Johnny Gator Read Free

can get behind just about anything. I did.”
    Something
bad had happened to him, too.   Nola just
didn’t know what. “I hope so,” she told him.   She didn’t want to talk about her experience any longer or it might
spoil the moment. “Would you like some sweet tea?”
    By
the time she rolled each bass filet in the cornmeal mixture, fried them to a
crisp golden brown, and served them with her oven potatoes and the tomatoes,
Nola had relaxed enough to enjoy the meal.   The simple Southern fare tasted great.   She ate her fill and sat back, comfortably full.
    “Hit
the spot, didn’t it?” Johnny said.   He
had eaten twice what she did but with graceful table manners. “You fried that
fish just right.”
    “Oh,
it did,” she replied. “Thanks.”
    They
talked as they dined, sharing stories about the wildlife they had observed and
the things they each loved about the lake.   Although she had a little Southern flavor to her voice, it was also
tempered with some Texas twang and Nola knew it.   Johnny’s voice had a rich Cajun sound,
similar to the way her beloved grandpa, Papere , had
spoken.     It went easy into her ear and soothed her
troubled spirit.   He sounded Cajun but he
wasn’t as dark as most she’d known. Although, he was damn
sure an attractive man. She refilled their tea glasses, then asked, “So, where are you from?”
    “Down
‘round Crowley,” he said.
    “Acadia
Parish, right?”
    “Yeah, cher , that’s it.”
    “My
grandfather, he came from there, too.”
    Johnny’s
features lit like neon. “ Tre
bon ! What was his name?”
    “Brossard,
Pierre Broussard. I know he had oodles of kinfolk.”
    “I
know many Broussards ,” he said. “I bet I know some of
your folks.   Are you from there, too?”
    Nola
shook her head. “No, I grew up near Rusk, Texas.   It’s a pretty little town off in the piney
woods.   We lived out toward the Neches River.   I’m only part Cajun.”
    “Aw,
girl,” he said with a laugh. “So am I.”
    She
laughed and realized she hadn’t for so long. “You look like you’re nine-tenths,”
she joked. “Me, I’m only half. My mama married a Texan with roots trailing all
the way back to the Alamo.”
    “Nothing
wrong with that,” he told her. “What do you do for a livin ’
when you’re at home?”
    “I’m
a teacher,” she said. “Seventh grade social studies at one of
the middle schools over in Dallas.”
    For
self-protection, Nola had pushed away all thoughts of school since the robbery
but mention of her occupation sparked the memories of that infamous event.She had been on her way home when she
stopped by the supermarket for groceries, Nola recalled.  
    Sunlight filtered through the
windshield on the way from school to the market.   A stack of exams sat beside her purse in the
passenger seat, ready to grade. Nola had scribbled a short grocery list on the
back of an attendance sheet and once inside the store, she decided to pick up
something readymade for her supper.   Her
nose led her to the deli department where she chose a fried chicken breast, one buttermilk biscuit, and a container of three bean salad .
    Her
pulse increased and her breathing sped up as the bad memories began to suck her
into the darkness until Johnny’s voice pulled her back.
    “Hey,
girl, don’t go there,” he said.
    With
effort, Nola focused on his face. “I’m not going anywhere,” she replied.
Defense mode came naturally these days.
    “You’re thinkin ’ ‘bout what happened to you back there,” he
said.   “It’s over and done so you
shouldn’t, cher .”
    Great
advice if she could heed it. “I try not to but sometimes I do.”
    His
brown, work-worn hand reached across the table and grasped hers, his flesh,
cool, and dry. “Let go, Nola. Don’t hold onto what’s past.   Life’s hard enough without hangin ’ onto the bad things.”
    Some
undercurrent in his tone made her think he’d suffered his share of negative
events, and her