with a woman’s stridency.

When you are a kid, it’s hard to tell the innocuous secrets from the ones that will kill you if you keep them. As it turns out, I have my own beau. Nothing I tell Ossie, or anybody, about.

When I wake up, I am relieved to see that Ossie is back on her cot. She is covered in scratches, Spanish moss dripping from her matted hair, her nightgown torn in several places, smiling in her sleep. I lie there for a while, watching her face twitch with some happy dream that doesn’t include me. Then I go to study the Bigtree Gator Wrestling Bible by the inky canal. It’s still dark out, the palest smattering of stars in the sky. I swing along the trapeze ropes of the docked boats, dizzy with sleep, the only human awake for miles. Swamp dawns feel like bearing witness to a quiet apocalypse. Infinity comes lapping over, concentric circles on still water. It’s otherworldly, a river of grass, and a red needle of light on the horizon.

I curl up in a tiny ball, pretending to be an insect egg. Next to me, the abandoned airboats hunch along the river like giant spiders.

“Nobody in the world knows where I am,” I whisper. I chant it fast, under my breath. “Nobodynobodynobody…” It makes me feel excited and dizzy — like when I used to look in Mom’s mirror and say my name over and over again, Avaavavava, until the sound didn’t belong to my face anymore.

“Nobody in the world knows where I am right now….”

That’s when I hear the first twig snap behind me.

This is no Prince Charming. He’s covered in feathers and bird shit. He’s older, and I can tell right away that he is nobody’s father.

“Hello!” I yelp. “Are you here to see the show?”

I hate how eager I sound, but I can’t help it. It’s my Bigtree training — I run up to every adult on Swamplandia! like a dog trailing its leash. “Didn’t you see the sign? Don’t worry, we’re not actually closed.”

The stranger looks at me with the flat, lidless interest of the gators. He looks me to pieces. Our alligators are not hunters or scavengers; they are lurkers, waiting to decide if something is worth the lurch. I realize now that I have been glimpsed and corner-of-the-eyed before, by the Chief and my sister and the yawning tourists. But I have never actually been looked at. Not like this.

He laughs. “Hello, sugar.” His spiny hair, his glasses, make him look like an antlered beetle. If the Chief were here, he would have laughed him off our property.

I’m not scared. I’ve closed the jaws of eighteen Seths in my bare fist. I’ve wrestled my fat, love-starved sister to the ground. But I’m not stupid. When the man steps over me and boards one of the busted airboats, I’m on my guard. Never accept airboat rides from strangers. That is one of the Chief’s many swamp maxims.

Anyhow, I recognize him now, his type. The heavy, tus-socked coat, the silver whistle, the bright eyes in a shingled face. It’s just a gypsy Bird Man. There are several Bird Men who travel around the parks, each one following the seasonal migrations, traveling beneath the shadow of his own pestilential horde of birds. These men are avian pied pipers. They call your problem birds out of the trees, and then lead them off your property, waiting for them to alight in someone else’s orchard.

“Did the Chief call you to get rid of our honey buzzards?”

“No. What’s your name?”

“Ava.”

“Ava.” He grins. “Can you keep a secret?” He reaches his hairy hand over the canal and holds two fingers against my lips.

Now I’m angry. This Bird Man has ruined the dawn; his clammy touch feels like getting out of a bath and putting your filthy clothes back on.

But I just nod. “Yes, sir,” I say politely. I’m lonely, and I want to have a secret with somebody. I picture Ossie coming home to my empty cot, and get a terrible jolt of pleasure.

When you are a kid, you do things for dumb reasons. The Bird Man tells me that he likes my freckles.

“Listen to this, Ava.”

I inch forward until I am standing at the edge of the pier.

The Bird Man leans towards me, tilting the airboat so that its hull scrapes against the dock, his thin fingers curled around the rail. The rising sun turns the canal between us a brilliant red. White clouds rinse downriver. The Bird Man locks eyes with me again, that agate, unnervingly fixed stare, and purses his lips.

The first four sounds he makes are familiar. The green-backed heron, the feral peacock, a bevy of coots. Then he makes another noise, keener, as close to an alligator bellow as I have heard a human make, but not quite that, exactly. A braided sound, a rainbow sound. I step closer, and closer still, in spite of myself. I try to imagine what species of bird could make a sound like that. A single note, held in an amber suspension of time, like my art class charcoal of Icarus falling. It is sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity. It goes on and on, until my own lungs are burning.

“What bird are you calling?” I ask, finally, when I can’t stand it any longer.

The Bird Man stops whistling. He grins, so that I can see all his pebbly teeth. He holds out a hand to me over the broth-thin water.

“You.”

Much later, I slink into the empty house, feeling skunked and lousy. Ossie is nowhere to be found. Her Ouija board is still sitting out on the kitchen table.

“Mom,” I say, “I did a pretty bad thing.”

The house is silent except for the neon buzz of the mosquito lamp. I put my hands on the Ouija pointer and squinch my eyes shut. Mom’s face swims before me, the way she used to look whenever I told lies or tracked coon shit into the house, her beautiful scowl. I make the pointer spell out what I deem to be an appropriate punishment: “You’re in big trouble, missy. I am very…d-i-s-s”

I pause, my fingers hovering over the pointer. I can’t remember if “disappointed” is spelled with one s or two. “Go to your room,” I spell instead, “and think about what you did.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I lie down on the cot in the silent bungalow, and think about what I’ve done. I close my eyes. I discover that even with my eyes shut, I can still see the black swope of the ceiling fan, the steady scything of the blades, just by listening to the air. The jolly mosquitoes drone on and on. The heat rises like a hand clamped over my mouth.

Sometime around sundown, I manage to get up, and go feed the gators. It occurs to me, in a fuzzy, directionless way, that it is Thursday. When Mom was alive, Thursdays used to be synonymous with Live Chicken Thursday, one of the few Bigtree rituals that I refuse to perform. You have to tie twelve hens to a clotheswire by their hoary talons, so that they’re hanging upside down. Then you hoist them over the Gator Pit and stand back. The Seths jump clear out of the water, seven or eight feet high, and snatch at them. Squawking, thrashing, feathers, blood — and then silence, the naked hooks glinting on the line. It’s easy to tune out the caged noises if you are a spectator, but the squalling becomes newly horrible when you are its conductor. Usually I stop halfway, overwhelmed by a mercy born of my own cowardice. The Chief used to tease me for being such a little girl about it.

“It’s natural. It’s the food chain, Ava,” he’d laugh. “These chickens are happy”—he had to yell, over the squawked protests of the chickens—“to be fulfilling their chicken destiny.”

If the Chief’s not around to do it, I usually just thaw out a bucket of frozen baitfish. I’m nervous around the rooster, and too squeamish to tie the knots. But today I find myself walking around back behind the stadium to the red coop. The swamp hens greet me with a flurry of shin pecks, puffing out their patchy, distended chests. I pick them up, one by one, and unceremoniously dump them into the wooden crate. Then I attach the crate to our pulley, ignoring the jabbing beaks, and hoist it out over the water.

The hardest part is figuring out how to manipulate the pulley, and then guessing when to pull the lever to release the crate. After that, it’s all over in a matter of seconds. I listen to the cooing panic, the frantic splashing. I wait, alone in the concrete half-moon of the stadium, until the splashing has stopped. Above me, the sun has nearly set. In the distance, the river is the color of a melting pearl. There, I think, I’ve done it. When the Chief gets back, he’ll make me the line girl for sure. And still I feel nothing — just a numb surprise at my own lack of affect, like watching your foot curl when it’s fallen asleep. I lie belly-flat on the blue mats. I peer into the turbid pit, feeling light as the feathers floating on the rosy water.

On Saturday, Ossie announces that she is taking Luscious to the Swamp Prom. From her huffy, vaguely French pronunciation of “Swamp Prom,” I gather that I’m not invited. It will be held at seven in the Bigtree Café, she says, and I can be on the Decorating Committee. She hands me a box of party toothpicks and a bouquet of wilted balloons.

“Can I come?”

“Do you have a date?”

We glare at each other. I nearly tell my sister about the Bird Man, and then bite my lip. She finally agrees to let me go to her dance, but only on the condition that I be the chief musician. Basically, this means that I have to supply a sack of quarters for the jukebox in the Bigtree Café.

“Only love songs, only slow songs, mostly Patsy Cline,” she instructs.

I haven’t actually spoken to my sister for several days. She comes home from her swamp dates after I’ve already fallen asleep, and then spends the day in bed. Now that she’s with Luscious, she has no free time for me. It’s not like I particularly want to chaperone her dates to the underworld, but I’m starting to feel a little crazy, a little like a spook myself, wandering around the park with no one to talk to. I’ve tried and failed to develop a rapport with the gators.

“Hello, Seths,” I say, shaking a bag of alligator flea powder over their pen.

“How is it going? Hot enough for you?”

Sometimes a Seth will sneeze, but mostly they ignore me. In my library books, kids always seem to develop a transcendental bond with their animals, detective cats or injured eagles, stout ponies that save people from drowning. But the gators discourage this sort of identification, by being scaly and reptilian and so thoroughly alien, and by occasionally trying to eat my relatives. At this point, I am grateful for Ossie’s company, even if it means I have to share custody of her with a ghost.

In the early evening, we decorate the café with hula lamps and old vanity posters of Luscious. The torchlight casts ivory shadows along the hairy walls of the tiki hut. Patsy Cline croons, “till death do us pa-a-art.” Even without a ghost boyfriend of my own, I recognize this phrase to be a stupid fantasy. Is Patsy for real? What makes Patsy think that she’ll get off so easy, loving only for a lifetime? I plunk in another quarter, scowling.

I am sitting at a round café table, pretending to do a crossword puzzle, while Ossie waltzes around the room with Luscious. Her head is crowned with an unhappy hydra of geckos. We couldn’t decide between Yellow-head, a gaudy meringue, or Tokay, an understated avocado, so she’s worn them both. My sister isn’t a very good dancer. Yellow-head is livid, envelope-flat against her fancy bun. Tokay is trying to bite his leg off.

“Wanna cut in, Ava?” She holds a hand to my forehead. “You okay?”

“Nah, s’okay. I mean, I’m okay. Maybe later.”

“Okay”—she frowns—“just let me know. Luscious doesn’t mind…. A-va!”

The music has stopped, without my noticing. I plunk in another quarter, scowling.

Soon, Patsy recommences, filling the straw room. Ugh. My sister has retreated to a dark corner, where she is nuzzling into the palm straw of the tiki wall. I chew on my pencil, unable to concentrate. I keep snapping up at every groove in the record, watching the windows for the Bird Man. He’s gone; I’m certain of it. I’ve scouted around, and there isn’t a single buzzard left in our mangrove forest. I haven’t figured out how to feel about this yet.

The next song is a slow dance. Ossie is struggling with her empty sleeves, trying to slip her own hand under her dress. I stop hearing the spaces between words, every song rising into an identical whine, bright and coppery, the wail of a jukebox banshee. My vision blurs. I’ll think I see the Bird Man’s face, his long fingers twittering against the glass, and then the panes go dark again. For a terrifying moment, the table melts into numbered squares, rows and columns, all blank.

DOWN

ACROSS

DOWN

ACROSS

Something is going wrong with my eyes, my forehead, my hot, stoppered throat, and I don’t know how to tell my sister.

What’s a six-letter word, the crossword asks me, for…

It is way past some kid’s bedtime when we finally leave the dance. My head is still pounding, but I’m not about to spoil Ossie’s good mood. She is flush with success, already nostalgic for the Swamp Prom. “Did you see those moves, Ava?” She keeps spinning beneath the giant cypress trees, starry-eyed, comparing Luscious to Fred Astaire. We hold hands on the walk home — Ossie’s fingers shooting out and linking through mine in the dark — and I feel a joy so intense that it makes my teeth ache inside my skull. It is everything I can do not to clamp down on Ossie’s hand, a gator wrestler’s reflex. We sing some silly songs from Ossie’s Boos! Spellbook, sloshing through the reeds:

I loose my shaft, I loose it and the moons cloud over,

I loose it, and the sun is extinguished.

I loose it, and the stars burn dim.

But it is not the sun, moon, and stars that I shoot at,

It is the stalk of the heart of that child of the congregation,

So-and-so.

Cluck! cluck! soul of So-and-so, come and walk with me.

Come and sit with me.

Come and sleep and share my pillow.

Cluck! cluck! soul.

The palmetto trees look like off-duty sentries, slouching together, gossiping pleasantly in the warm breezes. Fireflies wink on and off. The world feels cozy and round.

“Is Luscious coming home with us?”

“No,” Ossie says, unlocking the bungalow door. “He’s not going to come to Grandpa’s house anymore.”

I do my Flying-Squirrel Super Lunge onto my cot, burying my smile in the scratchy pillow. As I hear the door slam shut, I worry that I might start crying, or laughing hysterically. Just us, I grin, just us — just us! I don’t want to lie and feign regret, but neither do I want to hurt Ossie’s feelings by delighting in Luscious’s expulsion from her body. Instead, I make a noncommittal pillow sound: “Hrr-hh-mm!”

“Good night, Ava,” Ossie whispers. “Thanks for being the record player.”

When I wake up, my sister is not in her cot. Her shoes are gone. Her sheets are on the floor. The glass terrarium, the one Ossie dipped into as her personal jewelry box, usually opaque with lizards, has been ransacked. Only the water bottle and the decorative lichens remain.

“Ossie?”

In the closet, all of her hangers are naked as bones. When I check the bathroom, it’s like entering an invisible garden, perfumed with soap blossoms. The mirror is fogged up, and there is a note taped to the corner:

dir ava

i am not a bigtree enemore. i am living on my honey-moan. don worry we will com back and visat you. i will fid mom miself and brig her to. sory ava i haf the sownd of more words butt i coud not remember the shaps of the letters.

— ossie robacow

I have to read the letter three times before I understand that she’s left me for good. My judgment about these things is getting all the time better, and I know that this is not a secret for keeping. “Ossie, don’t go!” I holler. “Wait! I’ll…I’ll stove-pop you some Boos!” Which sounds wincingly inadequate, even to my own ears. What was the thing she was going to do? Eel-up? Earlobe? Elope, I remember. I find Grandpa’s dusty, checkerboard dictionary and check it for clues:

elope: [v] to run away, or escape privately, from the place or station to which one is bound by duty

Elope. The word lights up like a bare bulb, swinging long shadows through my brain. Because how exactly do you elope with a ghost? What if Luscious is taking my sister somewhere I can’t follow? What if she has to be a ghost, too, to get there? And then another horror occurs to me: What if it’s the Bird Man she’s been meeting all along?

You’d think I’d start after her right away, but I do not. I put on my rain boots, and then take them off, and then put them on again. I pick up the telephone to call for help, and then drop it back into the receiver, jumping at the blank hum of the dial tone. I try to scream, and only air comes out.

Outside, I can feel the swamp multiplying, a boundless, leafy darkness. The distant pines look like pale flames. Without the Chief to cordon it off, without the tourists to clap politely and commend it to memory, Swamplandia! has reverted to being a regular old wilderness. If the Bird Man were to show up right now, I would barrel into his arms, so grateful for the human company. Where is the Chief, I howl, and where is my sister? My hand hovers above the doorknob. I stand there, a thin wire of fear spooling in my gut, until I can’t stay in the empty house any longer. And I’d be tempted to tell Ms. Huerta that this is the feeling that separates us from the animals, if I hadn’t seen so many of the Chief’s dogs die of loneliness.

I pack a flashlight and a Wiffle bat and a steak knife and some peanut butter Boos, to lure Ossie back into her body. We don’t have any garlic bulbs, so I bring the cauliflower, and hope that any vampires I encounter will be of the myopic, easily duped variety. And then I open the door, and run.

The air hits me like a wall, hot and muggy. I run as far as the entrance to the stand of mangrove trees, and stop short. The ground sends out feelers, a vegetable panic. The longer I stand there, the more impossible movement seems.

And then comes that familiar sound, that raw bellow, pulsing out of the swamp.

The cubed thing inside me melts into a sudden lick of fear. Something hot-blooded and bad is happening to my sister out there, I am sure of it. And the next thing I know I am on the other side of the trees, crashing towards the fishpond. It’s a sensory blur, all jumps and stumbles — oily sinkholes, buried stumps, salt nettles tearing at my flesh. I run for what feels like a very long time. One wisp of cloud blows out the moon.

I wish I could say I gulp pure courage as I run, like those brave little girls you read about in stories, the ones who partner up with detective cats. But this burst of speed comes from an older adrenaline, some limbic other. Not courage, but a deeper terror. I don’t want to be left alone. And I am ready to defend Ossie against whatever monster I encounter, ghosts or men or ancient lizards, and save her for myself.

When I break free of the trees and make for the pond, my whole body primed for fight, there is no visible adversary to wrestle with. The Bellower is not the Bird Man. It’s not a wild gator. It’s my sister, standing stem-naked in the moonlight, her red skirts crumpled around her feet like dead leaves. Osceola, poised over dark water, and singing:

“Cluck! cluck! soul of So-and-so,

come and walk with me….”

On land, Ossie’s body looks like an unmade bed, lumpy and disheveled. But in the moonlight, my naked sister is lustrous, almost holy. This is a revelation to me, Ossie’s unclothed bulk, her breasts. My own chest is pancake-flat, and covered in tiny brown moles. All this time, my odd-waddling sister has been living in a mother’s body.

And something is shifting, something is happening to Ossie’s skin. As she walks towards the water, flying sparks come shivering out of her hair, off of her shoulders, a miniature hailstorm. It’s the lizards! I realize. She is shaking them off in a scaly shower, flakes of living armor. The geckos fall from her arms, her breasts, they plink into the pond, her hissing, viscous diamonds. I watch, mesmerized. Soon, my sister is completely naked, her thighs ruffled red by the high, prickly grasses. I don’t have enough breath left to say a word. And then, still holding the last note of her spell, Ossie walks into the water.

“Ossie, no!” Once I start screaming, I find that I can’t stop. But I don’t want to wade into the water until I can see exactly what morass I’m getting into. I feel around my overalls for the pocket flashlight, and find Seth’s eye instead, my lucky charm. With a biblical wail, I throw the eye at the back of her head.

“Osceola!”

This turns out to be a girly display of strength. The eye falls way short; it barely makes the pond. I picture Seth’s eye swirling down and settling in the red mud, its lidless gaze turned up towards Ossie as her legs twitch with the memory, the anticipation, of…what? I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. All I know for certain is that she’s leaving me.

I wait for what feels like eons for Ossie to resurface, but the pond remains glassy and smooth, that same winking blankness of our mother’s mirror. Lily pads coagulate in blots of vapid light. Below the water, I sense more than see Ossie’s body, spiraling towards some mute blue crescendo.

“Don’t you dare!” I yell at the pond. “Don’t you dare go any farther down there!” I charge into the water after her.

I flail around in the shallows, black water pouring through my fingers, seeping into my eyes and mouth and ears, until finally my fingers brush skin. I seize Ossie’s shoulders and yank her up. The water buoys her huge body, and I swim with all my strength. No superhuman surge, or pony heroics; it’s just me at my most desperate. I splash towards the shore, making this anguished, honking noise, struggling to find purchase in the silty mud.

“Ava?” Ossie sputters. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

We fight each other with all the signature Bigtree moves — the whirligig, the chin thrust, the circumnavigator. Finally, with a triumphant howl, I manage to yank her onto the bank of the pond. I grab the fleshy pads of her feet, black as old orange peels, and try to drag her over a bed of rocks and sticks. Now Ossie is spitting up muck, and I can tell from her filmy, sightless rage that she is still possessed. A lily pad is pasted to her left cheek.

In the process of pulling her out of the water, I’ve dug these little half-moons into Ossie’s arm. Tiny nicks, like the violet impact of kisses, or bruises. They are already darkening, and I watch, fascinated, as they swell into puffy white welts. As if something were still clawing at her from within, pushing outwards, a pressure that is trying to break the skin.