As night falls across the Louisiana bayou, the line between memory and desire blurs — and the past refuses to stay buried.

This is Part II of Bayou’s Edge. You can read Part I here → https://medium.com/@robertmherzog/bayous-edge-part-one-the-visitors-1464b68ad811.

Micheau stepped back into the truck. — Fine, the man said, not wanting to be found in the process of losing an argument. He had wondered how long the talk could be sustained. The butt of the rifle jammed into his thigh as Micheau turned the truck around. It fell to the floor in front of him; he started to pick it up, then let it rest.

They got back to the sheds. The couple maneuvered out of the truck, and through its passenger window Micheau yelled, hey Paco, we got to go start up that pump. Paco came out, dark and unsmiling at the extension of his day’s work. An’ hey tell her to start that water boilin we gonna cook up a few. The boy went back into the house and the girl came out with him, still wearing the white blouse and now a faded loose red skirt with blue trim that went to below her knees.

- Can I go with you? the man asked.

- we jus gonna start up the pump is all.

- Why do you want to go? asked the woman.

- I’m just interested in it all.

- well sure, c’mon along, and the man got into the truck first so as to not make Paco take the uncomfortable middle position. They drove in silence along the back of the property, leaving Claire to walk around, swinging her arms in long arcs, wondering about the life here, the shack, the house, Micheau. The slight paunch didn’t make him any less fluid, the way he moved, the way he looked, the soft tones that got underneath things. Some men got stronger in their forties, no matter what had happened before.

The pump shed housed an old diesel engine half exposed, looking dirty but the man could see the working parts were well kept. I don’ keep it on all the time, don’ need it and it’d be too expensive, Micheau said, but theyd be hell to pay if I didn’t get it goin for too long. Micheau took jumper cables out of his truck and raised the hood. He handed one set of clamps to Paco, who attached the cables to the diesel while Micheau stood by the truck. When the boy was well clear, Micheau put the jumper ends on the truck battery. The clamps on the engine kicked up long sparks in the dark shed, the boy jumped back while the big engine turned on, not as loud as the man expected.

- you touch that while I’m connectin her, that sucker’ll kick you back on your ass, fry you real good, Micheau said.

Teddy walked behind the shed where a pair of two-foot wide spotted gray pipes ran down to a deep gully. He could see the brown water rising in great slow mounds at a spot beyond where the pipe entered, boiling from the turbulence of the suction beneath the surface. The light was fading, and what breeze there had been had died down, while the water rose off the fields in a thin mist that covered them like a blanket. They got back in the truck and drove to the house. This heres Paco, Micheau said. The man turned and smiled and shook Paco’s hand, the boy trying to smile back and the man said buenos dios and Micheau said there you go and the boy muttered something, then they went the rest of the way without speaking.

At the house Micheau called to the girl to get the crawfish. When she stood still, he opened the door to a thick-walled cooler room, and walked over to a few filled sacks. The man peered his head in.

- theys what you’d call dormant now, Micheau said, pointing to the tightly packed sacks, hey, lets get in the boat and I’ll show you how its done, while we wait for these to get cookin. The man went to his wife to give her the plan.

In the cooler Micheau pulled up a sack. The girl stood by the door. He motioned her to come closer. When she finally did he stood up so that he brushed into her. She stared at him but he’d got busy opening the sack. See this is the way you can get em out the easiest, he said, pointing to the widening at the top. She stood there. Alright I’ll jus carry em out myself anyways, and he walked out. He hurried over to the house and disappeared for a minute, came back with a big jar filled with a red mix of spices, took a handful and threw it into the water that was now heating in a big pot over the burner. He turned to the girl. We gonna be back soon, comprendey, then we’ll put em on.

They drove to where the boat sat on the edge of one of the levees, surrounded by mud, the long claw stretching out like a swan’s neck behind it. The big wheel found purchase and whipped the boat around until it was half in half out of the water, and the couple climbed in to join him. They giggled and held on to each other, kissed as he stroked her back. Micheau watched, then ran the boat into the water, the bounce breaking the couple apart.

He showed them how he pulled out one trap, set the next, the continuous sweep of it to keep the flow swift and efficient, the clack of the hard shells falling on the metal and the claws grasping to hold on as they slid down the tray into the sack. Man, he said, in the spring, they get big and the demand is there, them Swedes start buyin, you pick up one of them traps and theys five, eight dollars in it, it jus make you wanna smile, keeps you going all day, you do a thousand of em, you got to. Put em in the sack, tie em so they don’ knot, easy to open and get em out. The woman held the burlap sack under the tray, trying to read its faded red emblem and lettering.

She asked him how it was he could keep selling at a premium price.

- yes ma’am, you got to have the product. I sell cause I got the product, the best, I keep that water aerated, I don’ overfish, don’ set my traps too close, so they knows I’m reliable. Yeah theys some people try to take my accounts, I’ll get em on that, but hell them Frenchies jus look in my sacks and the others, then they take mine.

- They were great, the ones you brought to Isabelle’s party, the man said.

- theys an Italian guy makin parts for the big boats, Micheau said. Jus here a coupla years, his family in the business back over there. And the government gives him the money to set up, I mean, the government wouldn’t give you the money, or me, but he comes in and gets it.

- Yeah, he knows what he’s doin, the man said. He scraped his hands picking up a trap, tried not to show it. He bent to retie his shoelace, to shorten the strands so that they did not absorb the rank water in the bottom of the boat.

Micheau picked up one of the craws, deftly holding it so its claws flailed harmlessly around his hand. That’s good weight, he said. He turned it to show to the woman. One of the claws nipped his finger. Damn, he said. He pushed against the shell, snapping the craw in two. Its claws clicked with residual life for a few second, then went limp. He tossed the parts into the water, put his lips to his finger, licking off the trace of blood. The couple watched the two halves float off with the pull of the pump.

- We heard some stories about, well, wilder times, I guess, the man said. He laughed nervously. Micheau understood the tremors of a man’s voice, but it wasn’t what mattered to him now. A woman’s, too.

The woman ran her hands through the water. Were you really so different, before? she asked.

- I reckon you could say I was born again, not religious speakin, no, but born again jus the same. It’s true I kinda had some times when I was younger, but then, well, things happened, it don’ matter what, and granddaddy died and I came out here, had the idea to make it two crops, its workin I’m seein money but man what with the trucks and the pumps it jus don’ quit, all the time payin for somethin. They pushed to near the end of the field, stopped to bring up a trap, felt the slight flutter of the boat being pulled by the distant pump. But it’s some kind of place, aint it, he smiled. I’m fixin to build a guest place up, if it all works out this year, then maybe next time you could stay over. He turned the boat around sharply, the big wheel cutting a swath across the stubs of the old rice. The man wondered if it would damage future crops but Micheau didn’t seem to care and they headed back to the levee, the truck and the house.

The water was boiling and Micheau took the bag, the crawfish now warmed up and moving quicker in it. The woman ran her hand along the undulations on its surface.

- Lot of good eating in that bag,” the man said.

As if you know about killing, she thought.

She heard the clatter of them rubbing against each other as Micheau emptied the sack, and the sound of water popping over the sides of the pot and sizzling on the hot burner below. Now that he was listening for it the man could feel the low rumble of the pump filling the air around them. Some geese flew over, silhouettes against the red-streaked slate sky, leaving the echo of their squawks. They had to wipe off the moisture of the heavy air that mingled with the steam from the pot. After a few minutes Micheau fished in with a big sieve and dumped the craws on the thin-legged table next to the burner.

- you know how to eat em? He picked one up, red from the cooking and the spices, all of them lying on the table on newspaper, soaking into the car crashes and school budgets and road repair notices. You pick em up and twist off the tail, suck on the head, get out the juices, some thinks thats the best right there, don’ bother with the claws, it aint worth the trouble, then you… he put the tail into his mouth so just the end flaps showed, bit down on the bottom and dragged it through his teeth, sucking on the meat, pulled it out, leaving an empty shell, tugged the whole tail into his mouth, the part closest to the body wrapped in green, dangling shreds. He smiled, said, thats the way you do it, real simple. He broke off a tail and held it up to the woman’s mouth. She leaned towards him and tried to do the same. He sat close and laughed with her as the craw juices ran down the side of her mouth and the shell splattered in her teeth and she sucked to pull the meat out.

- damn these is good, you know what, lets cook some up for Isabelle, you can take em back, long as we got the water goin an’ all. He walked into the cooler, the man following, picked up a sack. He pulled on the ribbon along the top but it didn’t open.

- a knot, goddammit, if they knot me again I’ll… a taut shiver ran down from his neck to his belly as he clamped his teeth on the ribbon. He cut open the sack and emptied it into the boiling water, grabbed a handful of the spices from the big jar and threw them in. The woman wiped the juices off her face, and the man said it was time to be going.

- Just a few left, the woman said.

- Yes ma’am, I do believe theys the best crawfish in the world.

* * *

- Did you understand what he was saying about that guy and the airstrip? Teddy said as they drove off.

- Not really, Claire said.

- It’s the parish accent, he said. They both laughed. He’s tamer than I thought he’d be, that story about him and that girl in New Orleans, I kind of expected…

- I don’t know that he’s all that tame, Claire said. He looked over at her. She took a napkin from the glove compartment and wiped her stockinged feet. The mud caked gray brown around the sides of his sneakers; he glanced down and liked the look.

- I told you nothing would happen, he said. The smell from the bag of boiled crawfish in the back seat filled the car. Claire smiled at a thought, turned around, reached her arm out.

- They’re for Isabelle, remember?

She stared at him, smiled, pulled a crawfish out of the bag, deftly snapped it with her fingers, extracted the meat with her teeth, and tossed the two halves out the window. She left the window open, breathed deeply through the hair wind-strewn around her face. The rumble of the pump lingered in the air. She pictured running a gallery down here, by herself.

* * *

For the first time in months Micheau combed his long gray and black hair and pulled it into a neat pony tail. He put on his black pleated pants, and did a quick two step while looking in the mirror, holding his arms in front of him, then buttoned his white shirt up to the top, the one with the frilled pockets and band collar. As he drove out he went by the pump and shut it off.

He pulled into the barbecue, spruced up and vinyl now like they was all tourists with clean behinds, and sure enough there were Roamin Joe and Jimmy and most of the rest of them, sitting in the back corner they’d claimed. He did some bourbon, double shots, with Roamin Joe, who got to talking again about how lucky they’d been, but damn they’d had a good time and nobody got hurt that bad even if they had to pay one of them for an abortion later, that and a little extra that healed everything and it was good to have daddies that cared and be able to move to a place that understood and a granddaddy with a rice farm. Roamin Joe drank to it all, and Micheau to most of it.

It was dark when Micheau got back, dark but still hot even after all the doubles. He looked at the house, thought of the woman with the craw juices shining on her chin, the bright ease of her laughter. He took some short deep breaths, shook his head, drove by the shack and honked. Paco came to the door, tucking in his shirt. We gotta start up that pump now, he yelled over the motor noise. The boy nodded and got into the truck. Through the door he could make out the shape of the girl, edged by the lamp in the far corner of the room. Damn, I’m glad I remembered, he said, and the boy nodded again but didn’t say anything.

They got to the pump house and set up the jumper cable. As Paco placed the leads on the engine, Micheau stared into the unlit shed, lifted the clamps, hesitated, but he’d figured on it a way’s back, and he knew he’d get angry with himself if he didn’t keep to it. He connected the clamps to the battery. He blinked in the flash. The shock straightened the boy out, extending his arms and feet and tongue, then knocked him to the ground. Micheau went over to him, felt his pulse and got close to hear his shallow breathing. He checked that the pump was pulling, then carried the boy into the truck.

He went by the shack, honked until the girl came out, showed her the boy. She put her hand to her face, stifling a cry, and he signaled her to get in. They drove in silence to the hospital, the girl holding the boy, and waited until a night nurse told them the boy was in no danger, explaining it to the girl in Spanish. She listened with only her eyes moving, then he said, well alright we’ll be back to get him tomorrow, and they walked out to the truck.

When they parked he said, hey listen I’m real sorry, I couldn’t see, he’ll be okay, what about a drink to settle down? He led her into the house. He brought out a bottle of tequila and set it on the big wooden table in his kitchen, most of its paint scraped off. They sat down but when he held out the bottle and poured some in the jelly jar glass in front of her she sat taller and shook her head no. Suit yourself, he said, draining his shot, then poured another and drained that. He started to speak but stopped.

She looked at him with too much understanding, her skin the color of a speckled belly, he’d stopped shooting them but couldn’t help remembering their sweet flavor, in the pause with his finger rubbing the trigger. He stared at her and could taste it. The tequila bottle stood between them.

There’d been a time when it wouldn’t have really mattered, those old choices. She stared back, her face darker under the dim bare bulb above the table, her eyes whiter, not going for it. He felt her shadow watching him hesitate at the pump. He got up too fast, his chair tipped over and crashed with the sharp sound of a rifle shot that shrieked past them until it hit the geese, who hadn’t forgotten. They all reared and flew in the same moment with the sound of thunder. Micheau leaned forward, and thought how you could grab a woman and avoid the strike of her hands, not feel her arms as they sought to pound against you, how it could be.

As if a spark ignited her, she stood, her eyes on him, took the jelly glass, slowly raised it to her lips, threw her head back and downed it in one gulp, then even slower, the way he saw it, walked out of the room. Her skirt billowed when she opened the door, and he heard the creak of two footsteps on the porch before the screen clacked shut. The geese landed and it was quiet.

He watched her through the windows and thought about the likes of Mickey Ray and Roamin Joe working on the farm again, all the good ol’ boy what the fuck mistakes, not getting it, what he was trying to do here, and this one and her husband, if that’s even what he was, and everything going so smooth.

The shack door slammed, and he sat down, and after another shot his mind went to the price the Frenchies were paying, how many pounds the three of them could take in tomorrow, and he started doing the tallies.

If Bayou’s Edge spoke to you, follow me here or join me on Substack → https://robertherzog.substack.com/p/bayous-edge for new stories each month — fiction and essays about resilience, identity, and reflections on our conjoined lives.

Author’s note: Bayou’s Edge is also the basis for a screenplay I’ve written by the same name, now in development. Writing the film version deepened my connection to these characters — and to the world of the Louisiana bayous, where memory and consequence flow together like the tides.