Johnny Gator (2 page)

Music
sometimes provided a distraction or release, but not always.
 
Rock and roll brought tension and delayed
anger while country tunes often made her cry.
 
Classical and jazz soothed her troubled spirit and traditional Cajun
sounds lifted her mood.
 
So she would
down some herbal tablets, pour some strong iced tea, close her eyes, and let
the music wash over her.
 
Nola listened during
the humid afternoons and the long, steamy nights.
 
She sat on the porch and let the sounds of
the lake blend with fiddles, and an accordion played the way only a Cajun hand
could manage.

After
a week, Nola settled into some semblance of a routine.
 
Her days shifted into evening then night in a
seamless, casual way, and she began to relax.
 
After a sudden, heavy rain shower one afternoon, the sun returned with
bright brilliance and she lingered on the porch when she should have headed
into the kitchen to heat something for a simple supper.
 
She remained there, her bottom in the old
metal lawn chair as the sun began to drop into the trees.
 
Nola watched the orange ball and noticed how
it reflected from the still waters of Caddo.
 
She loved how the vivid hue contrasted with the cool greens and grays of
the lake.

If
she hadn’t been watching the sunset, Nola would never have noticed him until he
maneuvered his johnboat onto the shore.
 
She caught sight of him about fifty feet out, engaged in rowing, muscles
rippling taut beneath his tight T-shirt.
 
Nola came to her feet, startled and more than a little perturbed at the
uninvited appearance.
 
She watched, arms
folded across her chest, as he brought the boat close, jumped out into the knee-high
waters, and pulled it onto the grass.

Whoever
he was, he wasn’t shy.
 
The man strode
toward the house, a brown paper sack folded into a neat package in one hand, a
stringer of fish in the other.
 
He wasn’t
tall but powerfully built, she noticed, more muscle than fat.
 
He moved with more grace than she had
expected.
 
His shoulder-length hair
reminded her of the bayou waters, dark brown but with lighter highlights of
gold shot through it, like the sunshine that filtered through the thick cypress
trees.
 
He wore the simple shirt and worn
blue jeans but his feet were bare.
 
When
he came to a halt about six feet from the front porch, he lifted his head and
smiled.

Prepared
to chew his ass for showing up, Nola smiled back.
 
His cherub face, round with well-formed
features, could almost be called pretty if he hadn’t been so overtly
masculine.
 
He’s got to be French with a face like that,
she thought.
 
She noted his green eyes, bright emeralds
framed with dark, lush eyelashes and topped with slender brows.
 
From the way he grinned, he knew very well how
handsome he was.

“Good
evenin
’,” he called.
 
The Louisiana lilt she expected rang true in his voice. “I hope you
don’t mind,
Miz
Delaney, but I caught more fish than
I can eat and my tomatoes are
puttin
’ out more than I
can use before they rot so I thought I’d be neighborly and share.”

Hmm.
He knew her name but she had no
idea who he might be. “Do I know you?”

He
laughed with a deep, merry rumble. “I doubt it.
 
I’m Jean Batiste
Loutrel
and I live just over
yonder.”

One
slender finger pointed across the lake.
 
If Nola squinted against the setting sun and peered through the curtain
of Spanish moss hanging from the trees, she could see the edge of a brown
structure. “Pleased to meet you, Mister
Loutrel
,” she
said.

“Call
me Johnny,” he said. “Ever ‘body does and it’s easier to wrap your tongue
around.”

Nola
uncrossed her arms and let her tense shoulders sag. “I will if you’ll call me
Nola,” she said. “Come up on the porch, then.”

He
managed to become acquainted with her, something no one had been able to accomplish
since the robbery left her hurt on the supermarket pavement.
 
For whatever reason, Nola let her guard down
and liked him.
 
She had no idea why
except that he seemed safe to her, something she couldn’t explain if her life
depended on it.
 
Maybe it’s because he’s nothing like the guy who messed up my face and
snatched my purse
.
 
The perpetrator
had been tall, slender, and built like a basketball star, with hair lighter
than corn silk in summer.
 
He had beaten
her across the face, grabbed her handbag
,
 
and
knocked her down. Then he slashed
at her leg with a knife so she couldn’t chase him.
 
Or that was the cop’s theory.
 
Nola thought he just had a mean streak and
wanted to hurt her one more time.

“Thank
you,” he said and mounted the few steps.
 
“These fish ought to be cleaned and on ice before long, though.
 
How many can you use? I’ll take the rest home
and have a little fish fry, I reckon.”

Her
absent appetite came to life at the idea of a fish dinner.
 
“It’s white bass, right?”

“Yeah,
you got a good eye, better than most gals.”

“Looks
like there’s a dozen or so on the stringer.”

Johnny
grinned. “And you can count, too. Do you want six of them?”

Nola
shook her head until her hair swung out like a brown silk curtain. “No,
Johnny,” she said. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be or something to do,
I thought I’d just fry them all and ask you to stay for supper.”

His
smile widened. “I’ll accept before you change your mind then.
 
Let me finish cleaning the fish and I’ll
bring ‘
em
into the kitchen if that’s okay.”

She
had shied away from every man since that day and had even refused to let the
cable guy into the house, but Nola nodded. “Sure, it’s fine. I’ll go get things
ready.
 
If you want to hand me the
tomatoes, I’ll peel and slice them.”

 
He gave her the bag and she headed
inside.
 
Nola paused in the relative cool
of the house and drew a breath.
 
Was she
crazy to invite him? Maybe, but it seemed right.
 
She headed for the kitchen, rooted out
cornmeal, salt, and some Cajun seasoning to blend together in a bowl for the
coating.
 
Then she found a paring knife
to peel then slice the tomatoes.
 
A quick
search of the cabinets and fridge yielded a can of pork and beans and five
pounds of golden potatoes.
 
Her hands picked
up the tasks automatically and it felt good to be doing something again, not
brooding.

By
the time Johnny brought the fish—scaled, cleaned, and filleted—through the backdoor,
Nola had cubed potatoes drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt and
pepper roasting in the oven.
 
The sliced
‘maters were in the refrigerator and the cast iron skillet smoked on the stove,
filled with oil and ready to fry fish.
 
Two
tall glasses of iced tea, heavy with sugar Southern style, rested on the
counter, and after she took the fish Nola said, “There’s something I need to
ask you before we get much farther along—how’d you know my name?”

Without
hesitation, he answered, “Your Aunt Ronnie told me.
 
Fact is
,
she asked
if I’d keep an eye on you if I could.
 
She’s worried.”

Damn
her aunt to the deepest pits of hell. “She told you about what happened to me?”

His
lips pressed together tight. “Well, yeah, she did and she said you’d fuss but
it
don’t
matter to me, Nola.
 
If she hadn’t said a thing, I could see the
marks on your face.
 
They’re almost gone,
true, but they’re there.”

Nola
couldn’t decide if she wanted to rage or weep. “So you’ve been watching me?”

Johnny
shook his head from side to side. “I’ve kept an eye to see if you had lights at
night, that’s all.
 
I
ain’t
been skulking around or anything.
 
But
today I picked tomatoes and had a bunch, then went fishing and the bass were
bitin
’.
 
I thought
maybe you’d been
livin
’ on canned and frozen stuff so
maybe you’d like something fresh.”

She
had eaten little before or since she came to Caddo, but fresh fried bass and
homegrown tomatoes sounded more delicious than anything she ever had, better
than lobster tails in butter or a chocolate mousse. “I do,” Nola said. “Thank
you. I’m glad you made the effort.”

“Me, too.”
His voice sounded so quiet she
glanced up, wondering.
 
It must have
shown in her expression, because he added. “I’m
gettin
’
a home-cooked meal out of it so it’s good for both of us.
 
But you’re okay now?”

The
concern touched her, genuine as a gold dollar. “I’m getting there,” she said.
“It’s going to take
awhile
.”

Johnny
nodded as if he understood.
 
Maybe he
did, she mused.
 
“Things do,” he replied.
“But you can get behind just about anything. I did.”

Something
bad had happened to him, too.
 
Nola just
didn’t know what. “I hope so,” she told him.
 
She didn’t want to talk about her experience any longer or it might
spoil the moment. “Would you like some sweet tea?”

By
the time she rolled each bass filet in the cornmeal mixture, fried them to a
crisp golden brown, and served them with her oven potatoes and the tomatoes,
Nola had relaxed enough to enjoy the meal.
 
The simple Southern fare tasted great.
 
She ate her fill and sat back, comfortably full.

“Hit
the spot, didn’t it?” Johnny said.
 
He
had eaten twice what she did but with graceful table manners. “You fried that
fish just right.”

“Oh,
it did,” she replied. “Thanks.”

They
talked as they dined, sharing stories about the wildlife they had observed and
the things they each loved about the lake.
 
Although she had a little Southern flavor to her voice, it was also
tempered with some Texas twang and Nola knew it.
 
Johnny’s voice had a rich Cajun sound,
similar to the way her beloved grandpa,
Papere
, had
spoken.
 
 
It went easy into her ear and soothed her
troubled spirit.
 
He sounded Cajun but he
wasn’t as dark as most she’d known.
Although, he was damn
sure an attractive man.
She refilled their tea glasses,
then
asked, “So, where are you from?”

“Down
‘round Crowley,” he said.

“Acadia
Parish, right?”

“Yeah,
cher
,
that’s it.”

“My
grandfather, he came from there, too.”

Johnny’s
features lit like neon.
“
Tre
bon
!
What was his name?”

“Brossard,
Pierre Broussard. I know he had oodles of kinfolk.”

“I
know many
Broussards
,” he said. “I bet I know some of
your folks.
 
Are you from there, too?”

Nola
shook her head. “No, I grew up near Rusk, Texas.
 
It’s a pretty little town off in the piney
woods.
 
We lived out toward the Neches River.
 
I’m only part Cajun.”

“Aw,
girl,” he said with a laugh. “So am I.”

She
laughed and realized she hadn’t for so long. “You look like you’re nine-tenths,”
she joked. “Me, I’m only half. My mama married a Texan with roots trailing all
the way back to the Alamo.”

“Nothing
wrong with that,” he told her. “What do you do for a
livin
’
when you’re at home?”

“I’m
a teacher,” she said.
“Seventh grade social studies at one of
the middle schools over in Dallas.”

For
self-protection, Nola had pushed away all thoughts of school since the robbery
but mention of her occupation sparked the memories of that infamous event.
She had been on her way home when she
stopped by the supermarket for groceries, Nola recalled.
 

Sunlight filtered through the
windshield on the way from school to the market.
 
A stack of exams sat beside her purse in the
passenger seat, ready to grade. Nola had scribbled a short grocery list on the
back of an attendance sheet and once inside the store, she decided to pick up
something readymade for her supper.
 
Her
nose led her to the deli department where she chose a fried chicken breast,
one buttermilk biscuit, and a container of three bean
salad
.