Remy Landry's Arc

Chapter 3 of 1

Remy counted his hides at first light. The rack held a dozen pelts, nutria and raccoon, drying in the warm air. A dozen more would not close the gap. He knew the math now. His trapping alone would come up short before the first payment. He needed a second way to make bayou money, and he had none. He poled to Étienne's place with the problem riding in his chest. The old Acadian shack stood on its stilts, vines running green up the weathered siding. Étienne was outside, stirring a huge pot on an outdoor burner. Steam rolled off the gumbo in a thick gray cloud. He did not look up. "You got that face again," Étienne said. "The money face." "Fur won't cover it," Remy said. "Not by winter. I run every line I got and I still come up short." Étienne tasted the gumbo off a wooden spoon. He said nothing for a long moment. He was a man who gave his trust slow, Remy had learned. He watched water and weighed things before he spoke. "City folk pay to see a gator," Étienne said at last. "They pay more to eat after. Boudin, gumbo, étouffée." He nodded at the pot. "I cook for mine. But I got no time to cook and guide both. Last trip I lost half a day to this burner." Remy went still. "You want help cooking." "I want somebody who knows the old food," Étienne said. "Who'll show up and not quit." He pointed the spoon at Remy. "You brought me étouffée once. Too much butter. But it tasted like somebody's grandmother made it." Remy almost smiled. His grandmother had run her kitchen strict and let no one question her. He still made her étouffée wrong, every time, for her. "I cook your tour meals," Remy said slowly. "You pay me a cut. Separate from the land deal. My own money." "Half what the city folk pay for the food," Étienne said. "You buy what you cook. We write it down, like before." Remy did the math in his head. Two tours a week through fall. The cooking cut plus his fur. It would close the gap. Tight, but it would close. "I'll do it," Remy said. He put out his hand. Étienne wiped his own on his jeans and took it. His grip was hard and brief. "First group comes Saturday. Six of them. You bring the étouffée." He turned back to his pot. "Get the butter right this time." Remy poled home with the deal folded fresh in his mind. He had his second income now. He also had a Saturday coming, and a dish he had never once made the way it should be made. The land was safe for another month. His grandmother's recipe stood between him and the men who would judge it.