Alice’s eyes bugged. I wasn’t sure she ought to be seeing this. They were waving bottles and trying to dance. I didn’t know what they’d do next. Grandma was fascinated.
As we watched, a skinny old guy with a deputy’s badge pinned to his long johns stepped forth and was real sick over the rail into the water.
“Earl T. Askew,” Grandma muttered, “president of the Chamber of Commerce.”
But now a fat old geezer in the droopiest drawers and nothing else pulled himself up on the porch rail. Bottles toppled into the water as he stood barefoot on the rail, teetering back, then forward, while the others behind him roared, “Whoa, whoa.”
“Shut up a minute,” he roared back at them, “and I’ll sing you a
good
song.” He took a slug out of the bottle in his fist, and began:
The night that Paddy Murphy died
I never shall forget.
The whole durn town got stinkin’ drunk,
And some ain’t sober yet.
The only thing they done that night
That filled my heart with fear,
They took the ice right off the corpse
And put it in the beer.
Then he fell back into the arms of the cheering crowd.
“Ain’t that disgusting?” Grandma said. “He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Who is he?” I whispered.
“O. B. Dickerson, the sheriff,” she said, “and them drunk skunks with him is the entire business community of the town.”
Mary Alice gasped. The drawers on some of the business community were riding mighty low. “They’re not acting right,” she said, very prim.
“Men in a bunch never do,” Grandma said.
They were tight enough to fight too, and we were on their private property. Not only that. We were in a boat full of trapped fish almost under the bloodshot eye of the sheriff. I thought it was time to head upstream as fast as Grandma could row.
But no. She jammed an oar into the bank to push us off. Then she began rowing around the bend. My heart stopped. The full chorus was singing again, louder as we got nearer.
Sweet Adeline, old pal of mine. . . .
The Rod & Gun Club came into view, and so did we. Mary Alice was perched in the bow. Grandma was rowing steady, and I was in the stern, wondering if the fish showed.
It took the drunks on the porch a moment to focus on us. We were sailing right past them now, smooth as silk, big as life.
You’re the flower of my heart, Sweet Ad—
They saw us.
And Grandma saw them, as if for the first time. She seemed to lose control of the oars, and her mouth fell open in shock. Mary Alice was already shocked and didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t know where to look.
Some of the business community were so far gone, they just stared back, unbelieving. They thought they owned this stretch of the creek. A few, seeing that Grandma and Mary Alice were of the opposite sex, scrambled to hide themselves behind the others.
But you never saw anybody looking as scandalized as Grandma was at these old birds in their union suits and less. She was speechless as her gaze passed over them all, recognizing everybody.
It was a silent scene until Sheriff O. B. Dickerson found his voice. “Stop in the name of the law!” he bellowed. “That’s my boat!”
Before the Rod & Gun Club was out of sight, Grandma had regained control of the oars. She rowed on as if none of this had ever happened. The sun was beating down, so she didn’t push herself. After all, the sheriff couldn’t chase us downstream. We were in his boat.
Around another bend and a flock of turtles sunning on stumps, Grandma pulled for the remains of an old dock. We tied up there, and now we were out of the boat, climbing a bluff. Grandma led, dragging the net of catfish. I was in the rear, doing my best with the picnichamper. Mary Alice was between us, watching where she walked. She was scareder of snakes than she let on, if you ask me.
An old house without a speck of paint on it stood tall on the bluff. Its outbuildings had caved in, and the privy stood at an angle. There were still