Louisiana Lament

Sheila in one, Kenny with Skip and Steve. There was a reason for this—Kenny, being in his early teens, hero-worshipped Steve. The two uncles could have gotten their feelings hurt, but had the sense not to bother. The average fourteen-year-old preferred baseball to opera; metaphorically speaking, it was that simple. And Kenny was such a gentle soul, even as a teenager, that no one could imagine he’d ignore anyone on purpose. Sheila was another matter. She’d probably chosen to ride with the uncles just to snub her younger brother.
    Spilling from the cars, they stepped onto the natural levee that ran along Bayou Coquille and instantly heard the silence of the swamp. It was louder than the bullfrog croaks and insect ditties and bird songs and animal slitherings that, in fact, were a concert in themselves. The two conditions were like stereo—you could listen to either or both, and the effect was like being on another planet. As the trail descended to the flooded forest of the swamp, the noises grew louder and so did the silence. The air, though it was nearly ninety in the French Quarter, here seemed fresh and soft with breezes. It was too late for the wild irises, which bloom in great fields of purplish blue, but a few of the pale lavender water hyacinths, to some more beautiful than orchids, still floated on the water, gorgeous to look at it, but in fact choking out the life of the bayou. In its way, the water hyacinth—imported from South America rather than Asia, is as deadly as the termites. A single plant can produce 50,000 others in one growing season, killing the native plants, thus reducing available food for animals.
    Yet to Skip, the day was so beautiful, the views so tranquil, the natural mix so seemingly harmonious that it was possible to forget un-harmonious nature—weed-against-weed, man-against-bug, cop-against-thug. People were oddly quiet as they walked the trail; even Sheila, given to complaining about the personalities and intellectual capacities of her companions, was as sunny as the day, which would have been perfect even if they hadn’t happened upon a Cajun band on the way home, playing at an outdoor restaurant where people danced under a shed. They stopped and had iced tea, enjoying the dancers, some of whom wore shirts from a Cajun heritage organization, and one of whom wore a masterpiece of taxidermy on his hat—an entire duck, feet and all, intact except for its innards.
    Afterward, they went home and barbecued. While Layne cooked, the other grown-ups sat in the courtyard Skip shared with the Ritter-Scoggin family, drinking gin and tonics while the kids watched television, Napoleon snoozed, and Angel tried to wake him up. The air was velvety, with a little breeze, and the mosquitoes weren’t yet biting. It was absurdly familial. Skip was completely, deliciously happy, a feeling she sometimes distrusted.
    But that night she dreamed, and the dream was like life. In the dream, she had a beautiful house, and then a tiny hole appeared in the wall; out of the hole came swirling hordes of termites, traveling in vortexes like tornadoes. More and more swarmed until the air turned black, and then there was no air, only chaotic, moving, living walls, trapping her and invading her nose, her ears, smothering, strangling…
    Steve shook her awake and she told the dream, still moaning, shivering though it was late spring, unnerved out of all proportion.
    “They aren’t that bad,” he said. “It’ll be okay. But thank you for your empathy.”
    The dream wasn’t about his termites. Someone could have said it was about him, about her fear of their relationship, her dread of becoming engulfed. But she knew it wasn’t that. She knew what it
was
about, and she knew why she couldn’t stop shaking.
    It was about fear of dropping her guard, of looking away for even a second, of forgetting the danger that always lurked.
    She had been happy too long and something was happening to wake her up, to alert her to be wary. Yet the task was impossible. She couldn’t be wary every second of the day. She couldn’t protect even herself, let alone those she loved. No wonder she had dreamed of a pulsating monster, a force of nature that overwhelmed and smothered.
    Fear was like that, a shrink might have said. But that wasn’t it, not quite. Her enemy was like that.
    Nearly two years ago, Errol Jacomine had disappeared, but he would not stay gone. She knew this; she had destroyed two of his careers—twice