Karen Russell - St Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

My sister and I are staying in Grandpa Sawtooths old house until our father, Chief Bigtree, gets back from the Mainland. Its our first summer alone in the swamp. You girls will be fine, the Chief slurred. Feed the gators, dont talk to strangers. Lock the door at night. The Chief must have forgotten that its a screen door at Grandpas there is no key, no lock. The old house is a rust-checkered yellow bungalow at the edge of the wild bird estuary. It has a single, airless room; three crude, palmetto windows, with mosquito-blackened sills; a tin roof that hums with the memory of rain. I love it here. Whenever the wind gusts in off the river, the sky rains leaves and feathers. During mating season, the bedroom window rattles with the ardor of birds.

Now the thunder makes the thin window glass ripple like wax paper. Summer rain is still the most comforting sound that I know. I like to pretend that its our dead mothers fingers, drumming on the ceiling above us. In the distance, an alligator bellows not one of ours, I frown, a free agent. Our gators are hatched in incubators. If they make any noise at all, its a perfunctory grunt, bored and sated. This wild gator has an inimitable cry, much louder, much closer. I smile and pull the blankets around my chin. If Osceola hears it, shes not letting on. My sister is lying on the cot opposite me. Her eyes are wide open, and she is smiling and smiling in the dark.

Hey, Ossie? Is it just you in there?

My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather. One such melting occurs in summer rain, at midnight, during the vine-green breathing time right before sleep. You have to ask the right question, throw the right rope bridge, to get there and then bolt across the chasm between you, before your bridge collapses.

Ossie? Is it just us? I peer into the grainy dark. Theres the chair that looks like a horned devils silhouette. Theres the blind glint of the terrarium glass. But no Luscious. Ossies evil boyfriend has yet to materialize.

Yup, she whispers. Just us. Ossie sounds wonderfully awake. She reaches over and pats my arm.

Just us girls.

That does it. Just us! we scream. And I know that for once, Ossie and I are picturing the same thing. Miles and miles of swamp, and millions and millions of ghosts, and just us, girls, bungalowed in our silly pajamas.

We keep giggling, happy and nervous, tickled by an incomplete innocence. We both sense that some dark joke is being played on us, even if we cant quite grasp the punch line.

What about Luscious? I gasp. Youre not dating Luscious anymore?

Uh-oh. There it is again, that private smile, the one that implies that Ossie is nostalgic for places I have never been, places I cant even begin to imagine.

Ossie shakes her head. Something else, now.

Somebody else? Youre not still going to, um, I pause, trying to remember her word, elope? Are you?

Ossie doesnt answer. Listen, she breathes, her eyes like blown embers. The thunder has gentled to a soft nicker. Outside, something is scratching at our dripping window. Hes here.

You know, Ossies possessions are nothing like those twitch-fests you read about in the Bible, no netherworld voices or pigs on a hill. Her body doesnt smolder like a firecracker, or ululate in dead languages. Her boyfriends possess her in a different way. They steal over her, silking into her ears and mouth and lungs, stealthy and pervasive, like sickness or swallowed water. I watch her metamorphosis in guilty, greedy increments. Ossie is sweating. Ossie is heavy-breathing. She puts her fist in her mouth, her other hand disappearing beneath the covers.

Then she moans, softly.

And I get that peculiar knot of fear and wonder and anger, the husk that holds my whole childhood. Here is another phase change that I dont understand, solid to void, happening in such close proximity to me. The ghost is here. I know it, because I can see my sister disappearing, can feel the body next to me emptying of my Ossie, and leaving me alone in the room. Luscious is her lewdest boyfriend yet. The ghost is moving through her, rolling into her hips, making Ossie do a jerky puppet dance under the blankets. This happens every night, lately, and Im helpless to stop him. Get out of here, Luscious! I think very loudly. Get back in your grave! You leave my sister alone.

Hag-ridden, her cot is starting to swing.

I am so jealous of Ossie. Every time the lights flicker in a storm, or a dish clatters to the floor, its a message from her stupid boyfriend. The wind in her hair, the wind in the trees, all of it a whistled valentine. And meanwhile who is busy decapitating stinking ballyhoo for the gators? Who is plunging the Bigtree latrines, and brushing the plaster teeth inside the Gator Head? Exactly. At sixteen, Ossie is four years my senior and twice my height. Yet somehow Im the one who gets stuck doing all the work. Thats the reward for competence, I guess. When the Chief left, he put me in charge of the whole park.

Our family owns Swamplandia! the islands #1 Gator Theme Park and Swamp Caf, although lately weve been slipping in the rankings. You may have seen our wooden sign, swinging from the giant kapok tree on Route 6: COME SEE SETH, FANGSOME SEA SERPENT AND ANCIENT LIZARD OF DEATH!!!

All of our alligators, we call Seth. Tradition is as important, the Chief says, as promotional materials are expensive. When my mother was alive, she ran the show, literally. Mom took care of all the shadowy, behind-the-scenes stuff: clubbing sick gators, fueling up the airboats, butchering chickens. I didnt even know these ugly duties existed. Im pretty sure Ossie is still oblivious. Osceola doesnt have to do chores. Your sister is special, the Chief has tried to explain to me, on more than one occasion. I dont cotton to this sophist logic. Im special too. My name is a palindrome. I can climb trees with simian ease. I can gut buckets of chub fish in record time. Once Grandpa Sawtooth held a dead Seths jaws open, and I stuck my whole head in his fetid mouth.

There are only two Swamplandia! duties that I cant handle on my own: stringing up the swamp hens on Live Chicken Thursdays, and pulling those gators out of the water. This means that I cant compete in the junior leagues, or perform solo. It doesnt bother me enough to make me braver. I still refuse to wade into the pit, and anyways, I am too weak to get my own gator ashore. Our show is simple: the headlining wrestler, usually the Chief, wades into the water, making a big show of hunting the sandy bottom for his Seth. Then he pulls a gator out by its thrashing tail. The gator immediately lurches forward, yanking the Chief back into the water. The Chief pulls him out again, and again the infuriated gator pulls my father towards the water. This tug-of-war goes on for a foamy length of time, while the crowd whoops and wahoos, cheering for our species.

Finally, the Chief masters his Seth. He manages to get him landlocked and clamber onto his back. This is the part where I come in. Aunt Hilola strikes up a manic tune on the calliopeba-da-DOOM-bop-bop! and then Im cart-wheeling out across the sand, careful to keep a grin on my face even as I land on the gators armor-plated scutes. My thighs are waffled with the shadow of those scutes. Up close, the Seths are beautiful, with corrugated gray-green backs and dinosaur feet. The Chief, meanwhile, has taken advantage of my showy entrance to lasso black electrical tape around the Seths snout. He takes my bare hands and holds them up to the crowd, splaying my little palms for their amusement.

Then he closes them around Seths jaws. I smile and smile at the tourists. Inside my tight fist, the Seth strains and strains against the tape. The Chief keeps his meaty hands on top of my own, obscuring the fact that I am doing any work at all. The Chief likes to remind me that the tourists dont pay to watch us struggle.