Sean Dietrich [Dietrich - Lyla

LYLA

SEAN DIETRICH

Copyright 2013 Sean Dietrich
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1506120261

ISBN-13: 978-1506120263

DEDICATION

I'd like to dedicate this book to the people of North Florida, because it is about them. I hereby submit this work to the gnarled Floridian family tree that I find myself a part of.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First I'd like to acknowledge the many that read my first novel and overwhelmed me with their kindness. Also, my wife for being supportive in the development of this novel, and for having a sense of humor. I also want to thank my editor Amanda, who's contribution, both to this book, and to myself personally, cannot be measured in words. Lastly, I'd like to acknowledge the myriads of dysfunctional families that find a way to march forward, through the muck and mire.

Sunset is the most fidgety time of the day. It's when the bay erupts with life upon life, and everything feeds on each other. Trout and mullet can't sit still; they jump right out of the water. If you have a cane pole handy, you can catch all the fish you could ever want at sundown. The pelicans know this too, and they don't need cane poles like we do. They fly above the water, close enough for their beaks to touch the surface, until they find supper. And they always find it.

At dusk, no fish is safe.

It was the perfect time of day for an argument.

I need to know the truth, Daddy said. Yes, or no?

Mother waved her hand at him. I swear, I didn't do anything with that man.

Daddy stood on a fat log that poked out of the water. His long legs made him look like an egret that high steps through the marshlands. He gazed across the water at the horizon, the shrimp trawlers were already out. They were heading out for the night to rake in mountains of squirming brown shrimp. The boats had metal armatures that spread outward, just like the wings of the pelicans.

Daddy listened to Mother, but his body was tense. He only believed her because he wanted to believe her. That's the way things worked sometimes.

It's a rumor, Dale, Mother said. Nothing more.

Daddy looked away from her.

Rumors. Our town had a way of birthing vicious rumors. It didn't take much doing, either. One person said something to another, and in that instant a rumor was born. The vile thing would plop onto the floor. It would be wet, crying, and unable to crawl, until someone came along and fed it. Before long, it was prancing in dusty streets, looking for left over scraps like a feral cat. Mother watched Daddy's back while he stared out at the bay water.

I'd never step out on you, Dale, she said. Never.

Daddy turned and looked at her with drooping eyes. He could look like a bloodhound when he wanted to.

Never, Dale.

He gave no answer.

Mother stood poised with her hands on her round hips, her hair like wisps of honey-colored wheat swirling around her forehead. The smooth muscles in her face strained when she spoke. And she spoke a lot.

Alright. Daddy sighed and looked back at the water. Let's just forget about it, then.

There was no chance of that. She half liked the attention.

My mother was a woman who got too much attention for her own good. It wasn't that she asked for it, at least not on purpose, though she sometimes did that, too. It was that the attention seemed to find her.

Male attention.

Daddy was no fool; he knew that the men in town appreciated her. He knew how they smiled at her and wagged their tails whenever they saw her walk by. She even caught the eyes of clergymen and old codgers.

Dale, I don't care what people are talking about, I wouldn't touch Phillip Sams with a hundred-foot pole. He's hideous.

Daddy shifted his weight from one hip to the other. It's not about.... I don't care what the man looks like.

Mother sat down on the porch and drew her knees up to her chest. The two of them silent, looking out across the bay instead of at each other.

I suppose it was more comfortable to look away.

Each of them took turns exhaling big breaths until they could think of something else to say. But nothing came to them.

She knew Daddy had her beat when it came to arguing; she was still young, much too young to argue well. You have to know a lot about living to put up a good fight. Her only hope was to close her mouth.

Easier said than done.

I swear, she said. I never did anything to encourage Phillip Sams. Nothing whatsoever. He just....

My daddy glanced at her again. I thought we were going to stop talking about it.

We are.

Good.

Mother was quiet for a moment, but she wasn't finished. Dale, I ain't no wanderer, I just ain't.

Lyla, I don't want to talk about it anymore.

But I'm trying to tell you the God's-honest-truth.

I said no more. His voice sounded firm.

I'm a grown woman; you can't talk to me like that. I ain't no child.

But she was a child.

Daddy was older than her, with little room in his person for fibs or jokes. Life had hardened him; he would not tolerate such things. Especially not from his own damn family.

Lyla, he said, in a calmer voice. But it was all that he could say because he loved her. Mother was the beloved pebble in his shoe, she dug into his flesh. His weakness for her was like the weakness some men have for drink. She was tranquilizing, disarming, at times inflaming, but she was easy to love.

Mother looked over at me. I stood behind the screen door, watching them fuss.

Quinn, Daddy said to me. Go back inside, son.

I stared at him, paralyzed with a slack-jawed snoopiness. I didn't know what they talked about, but it seemed important.

Boy, you do as I say.

And I did.

Because I was a child, too.

Gathering oysters is an ancient thing. Ancient man learned how to eat oysters before he learned how to cook with fire. The Apalachee boys used to dive for them out in our bay, and lug them back to shore by the sack-full. But that was several hundreds of years ago. Before the tribes of them disappeared.

The blue collar stiffs were the ones who gathered oysters in our world. Men like my daddy. They were men with lots of little hungry mouths waiting back home. Most of them lean and humble fellas who acted cocky around each otherhumble around women. Men with an affinity for unfiltered cigarettes, strong drink, and the Bible.

The pickings are slim today, Daddy said. He scissored the tongs in the brown bay water, chewing on his pipe.

He swore again under his breath. It made a little puff of smoke shoot out of his pipe bowl. Dammit, he said again.

My daddy smoked a pipe all his life. When he was a young man, it had been a blonde pipe, a crude one; he'd carved it himself, from a pine knot. But I never saw that one, as he'd retired it before I was born. It sat on the mantle in case of emergency. I'd only seen him use the one Mother gave him one Christmas. The pipe was cherry wood, with a straight shaft and a blood-colored bowl. It was pretty as you please, and it suited him.

Daddy brought the tongs up again and opened them. Out spilled a dozen rock oysters onto the deck of his boat.

Daddy surveyed the heap of stone-like creatures. Hellfire. Ain't enough here to say grace over. I gotta good mind to call it quits for the day.

I knew he didn't mean a word of it.

The idea of Daddy calling it quits was ludicrous. He worked like a forty-mule team, come rain, shine, or two-day hangover.

He stabbed the tongs into the water and brought them up again. The tongs, themselves, weren't heavy. Not until you pulled them in with a load of oysters, then they weighed an elephantine ton.

Jeezus, George, and Joe, he said, tapping his pipe against the side of the low rimmed boat. Someone's been pulling from our beds. People get killed for that around here. Jeezus. He let out a sigh. I reckon it's time to eat.