Karen Russell - Swamplandia!

“Look at that big sucker.” His grunt sounded satisfied. He was pointing at the feasting gull on the ropes. “Hungry.”

“Grandpa, can you tell me, has the Chief been working at the casino for a long time? Has he had other jobs? Did you know about his other jobs?” He paused. “Did Mom know?”

Sawtooth was watching the ocean. Wave after wave covered the sandy bottom of the marina. Jade squiggles alternated with blue and black inky ones wherever the sun hit depth. Something about watching this made Kiwi feel for an instant that he was staring into his grandfather’s mind: memories like these bright schools of mullet, abandoning his grandfather in leaps.

“Why did you guys hide it from us, Grandpa? Is the Chief angry that he has to do it? Is it our fault — I mean, the money part?”

Sawtooth was still frowning into the ocean, as if something magnificent were about to occur there. All those small flickers dispersing, unschooling.

“Okay. Fine. Can I please tell you something?” Kiwi’s voice tapered to a point. “Can I tell you something? Your daughter-in-law, Hilola?”

At Out to Sea, Sawtooth’s lifelong tan had faded to the color of creamed corn. He regarded his grandson warily, as if he were about to lose a privilege. Kiwi imagined that typically if a stranger came to talk to you at Out to Sea, this could portend nothing good.

“I am so sorry to be the one …” Kiwi cleared his throat. In a quieter voice, he told Sawtooth what had happened to Hilola Bigtree.

“Dead,” Sawtooth croaked. “Hah.”

The word had a dull thwack to it, like a fat raindrop hitting tarp. The drop rolled away and vanished. Nothing at all registered on his grandfather’s face.

“Mom died a whole year ago, Grandpa. More, now.”

For some reason he told him the exact date in a whisper. He could hear Harold coughing up banana inside the cabin; another resident was cycling through her television channels.

“We didn’t tell you, I don’t know, we didn’t want to …”

Sawtooth smoothed a finger over his otterish whiskers. He met Kiwi’s gaze with bald, staring eyes, the same depth and shape as the Chief’s eyes, Kiwi’s own eyes. The family had heard from Robina that Sawtooth suffered crying spells, at night—“like a schoolchild!” This was impossible for Kiwi to imagine, his granddad weeping; on Swamplandia! Sawtooth would pry the Mesozoic splinters of an alligator’s teeth from his skin with black doll’s eyes, unblinking, glassy with pain.

Well, he sure wasn’t crying over Mom. His eyes were perfectly calm. Sea light pulsed in them.

“Dead,” he repeated. A whisper, conspiratorial. “Huh. Did you tell Robina? Dead is bad, boy. You could get in trouble.”

Behind Kiwi’s head, a TV audience broke into raucous laughter and applause. Kiwi leaned in until his long nose was almost touching Grandpa Sawtooth. He moved forward, scooting to the edge of the blue-and-white deck chair, until their foreheads were touching. He dunked his own dim form into Sawtooth’s pupils and waited for a “Hello, Kiwi.” Sawtooth held his gaze patiently. Sawtooth Bigtree’s hands looked big as lobster claws on his meager thighs; all of the man’s ligaments looked to be in some state of bad flux, bulging or withering on the vine. “Normal aging” the textbooks would say, but “normal” seemed an injustice when it described this . Sawtooth’s wrists were the width of a child’s again. Kiwi took a breath.

“After Mom died, we lost most of the tourists …”

Kiwi had a sudden urge to topple his grandfather, to dump the elder overboard — maybe that would shake something loose in there or reconnect a wire. What was the point of growing so aged and limp that your mind couldn’t make a fist around a name? He wanted Sawtooth Bigtree to hurt, to ache, to mourn, to howl, to push with the cooling poker of his mind into the old ash heap of what he had lost and scrape bottom. He wanted the old man to be depleted to that limit. Like the rest of us , Kiwi thought angrily. Like family .

“I’m a traitor, Grandpa. Think Benedict Arnold. I’m working at the World of Darkness. You know I’ve been away from home for months now, Grandpa,” he heard himself saying. “Not quite as long as you’ve been away, but a long time. So I don’t have any news to share about your GRANDDAUGHTERS, AVA or OSCEOLA.”

“What the Christ are you shouting for, son? People are trying to catch fish out here. You’re going to scare all the damn fish away.”

Grandpa’s jaw muscles sagged and twitched. His eyes were lively, but it was like the empty animation of a fireplace. “I’m hot. I don’t like your tone. I’m going inside.”

“Mom’s dead. Our park is bankrupt. Your son works in a casino now. Ossie went batshit this summer, and I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s having sex with ghosts. Ava is alone with her on the island. Do you like that?”

With a look of infantile craftiness, Grandpa Sawtooth reared back and spit in his face.

Sawtooth swung first. Kiwi was still wiping the foamy spittle from his face with his shirt hem when his head snapped back, the old man punching his left cheek. Later, Kiwi would tell Robina and the Loomis EMT that he had provoked his grandfather — which might have even been true. Maybe the pitch of Kiwi’s voice tripped an old wire of antagonism in Grandpa Sawtooth’s brain, his outburst a limbic accident. Whatever the case, both men threw themselves into the fight. The deck chairs clattered as they fell away from them. Kiwi’s eyes widened: He’s choking me . The moment arrived when he would have killed his grandfather if he could have. He couldn’t break the hold, though, and his grandfather tightened his grip around Kiwi’s windpipe. With an obscene clarity of mind Kiwi recognized what Sawtooth was doing: this was a Bigtree maneuver, a way to get a Seth to open its jaws.

“You damn fool,” he muttered. Kiwi had no air to respond.

They crashed against the railing on the starboard side of the boat; Kiwi’s head got swung into the porthole; someone’s wrinkled face floated into view there, disappeared. A carousel of faces passed by, deathpale and unfamiliar faces. It was just the other residents. Seniors with no clue what was going on outside the cabin. An anhinga that had been drying its wings on a mile marker shot into the sky. Kiwi was trying to steer his grandfather toward a coil of heavy rope that he hoped the old man might trip on.

“Jaw up,” Grandpa Sawtooth used to shout at Kiwi on the Pit stage when he was five, eight, eleven. “Step up. Man up.”

Kiwi shut his eyes then. Felt his grandfather’s thick hands around his throat. He saw colors and they were slow and round as bubbles: black as bad purpose. Red as purpose (his fists were flailing now, falling down on Sawtooth, he could hear the old man cry out in pain). Blood trickled into his mouth from a cut on his upper lip. Kiwi opened his eyes and he didn’t know what he was doing, the whole stereoscopic world having flattened into brilliance. All he knew for certain was that he was fighting back. He could breathe again. He could scream again. He swiped at the old man’s wet shirt and closed on a handle of skin. His left hand squeezed down, and Sawtooth screamed with pain. Kiwi banged into a deck chair, howling, and he grabbed at whatever he could and he twisted. Both men looked down at Kiwi’s hands around the base of Sawtooth’s neck, as if equally surprised to find them there.

“Huh!” gargled his grandfather.

Kiwi could feel the man’s birdy veins. His fingers were long enough to stitch a mitt around his grandfather’s throat. His grandfather was hissing now, a coarse, inhuman sound. So this was the only answer the old man could give him, the only explanation — a nonsense hiss. The Seths know more about our family than you do , Kiwi thought furiously. He squeezed. Instinct drove him forward like a nail and he kept squeezing.