The Feathered Bone (10 page)

“Carl's back offshore. I can't leave Ellie here without me.”

“Bring her with us. I'll pick y'all up. Two hours?”

I roll my fingers through Beanie's soft fur and stare out into the neighbor's cluttered yard. It's filled with muddy bikes and well-worn sports balls, tangled kites and toy guns, Hula-Hoops and Hot Wheels. Her three children are all in school today, but their tracks remain. Signs that suggest we are fortunate to live in a world where kids are safe. Where they can play in their yards without fear. With no risk of being taken.

“Okay,” I say. “We'll be ready by ten.”

Jay arrives to find me cleaning the house. “Sorry, just trying to catch up.” I welcome him inside, moving supplies out of his way. “I vacuum when Carl's not home. He hates the noise, but he hates the mess even more.”

“How long's he gone this time?”

“I'm not sure. He posted for a position at the plant. Talking to his boss today and putting in applications for land jobs.”

Jay makes himself at home, sitting on a stool. I move to join him in the kitchen, sliding a platter of blueberry muffins across the counter. “Still warm. Want some?”

I offer him a plate and pour him a glass of milk.

“Delicious.” He takes a second bite. “Thanks. So he wants regular shift work? That doesn't sound like Carl.”

“I don't think he wants it. He says it'd be better for Ellie and me. To have him home more. At least until we find Sarah.” I go back to the living room and resume dusting, trying my best to keep life good for my family.

“Probably right.” He refills his glass with milk. “You mind?”

“You know I don't.”

“I can't see Carl working regular hours. It'll be interesting to see how that plays out.”

I hold up my wedding photo, dusting the frame. Carl and I both young and naïve, staring into the camera, all smiles and nerves. “I don't know. He tends to like things to be predictable, routine. He might surprise us. Maybe he'll love it.”

Jay raises his eyebrows but doesn't answer.

“Ellie's still in the shower. Could be awhile. Want me to brew some coffee?”

“Nah. This is good.” He takes another long gulp of milk. “Tell her I've got Boudreaux with me. That'll get her to hurry.”

“True,” I admit. There's no greater lure for Ellie than an animal—especially Jay's loyal yellow Lab.

I continue dusting family photos in the living room while Jay enjoys his breakfast. As I work I feel the warmth of his stare on the back of my neck.

He breaks the silence, talking from the kitchen. “Gloopy? Are you okay?”

Am I okay?

He leaves his second muffin on the plate and moves toward me. Then he draws me into his arms and holds me, the way a big brother would try to comfort a grieving sister. With strength and protection, his steadfast heart pulsing against my own. “It's not your fault, you know?”

He moves my hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my neck. Jay's fiancée was killed in a car wreck back in college, so he knows loss. He's able to care. Nothing more than that.

I pull away, holding my tears. “I'm fine. I'm sorry I let Ellie sleep so late. I didn't mean to make you wait.”

“Not a problem. I would have let her sleep too.” Jay returns to his muffin.

“Have you talked to him? Gator? Since Friday?” I'm determined to switch the focus off of me.

“Yeah. He's pretty shaken up. I thought I might send him out with my river patrol. Figure if I can get him in the boat he'll come back to his senses. It'll settle him down to be on the water.”

Ellie joins us, drying her hair with a towel. “Hey, Mr. Jay.”

“Ellie!” He cheers her name, trying to keep her life as normal as possible. Then he gives her his seat. “I saved you a muffin.”

She smiles and accepts both. He pours her some milk while I put away the last of my cleaning supplies.

“I brought Boudreaux,” Jay tells Ellie. “He's out there waiting.”

As predicted, this is all it takes to get her moving. She grabs a second muffin and rushes out to share breakfast with her favorite canine companion.

Within ten minutes we're in Jay's white Ford F-250, the unmarked sheriff's vehicle he prefers to drive. Boudreaux and Ellie share the backseat as we bounce down a complex maze of rutted back roads, wending our way to Gator's house. These are moss-draped routes, the kind where people come to drop empty beer cans, unwanted dogs, and dead men. We pass a small camper trailer with an oversized
Confederate flag across the front. A hand-painted sign in the yard reads
God, Guns, and Glory!
Beneath the trailer, part of the floor has fallen through to the ground, but no one seems inclined to fix it.

We've had a fairly dry week here in Walker, so Jay's truck kicks up a cloud of dust. We pass long stretches of litter and mobile homes where rusty cars are parked, half hidden by weeds, in the overgrown yards. One vehicle is hanging from a tree. The entire car, a cardinal-red Ford LTD, is suspended in midair, dangling from a giant chain like a big, ripe apple. Its engine rests nearby on a sawed-off stump, a stub contrasting the old-growth hickory, elm, and ash that tower around it.

Each time the road forks I try to remember which direction we'll need to return. There are no street signs and no significant landmarks, only trees, trees, and more trees. The farther we drive, the less anchored I feel.

We round one final curve and finally reach Gator's claim, marked with more than a dozen large
No Trespassing
signs. This doesn't give Jay any pause. When we come to an unbalanced cattle guard, I get out and open the gate. A sheet of plywood reads
Enter at Own Risk
, the last few letters squeezed together as if the writer failed to plan appropriately for the limited space. Additional signs warn about aggressive dogs; one reads
Pit Bulls Bite
.

After Jay pulls the truck across the rusty guard pipes, I close the gate behind him and climb back into my seat. I have known Gator all my life and have never had reason to suspect him of any wrongdoing. But now, as we approach his property, I shudder. I hope Jay's instincts are right.

We drive another half mile or so past a timber clearing before a final trailer comes into view. The Livingston Parish School Board bus is parked alongside it. This home belongs to Gator. More
threatening messages, including a large white sheet that flaps against the aluminum panels of his doublewide. In red letters:
Trespassers will be shot and killed. Not the quick and easy way
.

“Interesting.” I point to the offensive warnings.

“Yeah, he's had some media out here the last couple days.” Jay parks in a white dirt patch under a shady oak tree, and the dust settles around us.

“I'm surprised they'd come out here. Takes guts.”

Jay laughs. But as he gets out of the truck, he adds his .40 caliber Glock 22 to his hip. I'm not sure if this gives me more comfort or less.

Gator waves from across his property, rifle in hand. He's at the edge of his pond, feeding a congregation of alligators. He's known for catching small ones from the rivers and bringing them back as pets, a habit that earned him his nickname.

“Are those his gators?” Ellie asks, holding her hand above her eyes to block the sun.

“Think so.” I count at least fifteen of them scattered across the bank, their spiky spine ridges narrowing against the water's murky edge. They range in length from three feet to ten, and there's no doubt the larger ones could share a dog or two for dinner if they ever got hungry enough. The scaly reptiles lunge and snap their sharp jaws against air, battling for the final cut of meat Gator tosses their way.

As they crawl into the muddy pond, their toothy profiles sink out of view. Gator shuffles toward us with a gruff laugh. “How you like my decoratin'?” He points to the sheet suspended from the trailer's roofline. “Gotta do somethin' to keep them bloodhounds away.”

Jay smiles and shakes Gator's hand. “Could be a little overkill.”

“Nah.” Gator roars with laughter, coughing a harsh smoker
hack. “Next time they try to mess with me out here, I'm gonna start firin' shots. You got my back, Sheriff?” He grins at Jay while moving to give me a happy hug. “Good to see you, Mrs. 'Manda. What kinda trouble you been gettin' into?”

I try to keep him laughing. Like most of the people I know in Louisiana, humor is his comfort zone. “Oh, you know me, Gator. I stay in trouble.”

“Better not turn your back on a woman like this one, Sheriff.” His brittle gray ponytail pokes out beneath his tattered ball cap, a faded orange Nascar lid with a fishing hook attached to the rim. He turns to Ellie and says, “Follow me. I'll put you to work.”

Curious, Ellie obeys.

Jay and I trail behind, leaving Boudreaux safe in the backseat—the windows rolled down enough to give him air. Across the dirt lot, nearly fifteen pit bulls are chained to pine trees. Each dog has been assigned a bright-blue plastic barrel for shelter, sanctioned behind a metal fence to keep the gators at bay. A few growl and groan, stretching their chains, so I am careful to stay between the dogs and Ellie. Some seem eager to charge us if needed.

Gator opens a metal feed bin, causing the lid to clang loud, tinny echoes against the trees. Then he stacks a set of plastic bowls and shows Ellie how to dole out Solo-cup portions of food for his pack of dogs. Dry bits roll against the plastic, and like Pavlov's study, the canines salivate beneath the pines, each one pacing circles across the bare earth. Once she fills the bowls, I hold Ellie back, insisting Gator can handle the rest of the work. We watch, mesmerized by the way he pulls each bowl a safe distance with a rake, not daring to go within chain's length of his own dogs.

When he finishes his chores, Ellie is full of questions. “Why don't you let them off those chains?”

Gator laughs, leading us up his steps and struggling with the climb. “You don't see those scars?”

The three of us take a second look at the pit bulls, now noticing a few missing ears and thin patches where fur no longer grows. One has only three legs.

“Gator, please don't tell me you're fighting those dogs?” Jay looks back toward Boudreaux. He is taking this seriously.

“No, no.” Gator chuckles a bit. “I don't go for none of that. I rescued them fellas. From the pits.”

“So why are they still on chains?” Ellie tilts her head.

“It's not like you can just reach your hand into a fightin' ring and pet one of them boys. What you think would happen if I tried that?”

“They'd bite you?”

“You bet they would. They don't know I'm tryin' to help 'em. They know only one thing—survive. They've been trained to fight to the death. Yours or theirs.”

“But you said they don't fight anymore,” Ellie challenges.

“Yeah, but they don't know that. I just got these guys a few weeks ago. Trust don't come easy once you've been in the ring. Love don't either.” He taps his temple and says, “In their mind, everybody's out to get 'em.”

“Will they have to stay chained forever?”

Ellie's question brings me back to New Orleans, where the fortune-teller's sparrow stayed locked in its cage, singing behind bars as the beautiful green Quaker parrots flew free around him.

“Depends on the dog.” Gator opens his front door, revealing a tattoo on his forearm. Inked in standard army green, the letters read
POW
. He sees me looking. “Some never do find their way to freedom.”

“But some do,” I tell Ellie, trying to reassure her.

Gator rubs his scruffy chin, repeating, “Some do.”

Near the porch is a falcon. He rests on a branch, surrounded by thick wire fencing. As I lean in for a closer look, our rough-edged friend offers a stern warning. “Watch your fingers. He'll snap 'em right in two.”

The dogs quiet behind us, chomping their daily rations, and the bird eyes me with a broken stare, as if he wouldn't have the energy to chew my fingers even if I gave them to him. All hope has been caged right out of him.
“What good is it to have feathers if you don't fly?”