A Season With No Regrets!

By

Pamela Ebel

“Them that’s got barely gives a crust of bread to those in need. But not you, girl. Gimp and me is always happy to see you.”

Cassie turned from feeding Gimp the last bit of chicken she had cooked for him and looked into Theophile Green’s smiling face. She turned back to the pit bull with three legs and gave him a huge ham bone as she stood.

“Evenin’ Theophile. How’s the family?”

“They’re good.  Redfish season’s here and look at that moon. I see Mr. Carl’s havin’ a few at the bar. You goin out?”

“I’m afraid so. Another season. I hope we have better luck this time. He wants to win first place and the $1,000 prize and gets mad when he doesn’t. I regret each time . . .”

Cassie stopped talking when Gimp started to growl. Carl was walking up with a beer in hand.

“You regret what, Cass? You have it good, nothing to regret. Don’t be wasting time with Green and that mutt. I thought they were going to put him down when he was stupid enough to jump in that hole where the gator lives. You aren’t giving him food, are you? I warned you.”

Carl grabbed the bag she held.

“No, Mr. Carl, that’s mine. Ms. Cassie was just keepin’ it from flying in the water.”

Green held his hand out and Carl shoved the bag into it.

“Come on. We’re going to miss the tide change. Move your ass or you’ll have something to regret.”

Theophile shook his head as he watched Carl shove his wife into the boat where she fell to her knees.

“Them that’s got a good thing never know it. Isn’t that right, Gimp?”

The pit bull growled as he saw Cassie fall and moved a few steps toward the boat, the fur on his neck raised.

“Easy boy. Easy. Time soon enough for regrets. Yes, sir! Time soon enough.”

Carl drove the boat to his favorite spot, shut the motor off, dropped his line and drifted into the tall Bullrush stocks. Cassie swatted at mosquitos as he swayed, digging for another beer.

“With that $1000 I’m going to the casinos, and you’re not invited. But I have plans for you.”

The reel began to whine, and the line raced into the current. Carl stumbled to grab the rod he had left unattended. They both watched it slide into the water. Cassie leaned over and managed to grab the line and pulled it toward her as the rod and reel started to sink.

“It’s a big one. Get him over here so I can get him in the net. Hurry, bitch!”

The line cut into Cassie’s hands and blood spilled down her arms as she continued to pull it in. A thirty-pound redfish rose and Carl scooped it up while screaming at Cassie for losing the rod and reel.

They raced back to the dock and Carl ran to enter the fish before the 10:00 PM  close.

Theophile saw Cassie in the boat, the front of her covered in blood. Helping her to a bench, he ran for clean towels.

“There you are. Making a scene over a few cuts after costing me that gold Penn reel and Abu Garcia rod. I won first place, and you owe me $1,200 for the gear.”

A splash in the water caught their attention. Carl yanked Cassie toward the sound

“Gator’s hungry. You slipped and fell trying to get some water for your cuts. Only you won’t be as lucky as that damn dog I pushed in last year. He just lost a leg. You . . .”

Theophile started running as he saw Carl about to push Cassie into the alligator pond. A brindle blur flew by him and launched itself on three legs into Carl’s back, sending him crashing into the pond.

Carl yelled and reached for Cassie as the gator floated next to him.

“Give me your damn hand, bitch.”

Her bloody hand reached out and then down to rest on Gimp’s head as Carl and the gator disappeared beneath the water.

“Here, girl. Let’s clean your hands and then I’ll go get the police at the rodeo site. Sorry, though. Don’t think they’ll find much.”

She patted Gimp’s head and shrugged.

“That’s okay. Some people wouldn’t give a crippled crab a crutch or care for a three-legged dog and some of us get a season with no regrets.”

Pamela Ebel has been published in Shotgun Honey, The BOULD AWARDS 2020 Anthology, as well other venues. Her poetry has appeared in the Delta Poetry Review. A native of California, she now concentrates on tales from her original home state and tales from the highways of the South. She also knows, like the Ancient Greeks and the Irish, that as a southern writer you can’t outrun your blood.

She has turned to writing full time as of 2020, obviously either perfect or bizarre timing, and this will be her fifth career. She lives in Metairie, Louisiana, with her husband and two cats.