FROGMAN
1
TWO WEEKS BEFORE Labor Day, Raphael Semmes Cody sat with his cousin Junior in Roxie's Ice Cream Palace. Both were scooping out almond crunch ice cream covered with butterscotch syrup and sprinkled with chopped walnuts. Outside, heavy air grown humid from passage over the Gulf of Mexico and torrid from radiant heat off the Florida Panhandle had come to rest upon the little town of Clayville. The Alabama sky, mercilessly clear, offered no promise of an afternoon shower. Customers entering the Palace plucked at shirts and blouses stuck with sweat to their bodies.
"My Lord, it is hot out there," said a linen-clad businessman with a sigh as he pushed through the door.
A farmer sitting on a stool laughed. "Yeah, hotter'n a bucket of red ants."
Junior didn't care. He said to Raphael, "I got a great idea. Let's go see if we can find the Chicobee Serpent." He meant Alabama's equivalent of the Loch Ness Monster. Over the past century, hundreds of local people claimed to have seen something very big, snakelike, and definitely mysterious lurking in the deeper water of the nearby Chicobee River.
"Naw, that's crazy," Raff--as he was usually called--replied. "That's just a story people made up. There isn't any such thing as a Chicobee Serpent."
Junior had anticipated that response. "Yeah, there is. Lots of people have seen it. You just gotta drift down the river real quiet-like, don't use no outboard motor or anythin'. Make your boat look like a floatin' log, or somethin' like that, you know."
"Oh, yeah, if a lot of people have seen it," Raff said, "why haven't they taken any pictures?"
"Maybe they didn't have any cameras with them. They were just out fishin'. I tell you what, we'll take a camera. I got one. If we take a picture, you bet we'll be famous."
"What's it supposed to look like?" Raff asked.
"It's a lot like a real big snake. It curls around a lot. Nobody's seen the head, just parts of the body."
Raff shook his head. "I don't think so. My parents--"
"Oh, come on, don't be chicken." Junior flapped his arms and made clucking noises. "What we got to lose? It'd be a lot of fun. We'll stop along the way and visit Frogman. Maybe he'll show us Old Ben. Wouldn't you like to see the biggest alligator in the world?"
Raff shook his head again, this time harder. "Now I know you're crazy. Frogman'll kill us if we go on his property. They say he murdered some people up in Lownes County and got away with it. I hear if you get too close to his landing, even when you're just fishing around there, he'll come out and yell and tell you he's going to kill you."
"Aw, come on," Junior replied. "Old Frogman makes a lot of noise, but he wouldn't hurt a fly. It'd be real interestin' if we could visit him. Somethin' to tell people about. Maybe he'll let us take a picture of Old Ben. It would really be somethin' to show that around."
"Oh, yeah? I hear people disappear on the Chicobee and their bodies are never found."
"You think Frogman did that? No way. If they suspected him even just a smidgen, he'd be down at the Clayville Police Station and they'd be diggin' up his property to look for dead bodies."
"All right, then who did do it?"
"How should I know? Maybe the Chicobee Serpent. Maybe they just fell overboard and drowned. Their bodies got carried on down to the Gulf. Or maybe they wasn't really any people at all they couldn't account for. Maybe all that's just a story."
"I heard Frogman's a pervert," Raff came back. "He does things to little boys, you know."
"Like doing what?"
"You know, does weird things to them."
"Jesus, Raff, you really stink." Sixteen-year-old Junior, Raff's senior by a full year, decided to take a more mature approach to his cousin. He put on an indignant expression and shook his head slowly, as though surprised at such ignorance. "Maybe you heard somethin' like that somewhere, but if that was true, don't you think he'd be sittin' up there in Monroeville Prison right now?"
Raff kept silent, and Junior went on. "Don't be a yellow-belly. We'll take off first thing in the morning, get to the river through the Johnson Farm. I know where we can borrow a boat on the floodbank down there. Then we'll float on downstream a few miles, and pull over at the Potomo Landing. Be home by supper, no sweat."
"My parents would kill me if they found out. They already think you're going to get me into trouble. They don't like me to go out with you anywhere."
"Tell 'em that you and I goin' to spend a day at Lake Nokobee. Say we're goin' to go fish for bream. They won't give it a second thought."
TWO DAYS LATER Junior picked Raff up at eight in the morning. The two boys, after giving earnest assurances and promises to Raff's mother, rode their bikes northeast out of Clayville on Alabama 128 and onto a small county spur. There was almost no traffic; only two vehicles passed them going the other way, both loaded with croaker sacks of green tomatoes. The boys arrived at a forest-lined stream on the edge of the Johnson Farm, then hid their bicycles behind a dense clump of shrubs and weeds just off the road overpass. They climbed down to the edge of the stream, took off their shoes, rolled their pants up to their knees, and waded into the clear, smooth-running water. They enjoyed the feel of the sand between their toes and the scattered smooth pebbles of the bottom against the soles of their feet.
As they headed downstream, in the direction of the Chicobee, they saw small fish dart for protection into clumps of eelgrass and the hollows of the overhanging bank. A mud turtle, green-streaked with algae, remained still on the bottom as they walked past. A ribbon snake dropped into the water from an overhanging branch and swam swiftly out of sight. A red-shouldered hawk took off from overhead, screeching loudly. They looked up and spotted its nest, almost hidden from sight in the canopy.
"It's past the nesting season," Raff said.
Farther down, the water quieted and deepened into a pool to above their knees. The boys climbed up onto the bank, put their shoes back on, and walked along the overgrown trace of a trail. Whenever the trail petered out, they pushed their way through the thick understory along the watercourse as best they could.
After a mile or so the stream broadened and grew shallow again. It was partly diverted to one side by a thicket of cattails surrounding a small pond. The woods changed into widely spaced water oak, cypress, and trees of other kinds that dominate the coastal floodplain forest. The boys walked on carefully, heading diagonally away from the increasingly muddy bottom of the stream.
"Watch out for quicksand," Junior warned.
Raff fell in behind him, thinking that if they stumbled into something of the sort, Junior would be the first to sink. They proceeded in tandem like that, pressing on toward the river, hopping over little pools and easing their way around slick muckbeds.
Finally the Chicobee itself came into sight. The river's surface shimmered a silvery blue-green in the midmorning sunlight. As far as they could see up and down, it was walled in by the tops of floodplain tree canopies that rolled down like green waves to touch its surface.
Its current was smooth and slow. Its speed, which could be judged by the downstream travel of fragments of dead tree limbs, was like that of someone walking at a leisurely pace.
At this point the riverbank rose slightly to one side of the creek outflow. They could see from the thicker and different woods that the bluff was just high enough to escape all but the most intense floodwaters following heavy rain upstream. On the side facing the riverfront it dropped steeply, its face free of foliage and colored pale yellow by its sandy clay. On each side the bluff sloped more gradually, giving way to a mud bank that gently led to the water's edge.
A half dozen rowboats, unpainted and about ten feet in length, rested on the bank. Lashed to small sweet-bay trunks growing higher on the rise, their arrangement was clear: when the river flooded, which was often on coastal rivers like the Chicobee, the little boats would float up and move about, but were unlikely to break free and be carried downstream by any but the most powerful floodwaters.
Junior strode to one of the boats and began to untie the rope holding it. Raff followed closely. Looking inside the boat, he saw a cross-plank seat and, leaning against it, two oars.
"Who does this belong to?" Raff asked.
"I got no idea." Junior was beginning to work loose the knot on the mooring rope.
Raff laid a hand on Junior's arm. "Hey, wait a minute! We're not just going to steal a boat. We could get into big trouble."
"Relax, will ya?" Junior replied. "Who said we're stealin' it? We're just goin' to borrow it. We'll take it all the way down to the Potomo Landing and leave it there. Who owns it'll just pick it up there. Ever'body knows if you borrow a boat from here you leave it at the Potomo Landing."
Raff didn't believe Junior for one second. He knew his cousin well enough to figure Junior was just plain stealing. He also wondered how anybody could row upstream in a river as strong as the Chicobee, but then he saw that in addition to the oarlocks there was a mount on the stern of the boat that could hold an outboard motor. But they didn't have an outboard motor. How would he and Junior return the boat?
But in the end it didn't matter. Raff was swept up in the excitement of the moment. The shining river flowed deep a few feet away, and the Chicobee Serpent might be close by. Raff figured if they were caught with the boat, he could say Junior told him it was okay. He was obviously younger than Junior and so could avoid the blame and let Junior do the explaining. Junior finished untying the line, and the boat came free. The two boys pushed and pulled it off the mud bank and into shallow water. Then they climbed over one side and began their journey. Picking up the oars and pointing the boat downstream, they worked it to stay close to the wooded river edge. They saw no one else on the river and heard no powerboats coming toward them, either up or down.
"On an average day you might see two or three fishermen," Junior said. "My dad brought me'n my sister along here once, and he said that's how it's always been."
"That's really strange," Raff replied. "It's so beautiful along here, and I bet the fishin's good."
"Yeah," Junior concurred. "But it's real hard to get onto this part of the river through all that mud, and it's really terrible when the water's up. People like to go into the river farther down. Most just skip the Chicobee, like to drive farther south to the Escambia. Lot more landings down there too."
Raff studied the riverine forest as far as he could see into it, and it looked like wilderness. They passed a fisherman's shack. Its single tiny room rested over the water on poles, and it looked deserted. Farther down, they came upon a rope dangling from the overhanging branch of an enormous swamp tupelo.
"Kids use that to swing out an' drop in the water," Junior said.
"But how do they get here? I don't see any trail or road."
"Must be a road come close by. Either that or they come down here by boat."
Cooter and slider turtles the size of a man's two hands sunned themselves on logs and low-hanging tree branches. They all slid into the murky water of the river when the boat got within fifty feet or so.
"They ain't any good for eatin'," Junior said. "Anyway, you'd never catch one if you tried."
The boys passed a water snake swimming toward shore. A great blue heron stood rigidly in shallow water at the edge of a sandbar, waiting for a passing fish. Two ducks passed overhead, going down the river arrow-straight in tight formation, driven by pounding wings. A turkey vulture and broad-winged hawk spiraled upward on a draft of warmer air, at such a distance and height they were little more than silhouettes.
Two smaller hawklike birds with long forked tails sailed over the canopy on the opposite shore.
"Those have got to be swallowtail kites," Raff said. "I never saw one of those before." He added helpfully, "They eat snakes up in the trees."
Their eyes lifted often to scan the sky and trees, but they stayed on the unspoken lookout for the Chicobee Serpent. Neither saw anything that could qualify as even a hint of it, but neither really expected the serpent to reveal itself in broad daylight on calm water. They kept hoping, just the same.
And then, like a door flung back, the forest opened. They came to a sandy landing on which rested a small boat similar to their own. A dirt path, cleared of grass and leaves, led about a hundred feet to a small box-shaped house with a slanted galvanized metal roof. The dwelling was well kept. Although unpainted, it appeared solid, with no sign of decay. Several planks on one side were much lighter in color and probably newly installed. Three steps led to a narrow porch at the front entrance. There was a window to the side of the door that faced the river, partly covered by a shade with a drawstring, but no curtain.
When their boat scraped bottom, the boys piled out and together pulled it partway onto the landing.
When they turned around, there stood Frogman, scarcely ten feet away. He must have spotted them and started out the door while they were pulling the boat up.
Frogman was an inch or two over six feet, narrow in face and body, about forty years old, weathered enough to look ten years older. His face was deeply tanned and creased at the eyes and corners of his mouth. He wore old-fashioned blue overalls with a front tool pocket and suspenders, a beige shirt buttoned at the cuffs, and a bill cap labeled FLOMATON LUMBER. He wore a short, neatly trimmed beard, and he had long hair tied behind in a ponytail. He was barefoot.
And in his right hand was a pump-action shotgun, which he held steady and pointed at the two boys.
He was not smiling.
"What in hell do you want?" he shouted. He pronounced it hey-yell.
Junior Cody, used to confrontations with his elders, lied smoothly. "Sir, we're Boy Scouts on a special trip we were told to take, and we thought we'd stop by just to pay our respects."
Frogman stood still, expressionless, and adjusted his shotgun slightly. Then he jerked the barrel in the direction of the river. The interview was over.
Raff had an inspiration. "Sir," he said, "you sure have a beautiful place here. They're such big trees, and there are all kinds of birds and butterflies. We saw them while we were passing by."
Frogman stood unmoving for half a minute, then answered loudly, "Damn straight, and any sons of bitches come around here and mess up my property, I'll kill 'em."
He fell silent again, the shotgun held steady, still pointed at the boys.
This too was an obvious dismissal, but Junior tried yet again. "We have to get movin' along right away, but could we maybe just see Old Ben first? People say he's the biggest gator in the world, like maybe twelve feet."
"Fourteen," Frogman shot back, lowering the shotgun a bit and speaking now in a normal voice.
Junior had broken through. Alligator pride was the key.
"Fourteen feet," Frogman continued. "They used to be gators bigger'n that around here, but they all got shot out. You ain't gonna see Old Ben, though. He comes out only at night. And he stays 'round here close to me. I watch over him, feed him catfish and frogs after I take they legs off."
Frogman, it was widely known, used a headlamp to gig bullfrogs on the river at night, then took the legs the next morning to the nearest gas station and one-stop store at Potomo Landing. He walked overland, never took his boat, made enough off the sales to buy sundries. He rarely spoke, the store owners reported, and he never stayed more than a few minutes. Each time the owners and any customers were happy to see him leave.
Frogman fell silent once again.
Time to go, for sure. But as Junior started to leave, he turned around and pressed his luck again.
"We know we got to leave right away, sir, but could you tell us--have you ever seen the Chicobee Serpent?"
Frogman continued to stare at the boys, but Raff sensed that something had almost imperceptibly changed. Frogman passed his tongue once quickly over his lips as though preparing to speak. He worked his mouth around a little bit, and finally said, "Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't."
He paused for a moment more, then unleashed a veritable oration. "I've seen somethin' big out there, always when it's gittin' dark, and heard some things too. It ain't a gator, for sure. It ain't no sturgeon either, come jumping out of the water big as a man. It might be a big old bull shark, come upriver out of the Gulf somewhere, long as a new-cut log, but I don't think so. That kinda shark don't break the surface, they come at you underwater."
Raff knew, if Junior didn't, that bull sharks are among the few species in the world that travel up rivers, and are also among the few that sometimes attack humans.
Frogman looked past the boys and seemed to be talking to himself. "But I seen somethin'. I heard somethin'."
Junior and Raff were riveted. They waited for Frogman to continue, but he was done. His mouth tightened, his eyes squinted, and the ogre of the Chicobee returned.
"Now you get the hell off my land, and if ever I see either one of you little bastards come here again I'll make you the sorriest you ever been your whole life."
They walked backward to the landing, kowtowing, heads nodding, murmuring, "Yessir, yessir." They quickly pushed the boat free, climbed in, and pushed off.
At the Potomo Landing, they worked the boat up onto the mud shore, walked up the grassy bank, and sat down next to the bridge abutment in the shade of a giant live oak. Raff opened his knapsack and pulled out a lunch his mother had prepared for the two: peanut butter and strawberry jam in white-bread sandwiches, apples, and Hershey's chocolate bars with almonds.
Raff and Junior then walked past the little convenience store and gas pump on down the one-lane blacktop Potomo Road until, twenty minutes later, they reached the crossing of the old Thomasville Railroad. They proceeded south along the track, sometimes hopping from one wooden tie to the next, sometimes navigating through the dense weeds growing on the embankment. When they came to State 27 they followed it southeast into Clayville. Along the way they agreed to hike the next day to the Johnson Farm to retrieve their bicycles. Then they exchanged solemn oaths never to tell their parents about their adventure, for fear of being grounded.
Exhausted by the long walk home but exhilarated, they arrived at Raff's house in time for supper, and Junior went on his way. At the kitchen table, over baked chicken, fried okra, and cornbread, his mother asked Raff how his day had been at the Nokobee tract.
"It was okay," Raff said. "I just wish Junior was more interested in natural history, though. And he's scared of snakes."
In the days following, Raff and Junior described the Chicobee adventure in detail to their friends, each puffing up his own heroic contribution. Accounts of a stolen skiff, as opposed to a borrowed skiff, were reserved for only two or three of their closest confidants.