Bayou

CROC'S ORIGIN THREE

Time flowed like the canal, constant, and seasons came and passed. Croc turned five, celebrating with a candy bar from the stockpile, and a coloring book Harlan had hidden away. It was the first year Harlan hadn't made him a cake, but his T Crocodile took the bad news in stride, just as he had everything else.

Harlan was grateful for a slow death. As his body decayed, Croc's independence grew. He couldn't cook, but he'd pick vegetables and wash them, and he and Harlan would eat them raw. The few times Harlan had mustered the energy to travel to the garden, he could tell the boy was watering, even planting, but hadn't done much else. Harlan hated seeing it overgrown and full of weeds, but the amount Croc had accomplished made up for it.

The boy would eat; that was all that mattered.

Harlan kept his gun on him, as if expecting his death to come with a ten-minute warning. He wouldn't allow himself to succumb inside the house, knowing the boy would have no way of removing his body afterward. When he felt he was too far gone, he'd say his goodbyes and allow the canal to float him somewhere far enough Croc wouldn't hear the bullet.

But not yet. Harlan still had a little time left to spend with his grandson. He took pictures, so Croc would remember him, and told him how much Pappy loved him, hoping he'd remember that too. He told him all the stories he had to tell, both truth and fiction, but he also shared the quiet. The absolute stillness that existed when alone. That way, once he was gone, maybe Croc would feel him in it. Sense that his Pappy was still there, in the silent echoes, the same way Harlan felt Mama and Papa were with him now.

The sun was bright, warming his skin as he sat on the dock. Croc was cross legged at the end of it, watching the canal. Moments like these, Harlan could see himself in him, like a new harvest taking place of the old, the same way he had taken place of his papa.

"Look," Croc said, pointing as a gator emerged to sun itself on a log.

Harlan smiled, then lifted his camera and snapped a photo. The film whirred as it printed, and he pulled it free, giving it a light shake before adding it to the stack on his lap. A cool breeze blew over him. Harlan closed his eyes, and breathed it in. Peace wasn't a place. It wasn't a swamp or a town. It was a moment.

"Pappy?" Croc jumped up and scampered back to stand half-hidden behind Harlan's chair.

Harlan's eyes sprang open, going first to his grandson, then to the fishing boat just drifting into view. "Go inside," Harlan ordered. He listened for the sound of the door behind him before standing from his chair. The gun rested heavy in the waistband of his trousers.

The man driving the boat wasn't as thin as the people in town, but he was just as dirty. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and nothing else. Harlan took stock of how well-built the man was, increasing his unease. Not that it would take much to outmatch Harlan nowadays.

"Afternoon," Harlan said, neither rude nor friendly. It wasn't unheard of for a fisherman to find his way through Harlan's spot, but it wasn't common either. Nor likely.

The man nodded, then slowed the boat to a stop by the dock. "Afternoon," he said as he loosely tied a rope around the post.

Harlan wasn't sure how to react. Every single one of his muscles tensed. The way the man was behaving, you'd have thought he'd set out to visit. As if he were expected.

"Can I help you?" Harlan rested a hand on his side, readying himself to grab the gun.

The man, having already climbed out, smiled as he approached. "I sure hope so. You Harlan Boudreaux?"

Harlan didn't answer right away. He knew this wasn't a friendly visit. It didn't matter if the man smiled. Didn't matter that he sounded nice enough. There was an underlying bad to him, like a dead thing coated in perfume. "Who's askin'?"