ONE

November, 1978

Icy gasps of smoke escaped intermittently between the lips of the solitary man leaning uncomfortably against the rear of the large utility vehicle; the freakish weather sending another shiver through his body. Cold, damp air felt like pin-pricks against his exposed face, a rare sensation in his part of Texas. Tucking his hands beneath his armpits for warmth, he moved to the side of the vehicle. Removing one hand, he tapped on the window to get the attention of the black lab inside. The retriever raised his head and wagged his tail, ready to spring into action. Then, recognizing a tease, the dog turned in a tight circle, resuming his position on the rear seat.

“Good boy, Coal. Won’t be long now.” At least, that was the man’s less than enthusiastic hope. He wanted to get the day started — put it behind him. Squinting toward the entrance of the building nearby, he wished the man inside would simply disappear, or lose interest in the hunt and agree to head back to the city. Neither was likely to happen.

There are days from April through September when the sweltering steam bath surrounding the Houston area seems to liquefy everything standing. Outside activity for most humans can be virtually impossible, to the point of becoming medically dangerous for those unprepared. Air conditioners run non-stop, jacking up electric bills along with the temperature, attempting to

fight the sticky, super-heated humidity floating in from the nearby gulf. During the hell of summer in southeast Texas that never seems to end, a person would normally beg for a day like the one that lay ahead. But the cold, steel-grey morning taking shape with dawn beginning to recede had the effect of increasing the unsettled mood of the man. Rubbing his hands together briskly for warmth, he questioned once again his decision to give in to his persuasive relative.

Today was Saturday. The call had come Thursday, too late to invent a solid excuse.

“Come on, Sid,” his younger cousin had said, “there won’t be many days like we’re expecting this weekend that’ll be decent to hunt. You know how the weather is around here. Might be eighty this time next week. Could be our only chance this winter.”

“I’m not sure, Rusty. Who else is going?”

“I’m pretty sure Gary is coming. And one of the new guys in my firm. Don’t think you’ve met him yet, but he loves duck huntin’ too. He’s from down around Lake Jackson.”

Sid had spoken to Gary, another cousin, on Wednesday, and he hadn’t mentioned the hunt. But it might have been before Rusty had talked to Gary. Or he could’ve simply forgotten. In any event, it sounded like at least one other person would be along to serve as a buffer. Rusty could be hard to take sometimes one-on-one, or any other way. He was nobody’s favorite relative.

“I was planning to get a lot of work done this weekend,” Sid had argued. “This is the beginning of my busy season, you know.” Busy season didn’t actually begin until after the first of the year, but it was worth one more feeble attempt.

“Tell you what. I’ll come pick you up and chauffeur you there and back. I’ll have you home by one o’clock Saturday. You can’t beat that.”

It went back and forth like that for a while, until Rusty prevailed. He normally did.

Growing antsy, Sid moved around to the front of Rusty’s boxy 1976 Chevy Suburban,      

drawing from the heat of the still ticking engine. He could’ve waited inside the vehicle, but Coal’s dampened odor was hard to take with the windows up. He was decked out in a camouflage jumpsuit, top half hanging loose around his waist, exposing an insulated undershirt. As he had dreaded, and halfway expected, only the two of them had made the trip. Rusty had mumbled excuses for the other two. Most likely they had backed out, not relishing a day sequestered in the blind with the jerk any more than he did.

Removing his horn-rimmed glasses, he wiped the moisture left by a fine, cold mist settling on the lenses. He was a short, balding man in his early forties, possessing a body showing little evidence of physical activity. His hunting outfit swallowed him, leaving what he imagined was a comical appearance. Truth was, he actually enjoyed duck hunting, and being out in the relative wilds of southeast Texas, more than most other outdoor sports. But not under these circumstances. Meaning, not with his hard-nosed cousin.

The white Suburban was parked at a combination bait shop- convenience store, just off the off-ramp from I-10, the exit which led south into the small town of Anahuac. The tiny community, some forty miles east of Houston, butting up on Galveston Bay, was positioned a few miles south of the interstate. Barely an inch of elevation exists in the entirety of Chambers County, filled with marsh land and rice fields. There wasn’t much to draw anyone to Anahuac, unless they were into fishing, crawfishing, or duck hunting. But it had its own charm, and the natives were friendly.

Rusty was inside the store, searching for coffee for the two of them and a pack of Marlboro’s for himself. Sid began to hope for an excuse to turn the vehicle around and head for home, but it was an unlikely chance. If the rain grew stronger, he would try to use it as an excuse. More than anything, he hoped the subject Rusty had introduced a few weeks earlier wouldn’t crop up during the hunt. It was pointless to debate it, but that never stopped his younger cousin. In any event, the ordeal would all be over by early afternoon, and whatever transpired between now and then

would hopefully be nothing more than an uncomfortable memory.

The door creaked open, and Rusty finally emerged from the store. Contrary to the hopes of the man waiting, the mist was subsiding, and the chilly, dank day began to brighten slightly over the towering pines lining the interstate. Rusty was also covered up with cold-weather hunting gear.

“Looks like the weather is going to be perfect,” he said, handing Sid a lidded cup. “Here you go. Black and hot, just the way you wanted.”

Sid took the cup, thanking the other man. He decided against trying to cancel the hunt, hoping to make the best of the situation, possibly even enjoying it.

“Come on. We’re letting the morning get away from us,” Rusty said, throwing the driver-side door open, and climbing behind the wheel. He was roughly ten years younger than Sid, around six feet two, only slightly overweight. A shaggy crop of reddish-brown hair fell out from under a camouflage cap covering a ruddy face. Intense blue-grey eyes and a strong chin gave an appearance that could be intimidating at times. The vehicle shook into action, and the black lab showed life again as Sid slid into the passenger seat.

The drive south to Anahuac, then through the small business section, exiting on a county road paralleling the edge of the bay, took all of fifteen minutes. A few more miles and the pavement would give way to roads filled by uneven gravel and crushed shells, flanked by swampy inlets snaking in from the bay. Their first destination was a fishing boat tied to a small pier shared by various family members. It was obvious that locals helped themselves to this and other boats moored at the pier marked “private”. But that was fine with the family the two hunters shared bloodlines with, as long as the crafts were returned undamaged and gassed-up. Coal bounded from the rear of the vehicle as it finally came to a stop. He made a dash for the boat, proudly taking his usual stance on one of the seats, tongue panting, looking back to hurry the men up. While they unloaded their shotguns and other gear from the rear of the Suburban,

Sid’s mood grew brighter as he pulled on his waders. Benign subjects such as the economy and sports had been the topics of conversation on the drive down—maybe things were looking up. The boat finally loaded, Sid pushed the boat away from the pier. Rusty took control of the muted trolling motor. The next and final target was a new duck blind, recently installed by a local guide at the request of the family. In fact, Sid had never seen the new blind. But Rusty said he had, and he was confident he could zero-in on it again.

“No more than twenty minutes,” he assured, squinting through the remains of the mist while tossing a cigarette butt into the bay. They were actually in Trinity Bay, an offshoot of the much larger Galveston Bay.

Enjoying the quiet, slow movement through the clusters of marshy reeds, Sid’s mind drifted to other vessels the well-heeled family he and Rusty belonged to had at their disposal. A seventy-five foot yacht, deep-sea fishing boats, several ski-boats and catamarans, scattered from Galveston Island to Corpus Christi were always available for the asking. Sid wasn’t much of a mixer, which fit his duties as a C P A well. He felt at peace in the least of the clan’s boats. Hanging an arm over the side, he allowed his fingers to surf through the icy water, willing himself to relax for the first time all morning.

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