Russ Thibodeaux wipes grease off his forearms with a frayed paper towel, the cornmeal dust from the catfish batter sticking to the sweat on his wrists. At 62, the retired commercial crawfisherman has manned the fry station at his local parish’s quarterly fish fry for 17 straight years, and he can flip a batch of hushpuppies blindfolded. His knuckles are gnarled from decades of hauling nets, a thin white scar slicing across his left thumb from a run-in with a rusted crab trap in 2009, and he still wears his wedding band, polished so thin the engraving is almost gone. He’s avoided every blind date, every lingering smile from the widows at the church bake sales, convinced even a casual coffee with someone who isn’t his late wife Linda is a betrayal. He’s stubborn to a fault, his only companion a 10-year-old hound dog named Red who spends most days napping on the porch of his bait and tackle shop down on the Amite River.
The hum of the bluegrass band picking in the corner mixes with the squeal of kids chasing each other across the lawn, the air thick with the smell of fried catfish, coleslaw vinegar, and cheap citronella candles. He spots Marnie first through the crowd, wearing a soft yellow sundress that hits just above her knees, strappy white sandals caked with a little dust from the gravel parking lot. She’s Linda’s cousin’s widow, 58, retired dental hygienist, and they’ve crossed paths a hundred times at family reunions and holiday dinners, but he’s never spent more than five minutes talking to her alone. She’s carrying a stack of paper plates stacked high with mac and cheese, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of barbecue sauce on her left cheek. He looks away fast, his neck heating up, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
She makes her way over to the fry station 10 minutes later, holding an empty to-go container, and leans in close to yell over the noise, her shoulder brushing his bare bicep. The scent of coconut sunscreen and sweet tea hits him first, soft, familiar, nothing like the heavy perfumes the other widows wear to these events. “My mom’s stuck at home with her bad knee,” she says, her lips close enough to his ear that he can feel her breath warm against his skin. “Said she’d disown me if I didn’t bring her back two pieces of catfish and extra tartar sauce.” He laughs, grabbing a pair of tongs to plate the fish, and they both reach for the container at the same time, their knuckles brushing. Her hand is soft, a tiny thin scar on her index finger he remembers she got when they were all crabbing together at the family camp in 2004, when she reached for a blue crab that snapped at her. He pulls his hand back fast, like he’s been burned, and shoves the container at her, his face red.
She teases him for burning the last batch of hushpuppies, the same way he did at the 2017 family reunion, and swats his arm playfully when he jokes that she still steals extra packets of tartar sauce like she did when they were kids. He finds himself leaning in when she talks, watching the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she laughs, the way she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear when she’s listening. The guilt nags at the back of his head the whole time, a quiet voice saying you shouldn’t be enjoying this, this is wrong, people will talk. But he can’t make himself walk away.
By the time the fry wraps up, the sun is dipping below the treeline, the sky turning pink and orange, the crickets starting to chirp in the grass. Most people have left, the folding tables stacked against the side of the parish hall, the coolers half-empty. He’s loading a case of leftover soda into the back of his pickup when she walks over, holding a six pack of Abita Amber in one hand, her keys in the other. “I was gonna drive down to the dock by your shop,” she says, not meeting his eye at first, then lifting her chin to hold his gaze, bold, unapologetic. “Figured you might want to join me. No one’s gonna be out there this time of night.”
He hesitates for a full 10 seconds, the guilt warring with the tight, warm feeling in his chest he hasn’t felt in 8 years. Then he nods, jerking his chin toward his truck. “Follow me. I’ve got a cooler of ice we can use.”
The drive to the shop is short, the backroads dark, only the glow of his headlights cutting through the humidity. They sit on the edge of the dock, their feet dangling a foot above the dark bayou water, the beer cold against their palms. She tells him about her mom’s upcoming knee surgery, about the trip she took to Gulf Shores last month by herself, about how she’s been lonely since Joe died three years ago, how everyone keeps trying to set her up with guys who only want to talk about their lawns and their grandkids. He tells her about Red’s recent ear infection, about the group of teen boys who come into the shop every weekend to buy bait for catfish, about how he still wakes up reaching for Linda some nights.
When she passes him his second beer, their hands linger this time, neither of them pulling away. The moon comes up, silver on the water, fireflies blinking in the cypress trees lining the bank. He reaches out, slow, like he’s approaching a skittish animal, and brushes the smudge of leftover barbecue sauce off her cheek with his thumb. She doesn’t flinch, just leans into his touch, her eyes soft.
They sit there for another hour, not talking much, listening to the frogs croak and the distant sound of a boat motor drifting down the river. He doesn’t think about the comments the family will make if they find out, doesn’t think about the guilt he’s carried for 8 years, doesn’t think about anything except the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his, the taste of beer on his tongue, the way the light hits her hair when she turns to smile at him. When she rests her head on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch, just laces his fingers through hers and watches the fireflies blink over the bayou.
