places.
Judy gets out of the car too, and gives him a small kiss on his neck. ‘ Mon brave ,’ she says, ‘where the hell have you brought us?’
The shop is poor and wooden and there are too many things in it. Above the counter is an old painted sign of an egret or heron taking wing, draughted with great care once, and written above that a slogan saying Welcome to the Sovereign Miccosukee Seminole Nation . He’d seen a similar sign along the road about half-an-hour before, but it’s news to Judy and Freya. He sees them look at the sign, then look at the man behind the counter. He’s small and dark featured, with a thin face and a wide dry mouth, and is looking their way. It’s not clear if he’s sitting down or standing up. Behind him is a rack of Indian crafts, basket weaves, beads, dream catchers from various Indian nations, but it’s the pile of alligator feet that attracts Guy. In a large basket near the counter, there must be a hundred of them, dried, polished and heavily scaled, with twisting claws like the hands of an Egyptian mummy. It gives the place an eerie voodoo look, and the entire shop has a fungus smell which might be coming from them.
Freya has seen the alligator feet. She picks one up and has a close look at it, turning it round in her own hand like a devil’s handshake.
‘Good luck,’ the man says, ‘that is if you like a gamble.’ The man has long hair swept back over a pair of thin sloping shoulders. His head seems too big for his body, as if something’s eating him from within. ‘You like gamblin’, miss?’
‘Sometimes,’ Freya says, warily. Her voice sounds wholesome and polite and out of place.
‘I used to,’ the man says, ‘used to a whole lot.’
‘Do you want it?’ Judy says. Freya’s unsure, being corralled by adults into making a decision. ‘I’ll get it for you.’
‘There are CDs here,’ Guy says. Judy looks to where he’s pointing and sees a rack selling Indian chants, sacred songs and dances.
‘They ain’t nothin’,’ the man says.
But Judy’s interested. A collector of music. She picks up a CD with an Indian woman on it, sitting cross-legged on rush-matting.
‘Lady,’ the man says, ‘don’t buy it.’
Suddenly there’s a single laugh and they all notice a second man, his head face down on the counter behind a nut dispenser, a cigarette burning from a hand which hangs nearly touching the floor. ‘Leave ’em be, Glynn,’ the second man says, and laughs again, though he doesn’t lift his face. Guy sees an odd angle of the man’s cheek, hot and sweaty and covered in insect bites.
The man behind the counter smiles, revealing a shiny set of false teeth, possibly the whitest thing in the shop.
‘You want coffee?’ he says to Guy.
Guy takes the coffee outside and stands for a while by the chain-link fence that borders the swamp. Through its diamond pattern of wire the darkness is absolute. A bird is sitting through there, by the side of a dark channel of water.
Some large and impossibly leggy insect flies near him, attracted to the acidic lights of the gas station, and he moves instinctively back to the car. Inside, it smells of the journey they’ve been having, their breath, the warmth of the seats. This car is his friend already. Men love their children and dogs and a little less they love their wives, but they always have a special thing for their cars.
He sits there, drinking his coffee. If he gets the chance, he’s going to talk to Judy tonight about his suspicions. Maybe suspicions is too hard a word, and too alarming, but there have been changes in Judy, changes lately that need to be mentioned. He doesn’t want to get to Nashville so completely unprepared.
Through the windscreen he spots the insect again, as it spirals awkwardly up towards the lights. It looks like a clump of hair you might pull from a shower trap. Near the roof it touches a wire grill built into the light’s casing and bursts into fire.
He sees the others
Judy gets out of the car too, and gives him a small kiss on his neck. ‘ Mon brave ,’ she says, ‘where the hell have you brought us?’
The shop is poor and wooden and there are too many things in it. Above the counter is an old painted sign of an egret or heron taking wing, draughted with great care once, and written above that a slogan saying Welcome to the Sovereign Miccosukee Seminole Nation . He’d seen a similar sign along the road about half-an-hour before, but it’s news to Judy and Freya. He sees them look at the sign, then look at the man behind the counter. He’s small and dark featured, with a thin face and a wide dry mouth, and is looking their way. It’s not clear if he’s sitting down or standing up. Behind him is a rack of Indian crafts, basket weaves, beads, dream catchers from various Indian nations, but it’s the pile of alligator feet that attracts Guy. In a large basket near the counter, there must be a hundred of them, dried, polished and heavily scaled, with twisting claws like the hands of an Egyptian mummy. It gives the place an eerie voodoo look, and the entire shop has a fungus smell which might be coming from them.
Freya has seen the alligator feet. She picks one up and has a close look at it, turning it round in her own hand like a devil’s handshake.
‘Good luck,’ the man says, ‘that is if you like a gamble.’ The man has long hair swept back over a pair of thin sloping shoulders. His head seems too big for his body, as if something’s eating him from within. ‘You like gamblin’, miss?’
‘Sometimes,’ Freya says, warily. Her voice sounds wholesome and polite and out of place.
‘I used to,’ the man says, ‘used to a whole lot.’
‘Do you want it?’ Judy says. Freya’s unsure, being corralled by adults into making a decision. ‘I’ll get it for you.’
‘There are CDs here,’ Guy says. Judy looks to where he’s pointing and sees a rack selling Indian chants, sacred songs and dances.
‘They ain’t nothin’,’ the man says.
But Judy’s interested. A collector of music. She picks up a CD with an Indian woman on it, sitting cross-legged on rush-matting.
‘Lady,’ the man says, ‘don’t buy it.’
Suddenly there’s a single laugh and they all notice a second man, his head face down on the counter behind a nut dispenser, a cigarette burning from a hand which hangs nearly touching the floor. ‘Leave ’em be, Glynn,’ the second man says, and laughs again, though he doesn’t lift his face. Guy sees an odd angle of the man’s cheek, hot and sweaty and covered in insect bites.
The man behind the counter smiles, revealing a shiny set of false teeth, possibly the whitest thing in the shop.
‘You want coffee?’ he says to Guy.
Guy takes the coffee outside and stands for a while by the chain-link fence that borders the swamp. Through its diamond pattern of wire the darkness is absolute. A bird is sitting through there, by the side of a dark channel of water.
Some large and impossibly leggy insect flies near him, attracted to the acidic lights of the gas station, and he moves instinctively back to the car. Inside, it smells of the journey they’ve been having, their breath, the warmth of the seats. This car is his friend already. Men love their children and dogs and a little less they love their wives, but they always have a special thing for their cars.
He sits there, drinking his coffee. If he gets the chance, he’s going to talk to Judy tonight about his suspicions. Maybe suspicions is too hard a word, and too alarming, but there have been changes in Judy, changes lately that need to be mentioned. He doesn’t want to get to Nashville so completely unprepared.
Through the windscreen he spots the insect again, as it spirals awkwardly up towards the lights. It looks like a clump of hair you might pull from a shower trap. Near the roof it touches a wire grill built into the light’s casing and bursts into fire.
He sees the others
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