Seed

by Ania Ahlborn

THE SATURN’S ENGINE rattled like a penny in an old tin can. The car was a junker—its headlights pale and off-kilter. It was a temporary fix that had become a permanent mode of transportation. Jack had insisted that when they had the cash they’d buy themselves a pair of fancy wheels—a ride that had that new-car scent. And then Abby broke her arm. Charlie got bronchitis. Aimee needed a tooth filled. Years passed; that secondhand Saturn became their lifeline, but Jack refused to lose hope. He collected loose change in one of Aimee’s old Mason jars, squirreled away an extra dollar here and there. He worked extra hours at the boat shop, sweating through Southern summers that buzzed with the soothing hum of locusts.

It would take them an hour to get back home. Live Oak was a blip on the map—a place you drove past and thought, Oh, how quaint, before blowing through without a second thought. It was the kind of place people ran from, the kind of place that was heavy with dark secrets and strange people—strange because they stayed there, somehow having found a way to survive in a nowhere town. But Jack loved Louisiana, from the bridges that stretched over swampland, to the long gray moss that hung from ancient trees like a tangle of witch’s hair. Most averted their eyes, avoiding the dilapidated houses that skirted the everglades and sank into the marshland—swallowed by a quagmire that could only exist in the South. Jack never looked away. Those skeleton-houses drew him in.

Reagan stayed behind at the club, having a few drinks with the boys after the show, while Jack scoured the strip in search of an appropriate gift. Unless he was willing to settle on a T-shirt that read “My Daddy’s Big and My Mommy’s Easy,” it would take some time to find. He had already bought them key chains sporting their names, and Charlie had already collected so much Día de los Muertos stuff that Aimee threatened to pack it all up and leave it at the Goodwill. Once he’d found her a tiny three-legged pig that, according to voodoo folklore, was supposed to bring the owner good luck. Aimee hadn’t liked that so much either; she appreciated the sentiment, but she wasn’t big on bringing voodoo into the house.

tired-looking waitress appeared at their table before Jack had a chance to settle in. She was gaunt. The weird lighting from the neon signs cast gruesome shadows across her face. If there was news of a zombie outbreak, this was one woman he’d steer clear of.

The Louisiana darkness was oppressive. If the night sky had torn itself open and bled ink onto the earth, it still wouldn’t come close to the depth of shadow that swallowed the levees and live oaks. It was liquid darkness, a darkness so heavy it blotted out the brightest headlights.

She could hear the branches of the oaks groan and complain as they swayed back and forth. They were the kind of trees you wanted on your property because they were ancient and mystical, but that you regretted having when the rain fell sideways and the wind howled through the leaves.