Southern Son

Southern Son

by Cynthia Booker

The Southern son shielded his eyes and gazed up toward the blistering Southern sun. Ben hoped that if he followed its slow, relentless arc across the sky, he would find his way out of this God-forsaken marsh. He was confused by recent events that put him in this predicament, but the will to survive drove him to action.

 Wielding a long, sturdy stick, he followed an animal path, steadily sweeping the ground ahead for snakes soaking up the sun, or other critters hidden in the tall grasses. He figured all sorts of dangerous animals used this trail and, with renewed belief, he was praying for protection to any God willing to listen.

How had he gotten into this mess anyway? He knew better than to go fishing with Johnny and Trevor. They were trouble in high school but, back then, he ran right along with them. In those days nothing pleased him more than getting in trouble and embarrassing his stodgy lawyer-turned-state representative father.

In the family tradition, Ben went to the University of Georgia, where he was a Big Man on Campus. He was currently a law student at Harvard, following in his father’s footsteps like an obedient son who accepted the price of his privilege.  He had given up cut-offs and crabbing, afternoons spent drinking beer, smoking weed, cruising the canals and cutting through the marsh in a dinky Jon boat powered by an unreliable trolling motor. These days he was more likely to be seen on his Catalina Day Sailor, manning the helm in Bermuda shorts, a polo shirt and topsiders.

His high school buddies, however, weren’t possessed of the same pedigree, or any pedigree, for that matter. They had been doomed to a life of labor, lucky if they could learn a trade and get a union job. Trevor was married with a baby, Johnny had served two years in the Army, both currently worked on the docks. Johnny and Trevor may have become adults with responsibilities, but they had changed little since high school. In a futile attempt to relive those glory days, they still got drunk and raised hell as often as possible.

The pair were bored, cruising the streets and drinking beer in Johnny’s beat-up Chevy Camaro on that sweltering Saturday afternoon. They spied Ben exiting the ritzy DeSoto Hotel, laughing and talking with a well-dressed group. Circling around the block, they returned as Ben was waving goodbye, and starting off down the street. 

Both were howling at the sight of their old friend, dressed in a blue seersucker suit and sporting a bow tie. “Damn boy, your mama start dressing you again?” Johnny laughed as they pulled up beside him. “We thought you were old Judge Turner at first. How you doin, Ben?” 

Ben sighed to himself, thinking it was going to be difficult to shake these boys. They would love nothing better than to spend their afternoon drinking on his dime in some dive bar. Because of his privilege, he would be expected to good-naturedly laugh off their incessant ribbing and pay the tab, but not without lobbing off his own retorts. 

“Hey fellas. I heard you were both regulars in the judge’s courtroom. I see you’ve still got the same Camaro, Johnny.” Ben pulled out the keys to his mother’s vintage powder blue Mercedes convertible as he approached the car. “Well, it’s good to see you both. Never change gentlemen, never change.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You ain’t getting away that easy. We know you’re here for your cousin’s fancy wedding, but you got time for a beer.” Johnny said, waving his arm back and forth. “I’m parking, and we’ll meet you in the pub across the street. We won’t take no for an answer.”

“Ok, one beer,” Ben conceded. He tossed his bow tie and jacket into the car and walked across the street rolling up his sleeves, preparing to laugh at their same stale jokes and feign interest in their juvenile antics. After two beers, a great deal of mocking, and a promise to go fishing with them in the morning, Ben slapped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and made his escape. Still the same crass losers they’ve always been, he thought as he started the Mercedes and glided down the street.

That evening the chandeliers glittered, and the champagne flowed at his cousin’s mansion-set wedding. Ben was the most eligible and charming bachelor at the celebration. The debutantes gushed and giggled while their mothers slipped phone numbers into his pocket with a whispered “Call me anytime.” in his ear. It was very late before he stumbled to bed, tossing the numbers in the trash and hoping to God his high school buddies would forget about an early morning fishing trip.

A hint of daylight peeped through the curtains as he rolled over and tried to silence an obnoxious alarm that was blaring into the back of his skull. Realizing the sound was a car horn, Ben thought, dear God, kill me now, as he opened the window and yelled down, “Jesus Christ. I’m coming. Shut the hell up!”

  As the trio launched the aluminum boat into the water, the early morning sun reflected off the wing of a startled great blue heron taking flight. Ben had always been seduced by the dark, mysterious waters of the marshes and the startling prehistoric qualities of the native flora and fauna, so he relaxed and hoped for an enjoyable morning of wildlife sightings. Trevor pulled up and baited empty crab traps as Johnny guided them through the winding creeks and canals of the marsh and Ben listened as they reminisced about the “good old days”.  

Two hours later, the hot, muggy air lay over them like a film of algae on the stagnant pool of a motionless bog. The marsh flies were the size of Ben’s model planes that still sat on the shelf in his childhood bedroom. He was thirsty and hungover, and ready to get out of this piece-of-shit boat with these two developmentally stunted rubes who seemed determined to keep going. 

Peering into the cooler and seeing only beer, Ben slammed the lid closed. “Are you kidding me? You idiots didn’t bring any water?”

Trevor laughed, “We don’t need water when we got beer, that’s the medicine you need for that champagne hangover you got going. Besides, we couldn’t afford that fancy French water you little rich boys drink.”

Johnny pulled three cans out of the cooler. “Come on trust-fund baby, have a beer.”

Ben snatched the can from Johnny and stood up in the wobbly boat. “You hicks can both go fuck yourselves. I need to meet my family for lunch at the club and I certainly don’t want any of this cheap-ass rot-gut you call beer.”

“Ooh, the Club.” Trevor reached up and grasped his arm. “Sit down rich boy before you capsize the boat. We’ll go back when we’re ready to go back.”

“Get your hands off me, you stupid redneck!” Ben yelled as he grabbed Trevor’s arm and shoved hard. It seemed like he was watching in slow motion as Trevor hit his head, fell into the water, and sank into the inky depths.

“What the...” Johnny rose, looking down at bubbles rising to the surface of the water, then gaping at Ben, who was frozen in shock. “What did you do?” he screamed as he kicked off his shoes preparing to dive into the dark water to save his friend.

Events swirled and jumbled together in his mind until Ben wasn’t sure what had happened, or why he was alone in the menacing water. He became conscious of his surroundings as he struggled onto a small clearing of land that led to a well-used animal trail through the marsh. 

As his determination to survive propelled him forward in search of salvation, the sun bore down like a white-hot laser beam, scorching every inch of exposed flesh. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, suffocating his words and spinning his thoughts into a psychedelic world where he flung deadly snakes from the path and ran in fear.

Reaching a creek, he fell to his knees to wet his mouth with the brackish water. As Ben’s memory returned, he recalled the sight of Trevor slowly sinking and disappearing in the murky water as the last breath of his life bubbled to the surface. He wasn’t sure what had made him swing the oar at Johnny, or when the boat had capsized. 

The reality of the day’s events began to come into focus, and he reached into the dark water to splash his face. Staring down, a bony hand appeared out of the blackness, reaching up to pull him down into the ominous abyss. His heart raced with fear as he scrambled back from the terrifying image. He had to get out of there.

Looking up, he saw an old woman in a rickety-looking flat boat paddling down the creek toward him. He summoned all his energy and stood, waving his arms. She wore layers of ragged skirts, aprons and scarves beneath an unbuttoned, tattered men’s shirt. A crumpled straw hat sat atop her braided gray hair. As she approached, he struggled to ask if she could help him. 

“Mebbe, for a fee. Ain’t nothin free out on the marsh,” She replied, and spit a stream of tobacco juice into the tannin-stained waters.

“Drink?” he rasped.

She handed him a mason jar of clear liquid.  Ben greedily took a large swallow assuming it was water, then choked and coughed, gasping for breath as he realized it was moonshine.

With a cackle, she flashed him a toothless grin and took a long swig from the jar.

“I can pay you. I don’t have any money right now, but I can get plenty.”

“I don’t give credit boy.”

“I can pay. My family is rich.”

“You think I care about your family?” She leaned forward to peer at him, mentally sizing up his value. “Come on then, I’ll take you.”

“Thank you, I couldn’t have survived out here much longer,” he breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the front bench.

  “So I see. So I see.” she mumbled and shoved off the bank.

The old woman was paddling straight into the sun. The light was blinding, his Ray-Bans felt like they were melting to his face as the heat magnified to unbearable levels. Reaching into the creek for relief, Ben quickly snatched his hand out of the steaming water. He turned to the old woman who was contentedly paddling and humming an eerie tune. “Where are you taking me?” he stammered, his eyes widening in panic.

She removed her dark glasses and looked at him with her rheumy, cataract-clouded eyes. “Same place you were going without me, boy, but this way I get paid,” she replied, and snickered as she pulled onto a small clearing. He turned toward the blinding light as a bony hand reached out and dropped a bag of coins into the old woman’s hand, then grabbed Ben’s arm and easily tossed him ashore.

“Don’t worry boy. It’ll be quick now,” he heard her say as she pushed off and made her way back upstream. Fear and regret consumed him as the old woman’s cackle receded into his conscience and he surrendered to the blinding hot light that incinerated and absorbed the last of his being.