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White cows made sounds on the hot lawn
the night we came. They chewed in the dark, wandered from their field far
down the beach. Awakened by heat, we tuned to their grazing sound. My husband woke, called me to come out. Men talking by the water lit torches, rowed under the black sky, threw their nets for bait. They had come from Parrottee. Then they steered their painted boats to sea, going for kingfish. We heard music from a shut-up bar, walked down the beach in the dark. A boy inside was drinking white rum, Peter Tosh sang on the juke box. We saw an alligator way out in the water. It swam on a path across the bay from river to swamp in that dark. Black River nights were full of sound, out of proportion like dreams. We burned cow dung to keep mosquitos out. Days were different. We'd wake at five, watch light snake through the palm branches, come through the slats, play on the stucco wall. Then we'd make love. Lizards clung to the ceiling. Men's voices out front. They'd paddle their yellow carved boat out, cast their nets for shrimp, return to shore. Four men to a rope tugged the net in, hauled hard. Boys helped pick through the nets for shrimp. Women dressed in flowery skirts, gathered, each carrying a pot. I stood by, watching. Then I'd go in the house, bring out my bucket to buy shrimp, always two pounds. I liked the man with big hands. He lived six miles down the beach where I had walked once. I had seen huge pigs in front of a hut, sprawled, sleeping in the sand. The skin of the man with big hands shone like our mahogany bed, his neck straight. His footprints made one straight line. His faded maroon pants had a broken fly. It wasn't surprising to see his privates. After a few days, the fishermen and I agreed on a fixed price for two pounds of shrimp, so each day's purchase did not start with haggling. Two pounds though, did not mean a standard amount, it meant abundance. The man with big hands always gave me a generous two pounds. I wondered whether it was generosity on his part, or simply how much his hands held when he reached into his blue pail. One time, I was in the kitchen washing shrimp I had purchased from a surly stocky fellow. Hilma, one of the skirted women, screeched into the house. "How much you buy today? Two pounds! Let me see. Not enough there! I take the shrimp, show that swindler!" By now the men were throwing their nets way down the beach. Appearing out of nowhere, eight women were suddenly gliding towards the fishermen, their skirts fanned out. Hilma lead them, holding my washed shrimp in her grip. I ran to catch up. As we reached the men, she bombarded the one who had sold me the shrimp. "Flimflam man - thief," she erupted into a stream of fast words I couldn't follow. He answered her with equal speed. She finished with, "I send my son to bring my scale to measure these shrimp." In minutes, a boy with an old scale materialized. When Hilma loaded my shrimp onto it, the needle barely budged. "You cheat!" Some fishermen clicked their tongues on their teeth. One said, "It isn't a scale! Broken old scale! Take the shrimp to the hotel in town, to the modern scale that works." Hilma and the shrimp seller went off with the bucket. People were murmuring. Some made restrained eyes at each other. When they got back, they handed over my bucket, both stoney. I walked home, couldn't tell if I had more or less shrimp than before. Soon we were to leave Black River.
One morning, men were hauling in their nets as usual, and as usual I was
watching. As they picked for shrimp, the man with big hands pulled out his
machete, began to chop at something long and alive. Everyone stood still.
"I kill the sea snake, the sixth this month. In the water, if you step on the
hole they live in, they rise up, shock you. Small chance to live then. We care
for the harbor." - The Ohio Review Thirtieth Anniversary 1971-2001 New and
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