Nether Regions by Nat Burns Page B

that way, portraying nature more precisely.
    Her eyes took in the enormous bayou on her left and the endless flow of the Root River on her right. Root River was known as Cofe Creek by most of the locals because her family had lived here on this water as long as anyone could remember. Mints, lady, brandy and catmint grew along the banks there, and several large, old willows, called trees of enchantment by Grandam, shaded it.
    Sophie liked living here. She liked the call of the swamp and the slow pace of life, as slow as the Root River in deep summer. Some of the friends she’d gone to school with had talked about moving to Goshen or Mobile, some even as far north as New York. And they had. She still got the occasional postcard from Kinsey, who had moved to Atlanta. She said there were gay women everywhere there, and she was planning to have a commitment ceremony with her girlfriend, Gerri. In a church and everything. Sophie had to shake her head over that one. The idea wasn’t even thinkable here in Redstar. Lesbianism, gayness, was okay as long as you didn’t talk openly about it. Sophie knew a handful of gay couples in Redstar and they were well tolerated. If one of them acted differently, however, or tried to be acknowledged publicly as gay, Sophie knew that would change.
    Being a lesbian in a small southern town wasn’t the best situation, Sophie realized, but leaving Redstar and Bayou Lisse never even entered into the equation. Everything that really meant anything to her was here—here in the three hundred square miles that was her life.
    She walked toward the bayou, empty coffee mug trailing from one hand. A nettle stabbed at one foot, and she hopped, cursing, then limped onward. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed, really. She knew it was a sense of loyalty to Grandam and to her family. Sophie’s mother, Faye, had moved away to Port Saint Joe, Florida, when Sophie was young. She had left Sophie with Grandam when it became evident how strongly the girl felt about leaving the bayou.
    “You two are of a kind,” Faye told them, her new man sitting outside in his shiny Chevrolet pickup truck. Her hug had been fierce and long, and Sophie would always remember the smell of her—White Shoulders perfume combined with Juicy Fruit gum.
    There had been only five visits during Sophie’s trek toward womanhood, visits filled with presents and tales of life among Florida’s elite. Sophie had her mother’s wild, tawny hair, though, and her mother’s mother and that was just about enough. And the swamp. All gifts she was grateful for.
    The water of the bayou was still this morning, lush with duckweed. A frog scurried at her approach and overhanging wild roses bobbed a slow good morning. The stillness was palpable, stealing across her and immersing her in another language. This was why she stayed. The bayou talked to her, made her one of its own.
    The family told her she was a sensitive, that she had the gift of the wild. All the Cofe women had it, or so it was told. Grandam certainly did. Sophie knew Faye possessed the gift but hated it. Some did turn away; Sophie had always known she could if she wanted to. If she wanted to move off the water, move farther into Redstar, no one would hold her to task. Life would go on.
    In her heart, though, Sophie knew that the gift was not to be ignored. There was a rightness to it. To turn away and not do what she was able to do was a sacrilege, a wrong turn in the universal order. Faye had gone against it and her life was fine. On the surface. Sophie knew, as did Grandam, that it could come back around, and they were prepared to be nearby if Faye needed them. The gift was a simple thing really. Sophie could heal. She could use the way of the wild to bring anything back to wholeness.
    She looked off into the bayou, her blond eyelashes and brows glowing golden in the morning sunlight. The light was penetrating into the water as well, bringing a teeming life-force to the surface. Sophie