Mermaids in the Basement Page 15

  Right before Thanksgiving, Shelby bought a full-grown dog, a Rottweiler mix. According to her former owner, the dog’s name was Grendel. It hated kennels, dog food, and the hand of a stranger unless it was firmly between her teeth. “And she just loves to run in the woods,” Shelby said. “She’s a good squirrel catcher.”

  I got the feeling that she’d bought it for protection, seeing as I was gone every weekend. She even let it sleep on my side of the bed. Gladys didn’t like the dog and wouldn’t let it get near Renata. I got a kick when she’d take a soup bone and lure the dog onto the porch. Grendel would stretch out on the wooden planks, the bone propped up between her paws, long ropes of saliva hanging from her jaw. Whenever Shelby walked by, Grendel would drop the bone and scramble to her feet, pushing her muzzle against the screen and whining.

  “Poor baby,” Shelby would say, then she’d go outside and sit with the dog. I wasn’t a bit surprised when she insisted on bringing the animal with us to Point Clear. Honora was having a big Thanksgiving dinner, and the whole DeChavannes clan was invited, plus Mama’s friends.

  “I don’t know about that, baby,” I said. “Honora doesn’t like dogs in her house.”

  “She lets Isabella’s Yorkies run all over,” she said.

  “Yeah, but they’re little. Grendel is big as a donkey.”

  When we got to Point Clear, Grendel snapped at Aunt Ida, and Chaz put the dog in the pool house. Shelby didn’t like it, but she didn’t say anything until we got ready for bed. We were leaving early in the morning to go quail hunting at her daddy’s camp near Independence. I’d never shot a gun, but here lately, it was all that Shelby talked about.

  My family didn’t hunt—they went boating—but most everyone hunted quail from Thanksgiving until Christmas Day. They treated their guns like members of the family, passed down each generation along with the sterling silver and jewelry. Like Judge Stevens said, “Louisiana is Sportsman’s Paradise, no matter what you are hunting.”

  Honora had invited so many people for Thanksgiving, she’d set up a buffet in the dining room and placed card tables in four rooms. Shelby and Renata sat with Honora and Chaz; I was seated in the library next to Isabella, who’d brought a sweet potato casserole. I ate three helpings, which just tickled her to pieces. Later that night, my stomach began to cramp. Shelby put on a pink baby-doll gown, then grabbed her pillow and turned out of our room. “Where you going?” I called.

  “The pool house,” she said. “I can’t let Grendel sleep all by herself.”

  “What about me? I’m sick.” I rubbed my stomach.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a cool hand on my forehead.

  “I ate too much of Isabella’s sweet potatoes,” I said.

  “Oh, Louie, no.” Her eyes widened. “Didn’t you hear what she did last Easter?”

  I shook my head.

  “She mixed Ex-Lax into the chocolate mousse. Apparently some of the guests couldn’t make it to the bathroom and they ran out into the bay.”

  “That’s terrible. Why would she do that?”

  “She was trying to make her mother-in-law sick,” said Shelby. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Wish you’d said something earlier.” I fell back against the bed, one hand over my eyes.

  “There’s Pepto-Bismol in the bathroom.” She blew me a kiss, then hurried out of the room. The next morning, I was still queasy when we packed the car and drove over to her daddy’s hunting lodge. From the backseat, Grendel whined, then began to pant, sending fishy smells in my direction. When I twirled the dial on the radio, she whined and circled the seat a few times.

  “She wants you to turn it down,” said Shelby, reaching over to snap off the radio.

  Grendel’s pink tongue slid back and forth in the groove between her incisors. She was breathing so hard, the windows were fogging up.

  “Maybe you should turn on the defrost?” Shelby drew her finger through condensation on the windshield.

  “Look, do you want to drive?” I frowned. My knuckles turned white as I squeezed the wheel. It was a long way to Independence, and I wished I’d just stayed in Point Clear and let Mama feed me broth and dry toast.

  “Sorry, baby,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a backseat driver.”

  I hunched toward the dashboard and stared at the highway. Actually, I was feeling pretty bad and was halfway hoping she’d drive. I glanced in the backseat, watching Grendel pace. The gray hairs on her muzzle pleased me in a perverse way. I cracked open the window, and the car filled with the scent of pines and creek water.

  “By the way,” she said. “Kip Quattlebaum is joining us.”

  “Who?”

  “You remember Kip. He was at Uncle Nigel’s party.”

  “That hairdresser?” I laughed. “Can he hunt?”

  “What does it matter?” She shrugged. “You don’t.”

  Shelby had been hunting many times with her father, but I’d never gone. I didn’t see the point of killing birds. I glanced over at her, but she turned around, staring out the window. I wanted to ask why the hell she’d invited that hairdresser. Then I remembered how they’d danced, and I wondered if this was serious. Had she been in contact with him? And if so, for what purpose?

  Without taking my eyes from the road, I lifted one hand from the wheel and squeezed her hand. “You’re awfully quiet,” I said, glancing sideways. She didn’t respond, so I put my hand back on the wheel again, and Grendel grunted, breathing hard against the glass.

  “You think your daddy will approve of Grendel?” I asked, stifling a belch.

  “Sure, he likes dogs.”

  It was dusk when I turned the Triumph down a rough paved road. The ground looked dusty, as if it hadn’t rained up here in weeks. Then I pulled into a long gravel driveway. Farther down the drive, lights burned in the windows of a white clapboard house. Judge Stevens sat on the front porch, cracking pecans. He set down the bowl and got up from the swing. A yellow tomcat followed him down the steps, his furry belly swinging back and forth.

  “I was starting to worry about you all,” Judge Stevens said, shaking my hand. Then he hugged Shelby. “Louie, you still planning to go quail hunting tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shelby ran back to the car and opened the car door for Grendel. The dog hopped stiff-legged into the gravel and eyed the Arabian mare in the pasture. The mare had a five-month-old filly by her side. The hair along Grendel’s back lifted. She started running along the fence, barking, and the horses cantered into the trees.

  “You stop that, Grendel!” Shelby clapped her hands. The dog turned away from the fence and growled at the cat. It leaped to the Triumph’s roof. After a moment, it lifted its paw and licked the fur in short, bone-smoothing strokes. One ear was scabbed on the triangular point.

  Grendel started barking again, running in circles. The tom seemed insulted; he stopped licking his paw and stared. Grendel paced back and forth, whining, then she spun in circles, chasing her stubby tail, biting air.

  “Grendel! What’s the matter with you?” called Shelby. “Bad girl. Bad, bad girl!” She isn’t the only one, I thought.

  I awakened before dawn to the smell of biscuits. My stomach churned, but I somehow got dressed and stumbled into the kitchen. Judge Stevens stood next to the stove, holding a stick of butter.

  “There you are, Louie,” he said. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, sir.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, peering into the tidy kitchen. A yellow dishrag lay folded on the sink. A sweet potato sat in a Ball jar, its roots forked out in cloudy water. Judge Stevens came up to Independence every weekend, even when it wasn’t hunting season. His wife always stayed in Covington. He opened the oven, grabbed a potholder, and slid out the biscuit pan. He’d built a little world here without Mrs. Stevens.

  “Coffee’s almost ready,” said the judge, setting the pan on the counter. “Shelby told me that you like your coffee first thing of a morning.”
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  “Normally I do,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “My gut hasn’t felt right since the big feast.”

  “There’s Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet.” Judge Stevens started buttering the biscuits. “Me and Emma just ate turkey pot pies for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  I lowered my head, ashamed that we hadn’t invited them to Honora’s dinner; but Shelby’s mama was taking powerful psychiatric medicines, and they were affecting her in strange ways. Ever since I’d known Emma Stevens, she’d been a shut-in, but the new drugs made her sleepwalk. Although I didn’t know the details, the last time the Stevenses had visited Point Clear, Emma had apparently messed up Honora’s gardens.

  Shelby walked into the room and sat down, lacing her boots. She looked over at me and waved her hand. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I nodded, glancing down at my green corduroy slacks, new Justin boots, and a green flannel shirt. But I’d heard something in her voice. “Do I need to change clothes?”

  “No, you’re fine.” She picked up a biscuit and bit into it. Butter dripped down her chin, and she wiped it off with her sleeve. I knew she was still mad about my moonlighting job. Behind her, the windowpanes were beaded in moisture. Way over the trees, the sun broke open like an egg yolk, running into the ground.

  Grendel sulked around the room, sniffing those biscuits. Then her ears perked and she growled. A moment later, I heard gravel spitting, and I pushed back the curtain. A brown truck lumbered up the driveway, with two dogs hanging their heads out the window. A man climbed out and walked toward the house. He wore a hat, faded jeans, a camouflage jacket, and a vest.

  “Is that your friend?” Judge Stevens asked Shelby.

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded. “That’s Kip Quattlebaum. He’s a fine hunter.”

  “And a beautician.” I dropped the curtain, and it swung over the glass.

  My father-in-law laughed and poured coffee into a mug. “Louie, sure you don’t want coffee? It’s good and hot.”

  “No, thank you.”

  The door opened, and Kip stepped inside the kitchen, bringing the smell of cold air and damp pine needles. He stamped his feet against the chill. His eyes looked strange, too colorful, almost like a woman’s.

  “He pulled off his cap, and curly auburn hair flopped over his collar.

  “Daddy, this is Kip Quattlebaum.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Judge Stevens handed Kip a mug of coffee. “Shelby’s been bragging about you. Says you’re a fine hunter.”

  “No, sir. I’ve just got good bird dogs.” Kip sipped the coffee, and a wisp of steam curled above his head.

  “Shelby’s a good little hunter,” said Judge Stevens. “She was six when she shot her first dove. She can’t be beat skinning quail.”

  “Oh, poo.” She laughed and waved her hand. “He’s exaggerating.”

  “Don’t be modest.” Judge Stevens tipped his head back and smiled.

  I reached down and rubbed Grendel’s neck. “You ready to hunt, girl?”

  “You can’t take that dog!” Two patches of color spread across the judge’s cheeks.

  “Why not?” I looked down at Grendel. “She’s a good squirrel dog. Isn’t she, Shelby?”

  My wife looked out the window. Judge Stevens and Kip exchanged glances. “She isn’t a bird dog,” said my father-in-law. “And pardon me for saying so, but she doesn’t look like much of a squirrel dog, either.”

  “Well, she’s supposed to be.” I looked down at Grendel, then grabbed her head. “Aren’t you a hunting dog, girl?”

  She responded with a growl, then snapped at my hand. Judge Stevens’s forehead puckered. He scratched the side of his neck and looked at me. Kip turned toward the counter and poured another cup of coffee. He glanced over at me. “A well-trained bird dog is worth thousands of dollars,” he said.

  I looked down at Grendel but said nothing. Shelby had to know this. What was she trying to pull?

  “Have you ever, you know, shot a gun?” asked Kip.

  I hated to lie, but I said, “Sure I have.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. My daddy had started to collect guns from the Civil War era, and he let me shoot some type of musket at a reenactment. He belonged to a society of Civil War buffs and spent hundreds of dollars on memorabilia and elaborate costumes. Three times this year he’d taken off for one battlefield or another and pitched a tent, cooking his food over an open fire and pretending to be General DeChavannes. My mother refused to attend these events and thought my father lived in a fantasy world.

  Judge Stevens was waiting for an answer, but I couldn’t lie. He sat down at the table and rubbed his chin. His hand whisked over the gray stubble. Behind him Kip leaned against the sink. “Are you talking about a BB gun or a shotgun or what?”

  “It was a Civil War gun,” I said, and Shelby put her hand over her mouth.

  “You’re teasing, right?” Kip laughed. “You couldn’t of fought in that war.”

  “My father collects antique guns,” I said.

  “All right, then,” said Judge Stevens. “Then you probably know the basics. But in quail hunting, there’s ethics and rules involved.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. I was starting to get mad, like the three of them had ganged up on me.

  “Well, that’s all right,” said the judge. “We’ll give you a crash course later on.”

  “Don’t tell me—gun safety?” I said.

  “Well, that, too. But there’s other things. For instance, did you know it’s unethical for a hunter to shoot a quail on the ground?”

  “I thought quail lived in the bushes.”

  “Well, they mostly do, but no hunter worth his bullets shoots anything, and I mean anything, but an airborne quail. Ever. And on a covey rise, one hunter takes the left field, the other takes the right. A third hunter takes the center. We rotate singles. That’s going to be Shelby’s job. She keeps up with singles.”

  “Singles?” I asked.

  “It’s one bird.” Kip smiled.

  By the time we reached the cornfields, it was daylight. Kip’s dogs loped ahead, scattering and sniffing the brush. The field shimmered beneath a layer of hoarfrost. Late November in Louisiana wasn’t normally this cold. This far south, there was no seasonal change; the trees on Judge Stevens’s farm were mostly pine in the highlands, but nearer the swampy areas, the hardwoods began: water oaks, hickory, and gum.

  My father-in-law handed Shelby a shotgun. Behind her, the sky was turning blue, and the air felt so cold our breath rose in white threads. I looked at the polished wood, the hollow black barrel. The judge and Kip gripped Winchester pumps.

  “Don’t I get a rifle?” I stifled another belch.

  “You’d best not,” said the judge, straightening his LSU hat.

  “It’s not a rifle,” Shelby whispered into my ear. “It’s a shotgun.”

  Straight ahead, the largest pointer froze in front of a group of bushes; the dog’s tail jutted straight out, his front paw lifted toward his shoulder. Kip walked over to the first bush and started kicking underbrush. Shelby had told me about this—it was the moment that always set her pulse to hammering, flushing the birds, waiting for the sudden flight of the covey. The dog held the position while Kip continued to stamp. There was a deafening noise as the quail ripped away from the bush. Shelby pointed her gun toward the left field. Keeping both eyes open, she looked down the barrel, picked out a bird, and squeezed the trigger. The blast echoed. The bird dropped to the ground, a dark speck moving against the blue sky.

  Judge Stevens and Kip were still firing. From the woods, a flock of starlings squawked. The smell of gunpowder was strong.

  “Did you see where that single went?” Kip asked Shelby.

  “Toward the woods. Right there.”

  “Did you get one, honey?” I asked my wife.

  “Of course she got one.” Judge Stevens laughed. The dogs raced across the yellow field to retrieve the fallen birds. The setter dropped
a quail at Shelby’s feet; the big pointer loped forward, his mouth slightly open, but there was no sign of the quail.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Judge Stevens. “Did he eat them, or what?”

  The dog walked up to Kip and dropped four good-sized quail beside his boots. He reached down, stroked the dog’s head.

  “How’d he fit four birds in his mouth?” I asked.

  “Atta dog, Duke,” Kip said. “That’s a good boy.”

  “Didn’t leave a mark, either.” Judge Stevens reached in his jacket and pulled out .20 gauge shells. “That’s one helluva good dog.”

  After the judge and Kip collected the birds, securing them in their waist pouches, Kip held up a whistle and blew. The dogs cocked their heads, waiting for a hand signal. He shifted his palm left, and the dogs immediately turned, taking up the scent.

  It was afternoon when I made my first kill. The dogs pointed at a thicket. Kip started kicking the bushes, and Judge Stevens coached me. “No, son,” he said. “Don’t squint. Keep both eyes open, son. That’s right, you’ve got it. And when you get ready to fire, squeeze the trigger.”

  Kip stamped another bush. He jumped backward when the bobwhites ripped away from the thicket, tiny feathers wafting in the air.

  “Now.” Judge Stevens stepped back. “Pick out your bird and fire.”

  The report knocked me backward. To my surprise, a bird fell straight down. I whirled around, clutching the gun, looking for my wife.

  “Shelby! Did you see? I got one!” As I stepped forward, my shoe caught on a hickory root, and I tumbled forward. I threw out my hands to break the fall. The gun hit the ground and discharged. The blast hit Judge Stevens.

  “Daddy!” cried Shelby.

  Judge Stevens fell to the ground and didn’t move. I got up and ran over to him, searching his clothes for blood. The left shoulder of his jacket was turning red. Shelby pushed me away and lifted her daddy’s head.