Fire on the Bayou
When the dog days of summer set in, Louisiana might as well be underwater. “God damn.” As Bobby leans forward his back unsticks from the deck chair, making a sucking sound. “Bet there ain’t a man wid a bucketa ice for a hundred miles.”
“Hmm.” Logan doesn’t look up. He’s slumped in his chair with his hat brim low over his eyes.
Bobby saunters over to the edge of the dock, gulping down his freshly opened beer. He rubs the sweating bottle on his forehead before hurling it across the bayou. “When’s last time it was this thick out?”
Logan lifts his hat brim, blinking a few time to adjust to the sunset. “Musta been summer oh-eight.”
“Oh-eight? Naw, summer I worked at Penny Wise was the hot one, still ’member the smell of gas.”
“Like I said, oh-eight.” Logan grabs another beer floating in the Styrofoam cooler, cracking it and taking a swig. “Your memory’s gone ta shit.”
“Was definitely oh-nine.”
“Ya went from high school to a gas station to a one-and-three, ya redneck. Summer oh-nine you were breakin’ rocks in Lafayette.” Bobby prepares to argue, but realizes he’s wrong before the words come out. His mouth dangles awkwardly as he paces the dock.
“You may be right,” he acquiesces. “What year did Gus hit?”
“Oh-eight,” Logan says, impatiently now.
“Right, right. Mags an’ I was treadin’ water for a month after that.” Bobby looks at Logan expectantly. He doesn’t respond, staring at the placid mossy water and swirling the beer around in his already half-finished bottle.
“Yep,” Bobby continues. “Lil’ house on Russo was underwater for a week, she an’ I jus’ holed up at ’er parents, drove ’em nuts.” He laughs loudly, like he expects a crowd to join in. “I miss that girl, man. ’Member that time we all got drunk an’ tried karaoke? She an’ Bonnie were laughin’ at us ta high heaven.”
“Whatever,” Logan says as he rubs the moisture from the beer on the back of his neck.
“It’s a good story man — laugh!”
“Whatcha want me to say? I was there, an’ I heard it before,” Logan says. “Same damn stories every time I’m stateside. Next’s the time you an’ Mags broke in the high school an’ trashed coach’s office. Then how she was gettin’ freaky with you at the Penny Wise register while you sold gas. Then the time y’all smoked left-handers an’ hit every bar in town. She been gone three years man, not doin’ yerself any favors.”
“You can walk off that dock,” Bobby says indignantly. “I come back from the farm an’ the woman I love’s cold in the ground; allow me some time ta grieve.”
Logan starts laughing. He drunkenly pushes himself out of the chair and chucks his empty into the swamp. “Look at you, talkin’ like you were rottin’ in Angola for a decade. You were a half hour up 90 in Lafayette for robbin’ the same gas station ya worked at.” Bobby laughs too, wiping sweat off his brow with his tank top.
Logan pats Bobby on the back consolingly. “Look man, I know it’s hard. Mags is a great girl, but she’d want ya to move on, ya know? Keep on goin’.”
Bobby nods and resumes his pacing on the dock, watching the sunset while Logan folds his chair and starts kicking empties into the water. Suddenly, Bobby stops pacing. “Why’d ya say is a great girl?”
Logan stops dead. “What?”
“You said Mags is, not Mags was.”
“Just a slip of tongue.”
Bobby kicks the cooler off the dock and tipsily marches up to Logan. “Why’d ya say is?” Logan looks to the side, refusing to meet Bobby’s eyes. “Look at me, Logan, why’d ya say is?!”
Logan shoves Bobby backwards. “The hell you want me to say, huh?”
“Is Mags alive?” Bobby asks, so hopeful it sounds desperate. Logan looks at him with a mix of pity and compassion before letting out a long sigh.
“Yeah man. She’s alive.”
Bobby takes a moment to process this knowledge. He unsteadily walks to the edge of the dock in a daze, the wood creaking under his boots with every step. As he stares out at the bayou, he makes small gasps for air. “How — how long ya known?”
Logan bites his lip, reluctant to answer. “Whole time. Me an’ Bonnie, you know, she told us first that she was leavin’. We…well, we got some money together for her ticket.”
“Where is she?”
“Hell if I know, jus’ know she ain’t here.”
Bobby spins around and marches back to Logan angrily, red in the face. “Y’all said she was fuckin’ dead! What gave you the right? Hillbilly piece a shit!”
Logan responds in kind. “Oh yeah, fuck me for helpin’ a girl showed up on my porch at three in the fuckin’ mornin’, cryin’ bout how her life weren’t goin’ nowhere. She was spooked, wailin’ how this place ain’t worth a damn thing, an’ she’d never be able to leave once you got out. Hell would you’ve done?!”
“I woulda told my best friend of seven years!” Bobby shouts back. “So he coulda done somethin’ bout it. Have a life when he got out!”
Logan smirks. “What life’s that? Drinkin’ beer, polishin’ your rifles while you cash in your stamps? Bobby, you’re my best friend, an’ I love ya like a brother, but Mags woulda left you anyw — ”
Bobby’s fist collides with Logan’s chest, cutting him off mid sentence and knocking the wind out of him. He collapses on the dock, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath. Bobby’s face turns to instant regret.
“Aw shit Logan,” Bobby says. “I…I’m real sorry man, I — ”
“Know what?” Logan says, speaking through short gasps. “Fuck you. Mags moved on…everyone movin’ on…but you. She better off…without you…an’ your seed.”
The color drains from Bobby’s face. He shakily balances himself.
“Seed? Ya mean…she was…” Bobby drifts off before he can finish the sentence. Logan looks up at him, still on all fours gasping for air. Their eyes meet. Bobby’s face quickly turns to rage, and with a strong shove of his foot, he pushes Logan off the dock.
Logan surfaces quickly, coughing up silt and grime from the bayou. He pulls himself onto the dock, only to see Bobby walking away. “Ay Bobby!” Logan calls between coughs. “I’m sorry I said that, man, she weren’t pregnant or nothin’, I don’t know why I said that! Bobby! Ay Bobby!”
Bobby keeps walking down the dock in a daze, refusing to look back.
