The Night Watchman

He comes to work just before closing time, as he does every night. His uniform is pressed, cap on his head, belt with keys and other useless stuff hanging on his hip. Every evening, he politely listens to whatever the man from the day shift wants to tell him. He knows nothing will happen. All will be well. He'll make sure.

After he has smiled warmly, listening to everyone wishing him a cheerful goodnight, after he has locked up and turned off most of the lights, he walks to the small side room and sits on the bench.

The man sits quietly and watches the painting of a small cabin, floating on the waters of the bayou. The cabin is painted green to be hidden better among the shadows of whatever grows there. On the back porch, peeking around the corner is a dog, a generous term for the mangy mutt. The man can almost hear the soft chuff, half a greeting, half a warning to whoever is home.

On the front porch are two rocking chairs, just this side of worm-eaten and water-logged. The cabin leans to the right. It either wasn't made to take the weight of the stove or one of the pontoons is leaking. Or both. The roof has been patched and patched again but is holding for now.

He can taste the hot humid air, a petri dish for mold, that smells of decay, and is thick with the sounds of frogs, cricket and mosquitoes. The water is still except for the occasional splash of a fish snapping at an insect and the gentle ripple telling him an alligator has slipped into the water.

He sits still and watches as the moonlight paints the bayou silver, richly spattered with diamonds and onyx. He listens when at daybreak the bayou falls silent. He sees the pale early morning light filter through the moss and kudzu and sparkle off the ever-present moisture that hangs in the still air.

Just about the time his shift ends, he hears Perry the dog that has adopted the family, huff his soft welcome while it wags its threadbare tail. The man nods. All is well. His work is done for the night.

^*^*^

Maya, clutching the bowl with cornbread fixings to her chest, looks up when she hears Perry and sighs with relief. Mamma is home.

"Git up, lazy bones." Maya nudges the bed. Rhonda stirs but rolls over again. Shaking her head, Maya puts the bowl on the table and pulls the covers off the twelve-year-old girl. She throws a wet washcloth at her. "Up, I said. Mamma's home."

While Rhonda does a perfunctory sponge bath, Maya spreads the cornbread mixture in the baking pan and shoves it in the oven. She steps out on the porch and catches the line mamma throws her.

Did-ya do good, Mamma?"

The old woman shrugs. "So, so. Picked up some bacon. Think you can fix us some?"

Maya grins. "Yes, ma'am. Reckon I can."

"Rhonda up yet?" The old woman groans as she makes the leap from the punt to the porch.

"Just now."

As soon as the bacon is crisp and the drippings poured over the cornbread, they sit down to eat.

Perry whines from the back porch. Maya looks out the side window. Sends mamma a look and reaches for a rifle. She tosses it toward mamma and grabs one for herself.

"Who's comin'?" Rhonda whispers.

"Do-kno yet. Cain't see." Maya mumbles. The sound of a small outboard motor echoes off the cypress stumps and water, making it hard to tell the direction. But Perry knows. Giving a good imitation of a pointer, he steadily looks toward the east.

"There." Maya whispers. Mamma grunts. They see the gentle ripples that precede the small boat as it chugs toward them. The man is alone. One hand on the tiller of the outboard, the other hand up, showing he's unarmed.

"Who's that?"

Mamma lowers her rifle. "Set another plate, Rhonda." She mumbles. "Didn't think he'd come today."

Who, Mamma?" Maya asks as she lowers her rifle. She watches the tall man, folded up in the back of the small boat. His straight brown hair is plastered against his forehead. Sweat stains darken his shirt.

A few minutes later the four of them sit at the table, chicory and cornbread in front of them. "This here is Martin Cleeves. He's with the State. There seems to be a group of men who claim to have bought our bayou." Mamma sighs and shakes her head.

"They can't, can they? It's y'all's land, ain't it? And the Martines and Fayettes and ..." Rhonda sputters.

Mamma holds up her hand. "That's why he's here, child. To survey the bayou."

"How do you survey water, Mr. Cleeves?" Maya asks. "Don-cha need some stable landmark?"

"Well, we start with court records, to establish boundaries and title. When they didn't find any records, the consortium figured it was theirs to take. The state wants to make sure."

"What does this consortium want with a swamp, Mr. Cleeves?" She pushes.

"As far as I know, they mean to reclaim the land, build cities." He shrugs.

Maya laughs. "Everyone knows that it'll take a hundred years, at least to fill up the bayou, or drain it, either way. It ain't called a swamp for not'in'." She motions for him to follow her out on the porch. "See that cypress stump with the flag on it?" She points toward the south.

Martin squints and shakes his head. "No, I don't."

"Exactly! 'Cause it sank into the mud. Mama's great granddaddy marked that as one of the property lines, but that stump was last seen, oh forty or so years ago. We all know it's there, but y'all have to take our word for it."

But it's not in the court records."

Mamma 's come out on the porch as well. The little cabin lists ever so slightly. "Young man, back when my great granddaddy marked this here land, there were no records. Not for swamp land, least ways. "The rats can have it" they said. So, the rats took it. It's divided up. Fayettes, Martines, Dilbards, that be us, Shaughnessy and Lincoln." She shrugs and turns to go back inside. "There used to be more, died, moved away. Take him to see the others, girl. Maybe they can talk some sense into him. I's gotta sleep."

"Yes, Ma'am. Rhonda, come on. We'll drop you off at school."

They're gone most of the day. First, they stop by the Martines.

"They want guerre? We'll give them guerre!" Claude Martine is ready to take up arms.

"Best we do this quiet-like, Claude." Maya urges. "You know we cain't do this alone."

Claude pads her shoulder. "Don-cha fret none, fille."

"I's not going nowhere. Ici mon pays." Henri Fayette stands firm, arms crossed over his broad chest. "We know how to scare them Yankees. Non! They ain't seen nothing yet."

Grover Lincoln nods. "Yes, I hear-ya, Maya. But a man has a right to defend his home. Leave it to us, girl."

Finn Shaughnessy hands the bottle around. Maya had warned Martin to "Just pretend. His 'shine'll kill you." Finn spits his chew into the water. "No chance of them getting their hands on this. Don-cha worry, naw."

On the way back to the cabin she mutters to no one in particular. "Passel of hotheads will get everyone killed. All we want is our piece of this water. We have no word with them. But we needs help. I cain't do it. None are listening to me. I's gots to call him home. Mamma won't be happy. She still sore 'cause he up an' left. But nobody is listening to me. To them I's still a girl."

*^*^*

At the end of the workday, he comes to do his shift, again. Uniform neatly pressed. He smiles when the staff bids him goodnight. He carefully locks up and sets the alarm. He sits on the bench and watches the painting.

His breath catches as he watches the old woman who slowly rocks in one of the old porch chairs, her chin resting on her chest. He watches as a small boat with outboard chugs up to the cabin. He sits up a little straighter, frowns and watches the young woman step onto the porch. He watches as she waves to the unfamiliar young man who's leaving in the small boat. He sighs when, later the old woman unties the punt and leaves to go read her cards. He notices as the light fades and the shadows become night. He sees the young woman step onto the porch and look at him.

And he takes note when she makes a beckoning motion with her hand.

The man stands, exhales and nods, takes off his belt and unclips his keys. He places his cap next to the belt and keys on the bench. He takes off his shoes, ties the laces together and drapes the pair around his neck. Without looking back, he walks to the painting and goes home where he's needed.