directions, was little more than a dirt road leading directly into the bayou. The rental GPS was useless in the tangle of roads. She was going to have to find her own way into town later. She pulled off on the shoulder and stared at the map. She had to be close.
Aurora threw the car into reverse, and with a turn of her head, caught sight of the house. It was set off the road at an angle, as though turning a shoulder to her, its shuttered windows facing the bayou. Aurora pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, stepping outside into the slickness of the late afternoon humidity. The last of the sun’s long fingers grazed the bayou’s surface, the last slice of light hovering on the horizon, outlining the husks of half-sunken cypress trees. Aurora was a city girl and never had been much for nature, but there was something about this landscape that commanded her attention in a way that was more than a little unnerving.
Aurora turned back towards the house. Nobody had lived here for twenty years, and yet it glowed, emanating warmth. Four freshly painted white columns supported a delicate latticed porch like upturned palms. Papa had built this place with his own hands, for his wife, for his children. Wings beat in Aurora’s chest, her spine hardening. This was where she was supposed to have grown up. This should have been her home.
She climbed the steps slowly, drawing her fingers across the polished wood railing. A kiddie pool was wedged in one corner of the porch, one of the cheap plastic ones, translucent with age. It seemed out of place on the otherwise pristine porch. From this vantage point, Aurora could see something rippling the surface of the water. She moved closer.
It took her a moment to identify what they were; four black shapes arrayed in a diamond at the pool’s warped plastic bottom. Alligators. Baby ones, it appeared, each one no longer than her forearm. Aurora knelt by the pool’s edge and dipped a hand in the water, running her index finger along the ridges of one of the tiny prehistoric bodies.
“Dadgummit, they sure are cute, ain’t they?”
The voice behind her had the same sugared drawl as Papa. The man crouched next to her, his sun-battered face next to her own. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies with a thick beard and an Army-fatigue-colored fishing hat.
“They’re so tiny—it’s amazing.”
“Jefferson Gibbs,” he said, grasping her hand. “And you must be Aurora.” He scooped up one of the baby gators and held it aloft, like an offering. “I’ve been looking after these little fellas since your family left. Didn’t have the heart to just release the little fellas. You remember the gators? I remember when you were just a teeny little thing, your papa used to put you in here with the gators. Man, your mama didn’t like that one little bit. But you was just as happy as a puppy with two tails.” He grinned.
Papa had put her in a pool with alligators? It seemed so cavalier, so unlike him. “I never knew that,” she said. “Wasn’t he scared? Wasn’t I scared?”
“Nah,” Jefferson said. “Gators, they’re easy to predict. It’s people you got to watch out for.” This statement hung in the air between them, and Aurora held out her palms so that Jefferson could place the baby gator across them. She marveled in the perfection of it, the scales etched in miniature on the curve of the animal’s back.
“Your grandpappy,” Jefferson said in a reverent tone, “he was the alligator nuisance man. Nobody in this county knew more about gators than him. He taught me everything I know about ’em.”
“The alligator what?”
“He was the alligator nuisance man for Cooper County. Anybody had a problem with gators, they called your grandpappy, and he’d come out. Wouldn’t shoot ’em, no, not unless they hurt somebody. He’d truss ’em up and relocate ’em.”
Aurora searched her memory for any mention of alligators. Papa had always worn a suit and tie to his
Aurora threw the car into reverse, and with a turn of her head, caught sight of the house. It was set off the road at an angle, as though turning a shoulder to her, its shuttered windows facing the bayou. Aurora pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, stepping outside into the slickness of the late afternoon humidity. The last of the sun’s long fingers grazed the bayou’s surface, the last slice of light hovering on the horizon, outlining the husks of half-sunken cypress trees. Aurora was a city girl and never had been much for nature, but there was something about this landscape that commanded her attention in a way that was more than a little unnerving.
Aurora turned back towards the house. Nobody had lived here for twenty years, and yet it glowed, emanating warmth. Four freshly painted white columns supported a delicate latticed porch like upturned palms. Papa had built this place with his own hands, for his wife, for his children. Wings beat in Aurora’s chest, her spine hardening. This was where she was supposed to have grown up. This should have been her home.
She climbed the steps slowly, drawing her fingers across the polished wood railing. A kiddie pool was wedged in one corner of the porch, one of the cheap plastic ones, translucent with age. It seemed out of place on the otherwise pristine porch. From this vantage point, Aurora could see something rippling the surface of the water. She moved closer.
It took her a moment to identify what they were; four black shapes arrayed in a diamond at the pool’s warped plastic bottom. Alligators. Baby ones, it appeared, each one no longer than her forearm. Aurora knelt by the pool’s edge and dipped a hand in the water, running her index finger along the ridges of one of the tiny prehistoric bodies.
“Dadgummit, they sure are cute, ain’t they?”
The voice behind her had the same sugared drawl as Papa. The man crouched next to her, his sun-battered face next to her own. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies with a thick beard and an Army-fatigue-colored fishing hat.
“They’re so tiny—it’s amazing.”
“Jefferson Gibbs,” he said, grasping her hand. “And you must be Aurora.” He scooped up one of the baby gators and held it aloft, like an offering. “I’ve been looking after these little fellas since your family left. Didn’t have the heart to just release the little fellas. You remember the gators? I remember when you were just a teeny little thing, your papa used to put you in here with the gators. Man, your mama didn’t like that one little bit. But you was just as happy as a puppy with two tails.” He grinned.
Papa had put her in a pool with alligators? It seemed so cavalier, so unlike him. “I never knew that,” she said. “Wasn’t he scared? Wasn’t I scared?”
“Nah,” Jefferson said. “Gators, they’re easy to predict. It’s people you got to watch out for.” This statement hung in the air between them, and Aurora held out her palms so that Jefferson could place the baby gator across them. She marveled in the perfection of it, the scales etched in miniature on the curve of the animal’s back.
“Your grandpappy,” Jefferson said in a reverent tone, “he was the alligator nuisance man. Nobody in this county knew more about gators than him. He taught me everything I know about ’em.”
“The alligator what?”
“He was the alligator nuisance man for Cooper County. Anybody had a problem with gators, they called your grandpappy, and he’d come out. Wouldn’t shoot ’em, no, not unless they hurt somebody. He’d truss ’em up and relocate ’em.”
Aurora searched her memory for any mention of alligators. Papa had always worn a suit and tie to his
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