Robert Alter - Swamp Sister

So he'd keep his money in his pocket, and there wasn't nobody at the Landing and a damn bit further than that who could take it away from him – Except maybe Jort Camp, the gator-grabber. It bothered him somewhat that there was a man he knew he couldn't whip. Not that Jort had ever tried, but the gator-grabber had whipped every man and boy that ever came his way so far. My turn just ain't come yet, he thought. Then he said, "Well, if he's coming at me, he best come like the wrath of God, because I'll cold go to scratch like hell on feet."

Hert was gone when Shad left the shanty in the early afternoon. But Mel Warren, a nondescript trapper, was there piddling around in the bush, carrying a fishing pole.

If he's going fishing he's mighty God slow a-gitting at it, Shad thought. And if he's already ben – he's had mighty poor luck.

He struck up the path, giving Warren a wave. "Catching anything out there in the bush, Mel?" he called. He thought that was a pretty good one. But Warren didn't laugh. He reacted like Hert had, with embarrassed bewilderment.

"No. Just lost something. Hit don't matter much."

Up on the road Shad saw Jort Camp slowly coming his way. That wasn't so good. He didn't hanker to have anyone see him going to Iris Culver's house. Least of all bigmouth Camp. When he reached the creek bridge he slid down the soft embankment hurriedly and slipped into the blue shadows under the bridge. He waited three or four minutes for the sound of Jort's boots to clump overhead, but nothing happened. He frowned and waited.

The creek was slow, warm, sluggish; knee-deep in most places but rump-high awful sudden if a man wasn't careful where he stepped. A combination elderberry and similar thicket went north with the water. Shad eased from under the bridge and dodged into the bush. By the time he reached the Culver grove he was fairly cat-claw-scratched, but he didn't mind.

He circled around the grove, coming close to the white barn that nestled ship-snug in the trees. Close enough to hear the faint tac-tac-tac of Culver's typewriter clacking away somewhere up in the reconverted loft. He nodded and swung around in the other direction. With the house between himself and the barn he hurried across the lawn and up onto the side porch. "Iris?" he whispered.

She let him in through the dining-room entrance, and she was all over him before he could even get the screen door closed properly. She was a little crazy; he'd known that for some time. She was something like that English lady in one of that Hemingway fella's books she'd loaned him. Shad didn't have a name for it, but he could recognize a danger when he saw it. The trouble was he should have seen it a long time ago. It wasn't going to be easy to tell her. She wasn't going to like it. He disengaged his mouth, saying huskily, "Whoa! Let's git us a breath in here."

She was looking at him from five inches away, her mouth open and the wet pink of her tongue showing. It reminded him of Dorry Mears.

He got all of him untangled at once and stepped clear, avoiding her eyes, a little frightened by the look in them. He removed his hat, as she had taught him to do, and placed it on the table; then wiped the sweat and some of the lipstick from his face. Funny the way sweat never bothered her. Yeah. And a sudden hollow sensation vacuumpacked his stomach.

"I got to talk to you," he began.

She nodded urgently, coming at him again. "I know – in the bedroom. We'll lock the door. Larry'll think I'm napping."

"Couldn't we just talk here?"

She had his hand, looked at him peculiarly. "Are you insane? Do you want Larry to come in and find us here? Come on!_" She led him. He went helplessly.

The cool-air unit was growling quietly in a corner of the shadowy room. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn. The bed was made. Iris locked the door. Shad watched her like a broken-wing turnstone watching a shore-prowling puma.

"You were so long coming, I thought something had happened to you."

"I went and got me in a bind of gators. Had to spend me a night in the skiff."

She looked at him, a look that he used to admire – cold superiority.

"Shad, don't talk like a Civil War throwback. You know better. I taught you better."

She had taught him, and he did know better. But he frequently spoke his own dialect just to show her that he was still independent of her. He knew it railed her. "All right," he said. "1 forgot."

She went to the bed, sat on the edge of it, removed her heels, crossing one nyloned leg over the other. "Undress me, Shad," she said simply.

He stalled, keeping in the centre of the quiet room, sensing the trap closing in on him.

"Listen at – to me, Iris. I got something that needs to be said."

"Later, Shad. Undress me."

She held a long slim arm up to him, the pale hand halfhanging.

He could always handle girls – young ones, girls of his own breed, the all-giggles-and-no-brains ones. But this woman with her poise, her intelligence and worldliness was too much for him. He felt stupid and cloddish around her, putty-like. He went to the bed and took her hand, but nothing else.

"It's like this here," he began.

Her right arm circled his neck, tugging his lips down to hers. Her mouth mumbled into his. "I know. I know about it. We'll discuss it after a bit -"

She knew about it? How? About Dorry? No, she couldn't, or she wouldn't be acting this way. What then?

He thought about last night, of Dorry who was young, nineteen young. He thought about now, of this woman in his arms who was old enough to be his mother. He started to struggle, to push her away. Everything was sickening, the clammy sweat, the moist hot mouth, her hands.

"Iris -"

But she threw a hand flat against his chest. A warning, frightened gesture. He saw fear in her eyes.

"Listen!" she hissed.

He did – and heard it. A soft, almost cautious tread in the hallway. They froze like a pair of hound dogs butting their wet noses into a belt of scent. Everything beyond the closed door seemed to be frozen, too. They watched the door, waiting. Then they watched the brass doorknob take a slow clockwise turn. Nothing happened.

Shad wet his lips and eased his head around.

Who? he asked with his eyes.

Larry, she said with her lips.

She was clutching his arm tightly, and it came to him that her nerves were a lot worse than he'd suspected. He could see in her eyes that she might fly apart at any moment. And that made him more frightened.

Her hand gave an imperative jerk on his arm. He looked at the door. The knob was moving counter-clockwise. Shad let out his breath. He thought he heard something moving, but couldn't be sure.

"Thought you said it was safe," he accused her.

"It always has been, hasn't it? I don't know why the fool has stopped writing."

"Well, how do I git out of here? I ain't fixing to git myself husband-shot, you know."

"Hush, won't you!"

Their heads panned together, following the curtained sweep of the windows. Someone, a shadow, was moving silently along the screened porch. They stared at the bedroom porch door in a quiet kind of horror. The knob turned slyly. Shad couldn't face it any longer. He felt like an animal at bay. He started to get up, clenching his fists. Culver was a city man, a soft, not-so-tall man. He'd bust him a quick one in the mouth and be long gone.

"Don't!" she whispered frantically. "For God's sake, don't!" The shadow was flitting across the windows again, going away.

"Your hat!" she said suddenly.

"What?"

"You left your hat in the dining room!"

"Oh my God! What'll we do?"

"I don't – I'll say you came to check the generator. Yes, it's been acting strangely. I'll say you must have forgotten your hat."