Second Installment: Swamp Tour

by Pat Laster

AFTER RHODA AND TIMOTHY, Henry Elmas was the next to come aboard. Major Doke did a double take when he saw the man dressed in a business suit. “Are you sure . . . ?” he asked.

THE MAN RAISED his palm as if he knew the question. “It’s okay. I’ve got more suits where this came from and I own the cleaners.”

HENRY WAS CONSIDERED a prince when it came to clothing and a master at stamp collecting. He had inherited a school––abandoned since integration––from a distant relative. He moved to southern Louisiana while he considered whether to keep the campus, or to sell it.

ONE THING HE DIDN’T have that he thought he needed was alligator shoes. On this trip, he wanted to see an animal that might provide such footwear worthy of his Brooks Brothers suits.

PLUCKING HIS SNOWY white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, Henry Elmas brushed off a place on the bench opposite Rhoda and Timothy. He sat, caught their eyes and nodded.

THE LAST PASSENGER, Bryan Creston, shuffled aboard wearing a necklace of binoculars. He looked to be about thirty; a photographer’s bag dangled from his right shoulder. When Doke’s eyebrows questioned him, Bryan said, “I left the tripod behind.”

“GOOD!” THE GUIDE replied, his smile lost on the man who reeked as he passed into the aluminum boat. Creston sat away from Elmas but on the same bench. The photographer-painter knew he smelled; his mother had reminded him several times to shower. But he didn’t have time. Showering took precious minutes away from his artistic passion.

BRYAN CRESTON’S PICTURES were scenes of gates––wire gates, wooden gates, marble gates. Myopic, he refused to buy glasses. He said his binoculars allowed him to see well enough to aim his camera. He transferred to canvas his photos of gates. Most of them appeared impressionistic.

WITH ALL PASSENGERS aboard, Doke Amos gunned the motor and sped up Bayou Greeno. The wind was cold this early, even in September. Rhoda quickly tied a scarf around her hair. Bryan pulled on a knit cap that came down to his eyes. Timothy’s dirty ball cap with a picture of a crawfish on it flew off and landed in the water. The Suit’s neatly coiffed dark hair disappeared in the wind, leaving a bald head on top and a frizzy rope of gray around the edges. This paragon of fashion hadn’t thought to wear or bring a hat.

DOKE SAW THE MAN’S discomfort, reached under the console, then held out a white captain’s hat with a black bill. Henry accepted it with obvious relief and turned the bill to the back so it wouldn’t catch the wind like his expensive rug had. It belied his elegance, but when in the swamp. . .

THE FLATBOAT THAT LOOKED like a party barge moved swiftly. After a few minutes, Major Doke maneuvered the boat to the edge of the swamp where layers of mud were visible, each one deposited after a heavy rain. This was crawfish country. Timothy donned his boots, took his tools and jumped out onto a sandbar.
"I'LL BE BACK IN thirty minutes,” Doke Amos shouted.

c 2012 TO BE CONTINUED