Lending a Hand

It was a right pleasing day in Point Pleasant until Chuck Dalton caught that gator. Chuck sure did love gators. He loved them deep-fried or on the BBQ. Heck, he even liked them pickled. Now that’s just not right. But then Chuck Dalton ain’t just right.

It all started on Friday night when I went hornpout fishing at my favorite spot. Unfortunately, my neighbor, Alden Windhall, got there before me, and I don’t take kindly to competition.

“You know this is my spot, Alden,” I said.

“Don’t see your name on it.” Alden isn’t original, but he’s never been a very good pout fisherman, so I let him stay. Besides, I saw he was toting a bottle of Chuck Dalton’s homebrew, and that was a rare catch.

We both baited and threw out our lines. Alden pulled the brew out of his pocket and took a big swig. He got a bite on his line and handed me the bottle while he reeled it in. But that was only the beginning. Alden was reeling in hornpout as fast as he could bait and throw out his line. I stood there with my line hanging limp and emptied the bottle of brew. My mind gets a little foggy about what happened after that. But none of it would have mattered if Chuck hadn’t caught that gator.

Early the next morning, Chief Bodenmiller rang me before I even got out of bed. He asked if I could come by the station and answer a few questions about the disappearance of Alden Windhall. If Alden couldn’t find his way home, why was that my problem? But, of course, I didn’t bother to ask the chief that; I just swung by his office on my way to the Winn Dixie.

“I ain’t seen Alden since I left him last night after we did some hornpout fishing,” I told the chief.

“Did you go there together?” the chief asked.

“No, sir, we kinda met there.”

“Did you leave together?”

“No, I left first.” At least I think I did, but I didn’t want to bother the chief with the fine details of Alden catching all the fish and me drinking all the brew.

 “Anything unusual happen while you were fishing?”

“Nothing I can remember, Chief.” I scratched my head. “Alden might have got a hook stuck in his finger, but that ain’t unusual.”

The chief looked me in the eye and said, “Have a good day, Cooter.” So I did.

Until later that afternoon, when Alden’s wife, Edna, came by. She sashayed her broad hips right up my porch stairs. “T.J. Cooter, what did you do with my Alden?” She stood with her hands on her spacious hips, her blueberry-stained apron still dusted with flour.

“Edna, I ain’t seen Alden since last night when we were pout fishing. I don’t know where he got himself off to after that.”

“You two always get to drinking and arguing. You better not have hurt my Alden.” Edna waved her stubby finger in my face and went storming off. It got pretty quiet around here after that. That is, until Chuck caught that gator.

The next night Chuck comes by a-hootin’ and a-hollerin.’ He wanted everyone to see the gator he caught. Now, I don’t feel kindly toward gators, alive or dead. But everyone in the neighborhood was headed over to Chuck’s, so I followed.

It was a big gator, near ten feet. Probably get forty or fifty pounds of steaks out of that big boy. Chuck could have just cut them up, put them in his freezer, and everything would have been fine. But Chuck decided he wanted to cut open the stomach. There was no need to cut open the stomach of that gator, but Chuck said he was curious. Now, I’ve known Chuck for a long time, and one thing Chuck is not is curious.

One time, when my truck broke down, Chuck was driving me to Winn Dixie. Chief Bodenmiller pulled him over.

“Want to know why I pulled you over, Chuck?” the chief asked.

“Nope,” replies Chuck.

“Aren’t you curious?” the chief asked.

“Nope,” says Chuck.

“Nope,” that’s what Chuck said. But Chuck was curious about what was in that gator’s stomach.

Everyone was crammed into Chuck’s garage, admiring the big gator. I was leaning on his freezer and decided to peek inside. It was pretty full with venison steaks, a bunch of pout, and right on top was a couple of Chuck’s wife’s award-winning blueberry pies. I was thinking that Chuck was going to have a hard time fitting any gator in there. Then, as I was contemplating relieving the freezer of one blueberry pie to help Chuck out, he holds up what he found in the gator’s stomach. Chief Bodenmiller had caught wind of all the ruckus and pulled into the driveway just as beer shot out my nostrils.

“What do you have there, Chuck?” the chief asked.

“I found someone’s finger in this gator’s stomach, Chief,” Chuck said, just like that, proud as all get out.

I was trying to take my leave when the chief said, “Cooter, have you ever seen this finger before?”

Now, I’m wondering why he’s asking me, and he ain’t asking no one else. I run my hands down the front of my damp shirt while eyeing the finger Chuck was holding up. Then, noticing the mark of a fishhook cut across the inside of it, I decided that the high road would be the one of least suspicion. “Chief, I do know who belongs to that finger. I seen it attached to someone just the other day.”

Everyone in Chuck’s garage was quiet as a mouse waiting for me to speak. I took to crying and sobbing. “Oh, poor Alden. I’m gonna miss him.” It seemed like a good thing to say.

I was wiping my nose on my sleeve when Chuck decided to pull another rabbit out of his hat. Or, to be exact, another finger out of the gator’s stomach. I took one look at that chubby finger and passed out right there on the floor of Chuck’s garage. When I came to, I was in a jail cell downtown.

I opened my eyes, and the first thing I see is Alden sitting on the bench next to me. It gave me a start, and I near fell on the floor. But Alden wasn’t looking completely like himself. In fact, he was missing some parts, noticeably a finger on his left hand.

Alden says to me, “The craving for pout can lead to murder.” That’s what he said, just like we were havin’ a normal conversation. Then, I feel someone on the other side of me. I looked over, and I was face to face with Edna.

I didn’t see her lips move, but I heard her say, “Brewing to eliminate the competition.” She tried to stick her finger in my face, except her finger was missing.

I was easing myself onto the floor when I saw the gator making his way toward me. I pulled my legs up on the bench and sat on my hands. It was getting mighty crowded in that jail cell. The gator started talking in a low voice. “Cooter,” it said. It called me Cooter just like we were old friends. “Cooter, you’ve been cleared. You’re free to go.”

“Wake up, Cooter.” The chief was shaking my shoulders. I was lying on the bench with my hands stuck between my legs, looking at the Chief like he was some kind of apparition. “Cooter, did you hear me? You’re free to go.”

The chief got this big, toothy grin that gave me a shiver. “The results came back from the detectives at Pinellas County. They examined the gator and the rest of the remains and determined it was an accident. When the gator got him, Alden must have been cleaning his pout down by the creek. Edna probably went down the next day looking for him, and it got her too. Damn good thing Chuck killed it.”

When I got home, who do I see go by honkin’ his horn, wavin’ and smilin’? Chuck.

Some things started rattling around in my head, and I stood there puzzling for a few minutes, trying to make them all fit. First, there was all that pout in Chuck’s freezer, but he don’t go pout fishing. Then there was his wife’s award-winning blueberry pie. Edna had been making blueberry pie right before she came to see me. Maybe practicing for the fall fair competition, so she was. And that homebrew that Chuck gave Alden. Chuck never gives his brew away. I drank it, and I don’t remember anything that happened after that. But I bet Chuck remembers.