Maybe I could just frighten him into giving me the key to the lock, I thought. I could put the knife to his throat and tell him to get the key out of his pocket, or maybe I should just hit him hard over the head with the cast-iron frying pan. My body was shaking with all these choices.
I heard him grunt and then snore. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned to the wall. This was my chance to get the knife. I put down the mixing spoon gently and just as gently started toward the knife, holding the chain as I moved so it wouldn't rattle over the floor.
Buster grunted again and I paused, holding my breath. He blew air through his thick lips, snorted, and then began to snore again. I tiptoed closer to the knife, reached for it, nearly dropped it, and then clutched it to my bosom. I turned slowly and just as carefully made my way back. When I was only a foot or so from him, I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength.
Mammy could do this if she had to, I told myself. My father and poor Pierre were waiting for me to find Mommy and bring her home. I couldn't remain a prisoner in this shack much longer, and all that was standing between me and my freedom was this cruel man who didn't deserve an ounce of mercy. I stood there, hardening my heart against him until I was convinced I had the courage to do what had to be done. Then I stepped forward, raised the knife, and pressed the blade against his ugly Adam's apple, which resembled a small rodent under his skin.
I pressed it quickly, and his eyes snapped open.
"Wha . . ."
"Don't move a muscle," I said, "or I’ll slice your throat the way you slice a pig's." I pressed the blade tighter.
"Hold on, now, hear?" he said. "That's a sharp knife."
"Then don't move until I tell you to move," I said.
"I ain't movin'. Damn," he said, sobering up quickly. "This ain't no way for a man's wife to behave."
"I am not your wife and I never will be," I said. "I'd rather be dead, so don't think I won't cut your throat," I warned. I was surprised at the fury and the determination in my voice. "I have this knife right up to your jugular. Your blood will spray all over that wall you're staring at," I warned him. I could see his eyes widen and bulge with the imagined sight.
"Easy, now," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. You be my wife."
"I told you. I'm not your wife. Now reach slowly into your pocket and take out the key to this lock you have around my ankle. Go ahead, but slowly. Slowly!" I cried, pressing the blade against his throat again.
"I'm movin' easy," he cried. He slipped in his hand into his pocket and came up with the key. I took it quickly.
"Don't move. Put your hand back into your pocket," I ordered. "Go on." He did so.
It was a bit of a contortion for me, but I lifted my foot up to the cot, threaded the key into the lock and turned it. It snapped open, and I took it off, loosening the chain so I could slip my foot free.
Now my problems were just starting, I thought. Once I took the knife from his throat, what was to prevent him from turning on me and attacking me again? Thinking quickly, I realized I could just duplicate what he had done. I picked up the chain and put it over his leg.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Lift this leg. Lift it!" I screamed, keeping the knife pressed tightly to his throat. He did so and I pulled the chain under and around, threaded the lock through the links just the way he had done to tighten the chain, and snapped it shut. Then I took a deep breath to try to slow my heartbeat.
"You're crazy, woman. You can't do this to Buster Trahaw."
I counted to three and pulled the knife away and stepped back just a second before he took his hand out of his pocket and reached out to grab my wrist. Only an inch of space fell between us, but it was enough. I ran for the door as he turned on the cot and lunged.
He had enough chain to reach a foot or so out the front door, so I had to get out and to the pirogue before he reached that point. I nearly slipped and fell into the water when I hurried down the steps. I grabbed the railing. It cracked, but held my weight and I swung around to get my footing again.
Buster was out the door, waving his mallet-sized fist in the air and cursing. "You git back here and unlock this chain, hear? Git back here!"
I flung the key into the air and it plopped into the water. Buster's eyes bulged with fury. His face was cherry red; he looked as if the blood vessels in his cheeks and forehead would burst. He was so shocked and angry he couldn't form sensible words. He stuttered and stammered and waved his fist wildly, pounding his own thigh. Then he jerked on the chain, straining so hard the veins in his neck popped against the skin. Fortunately, he couldn't get the chain over his knee. However, the effort and the pain filled him with even greater frustration.
I didn't wait to see what he would do next. I stepped into the pirogue, untied it, and took the pole into my hands the way I had seen him do it. I pushed away from the dock.
"Don't you dare leave Buster Trahaw!" he screamed. "Don't you dare!"
I pushed down. The pole went so deep, I thought I would never reach bottom. I nearly fell over with the attempt and my effort to steady myself. The pirogue started rocking precariously. Terrified of falling into the murky canal water, I sat down hard and waited for the canoe to steady itself. Buster continued to scream, his voice driving birds out of the branches. I think even the fish swam away.
I rose again and, more carefully this time, stuck the pole into the water until I found something solid. I pushed and the momentum sent the canoe forward. Another thrust moved it faster. I felt more confident and did it again. When I turned, however, I saw that I was driving the canoe toward a pile of fallen cypress trees. I switched sides quickly and poled to the opposite direction. Then I looked back at the shack. Buster had been quiet for a moment. He was staring at me, disbelieving; but when he saw I was making headway, his anger rushed back in an even greater wave of rage. He stepped back into the shack and then charged forward, tearing the spike from the floor and freeing the chain.
His momentum carried him over the railing and into the swamp. He fell with a gigantic splash. For a moment I just stood there watching, and then I saw him pop up. Chain and all, he started to swim after me. I dug the pole in frantically, my fear making my efforts clumsy. The canoe went too far to the right, hit a rock, bounced, then went too far to the left and almost got caught up in weeds. I pushed and tugged.
Buster drew closer and closer. His powerful body cut through the swamp water almost as quickly as an alligator. I could see his red face drawing nearer. I cried and dug the pole down, pushed and pushed, sobbing as I struggled to stay a few feet ahead of him.
"I'll get you and whip you good!" he vowed. "Stop that canoe." He paused to wave his fist at me, and I dug in again so I could make the turn and pass through the narrow opening to enter the wider canal. For a moment he was gone from sight. I developed a smoother rhythm and pushed with more accuracy, but I hadn't realized that the canal was shallow at the turn. When Buster reached it, he gathered the chain in his hands and walked over the mound. Just when I thought I might have put enough distance between us to make his catching up with me impossible, he appeared only a half dozen feet away on the shore.
I pushed harder. Desperation gave me needed strength. He scampered through the narrow water and then dived in again, holding the chain with one arm for a moment, like a lifeguard saving a drowning swimmer. His power and determination were over-whelming. Surely he could catch me soon, I thought, and I would be doomed to a terrible punishment.
When the water grew deeper, he released the chain and began to swim with both arms. Now he was less than a half dozen feet from the canoe. I was only going to have a few more moments of freedom, I thought, and I contemplated diving into the swamp myself if he seized the canoe in those big hands of his. He might very well pull it over anyway, spilling me into the canal.