They all headed inside the cabin to a single large room. Beds with chipped antique frames in back, dining table up front, and the whole space filled with a medley of aromas from the gas stove.
Jasper stirred a cast-iron pot. “Didn’t know what you had a hankerin’ for, so we made a little of everything. But I’m betting you’ll like everything.”
“How can I help?” asked Serge.
Jasper pointed with a wooden spoon the size of a boat paddle. “Venison could use a flippin’ in that skillet.”
“You got it,” said Serge. “What’s in the other pan?”
“Snapper.”
“Surf and turf,” said Serge.
“The kind we like up here. Willard’s my brother. Probably guessed that. He’s divorced. I never could take to moss . . . Hey, Willard, break it out.”
Willard walked over to the gun rack and reached inside one of the ammo drawers for a mason jar.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“The white lightnin’ you been lickin’ your chops about.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Serge flipped the meat. “Let the reindeer games begin.”
“You boys just make yourself at home . . .”
Behind them, Willard poured clear liquid into a pair of mismatched coffee mugs. “Easy with this stuff if ya ain’t used to it.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Coleman took a stiff pull.
“What do ya think?” asked Willard.
No answer. Coleman stood perfectly still, surprised eyes indicating an internal security breach. Then he suffered a brutal coughing fit that brought tears and drool.
“You better set yourself down.”
Coleman waved him off and pounded his chest, then jiggled his coffee mug, signaling for another pour.
“You sure?”
Coleman nodded firmly.
“Damn,” Willard said as he unscrewed the jar again. “Hey, Jasper, this one’s got some tough bark on him.”
Jasper set down his wooden spoon and turned the stove’s burners to simmer. “Grab plates. We serve ourselves around here.”
Soon they were all seated around the dining table with checkered place mats. The brothers tucked bibs in their bib overalls. They bowed their heads.
Coleman reached for the basket of buttermilk biscuits, but Serge slapped his hand.
“Ow. What?”
Serge gave him a hard look and pointed at the brothers.
“Oh.”
They lowered their own heads.
Willard said the grace, seeing he was a volunteer at Sunday school. It was a good grace, from Ecclesiastes.
“. . . A time to plant, a time to reap . . .”
Coleman whispered sideways. “Isn’t this the Byrds?”
“Shhhh!”
“Amen.” Willard raised his head. “Dig in before someone else does.”
Coleman grabbed the mason jar.
“What an incredible spread,” said Serge. “There’s the meat and fish, and this must be fried okra and collard greens.” He cut into something else with a fork, blew on the steaming bite, and popped it in his mouth. “Mmmmmm!” He closed his eyes. “Tastes like heaven. What is it?”
“Swamp cabbage patties,” Willard said with his own mouthful. “Panhandle truffles.”
“Never heard of it,” said Serge. “And I’m intensely comprehensive in that regard.”
“Not surprisin’,” said Jasper. “Even country restaurants don’t have a likin’ for the words ‘swamp cabbage’ on their menu, so they call it heart of palm, which is the tasty soft bulb you cut out of the trunk just below the base of the leaves. Cabbage palmetto, also known as—”
“Sabal palm,” said Serge. “The state tree. They probably would have picked the coconut palm, but needed something that also grew in Florida’s northern latitudes.”
“You sure nuff know your facts.”
Serge took another bite. “I’m getting a party in my mouth, but I can’t place all the guests.”
“Chop up the hearts with some onion, add a beaten egg, lots of pepper and bacon fat,” said Jasper. “’Cept I just also add the bacon itself ’cuz life’s too short. Then some flour makes the patties.”
Something knocked Serge’s arm, and his fork fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” said Coleman, passing the mason jar to Willard.
Jasper broke off tender flakes from the snapper that still had its head. “Been meanin’ to ask, and feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, but how exactly did you spook all those worms with those gizmos?”
Serge wiped his mouth with his bib. “Happy to tell . . .” And he slowly laid out the entire process.
Willard whistled. “That’s some technique. But it doesn’t make money sense if you don’t mind me sayin’. We just get two sawbucks a pail, and that equipment must have broke the bank.”
“It did,” said Serge. “But in business, it’s all about taking the long view. Yeah, it’ll take years to pay off, but after that the profits just gush.”
“And how long you plan on workin’ these parts for worms?”
“Couple more days, till the next episode.” Serge speared an okra.
A knock at the door.
“Forgot to mention,” said Willard. “We might have company.” He finished chewing and hollered, “You know to come right in!”
First they heard the screen door. Then the proper one creaked open.
Three of the men politely jumped to their feet. Serge yanked Coleman up by the arm.
“Boys,” said Jasper, “I’d like you to meet our sister, Lou Ellen . . . Lou Ellen, these nice fellas are Serge and Coleman, some of the best grunters we ever laid eyes on. Even let us have four pails of their haul . . .”
Coleman whispered again. “Awkward.”
Serge quickly grabbed a chair from the side of the room and brought it to the table for Lou Ellen to sit. “Listen, about the other day. I got an emergency call—”
“No need to explain.”
Willard aimed a knife. “You two’s acquainted?”
“Met briefly at the grocery,” said their sister, lowering her voice: “And the high school.”
Serge quickly slapped the table. “Say! How ’bout I fix you a plate, Lou Ellen?” He got up and the rest of the gang joined him at the stove for second helpings.
A half hour later, the guys all threw in the towel, literally. White bibs tossed on empty plates. Stomachs patted. Leaning back in chairs. “I’m stuffed.” “Why’d I eat so much?” “It was good there for a while.” “More moonshine, please.”
Jasper broke out the toothpicks and passed the box.
“Thanks,” said Serge. “All this reminds me of Route 66. Dinner at the house of friendly locals who take kindly to strangers.”
“I remember that show,” said Willard. “Every town they went to, those guys were screwing everything that wasn’t nailed down, but they couldn’t let on too much back then.”
Coleman: “Awwwk-ward.”
“Shut up with that.”
Willard held his mason jar to unfocused eyes and poured the remnants in two mugs.
Coleman drained one. “So what do you guys do around here after drinking moonshine?”
“Only one thing to do,” said Willard. “Shoot guns!”
“Eeee-hah!” said Coleman.
They stumbled back to the gun rack and crashed into it. Rifles toppled, along with Willard. Coleman got on his knees. “I’ll pick up the bullets . . . Here, bullet, bullet . . .”
Willard reached in a drawer. “I got us another mason jar. Let’s go, buddy . . .”
The pair swerved out the screen door into the night.
Serge’s head slowly rotated toward Jasper. “You know how sometimes when everyone is standing around in horror, and you wish you could turn back the clock to a certain point in time? This reeks of one of those points.”