The Laveau Alligator Farm

The Children

Pa said ‘gators hid in the shadows. He’d told Greta a lot of things about bad people in the woods, like the Laveau family and the ‘gators. She put effort into believing him. But now she and her brother were in the woods at night in a winter storm. Greta wondered if the rain would wash the chemical stink off them. She lacked context for considering her own death at 10, but she also knew things would get worse.

They had stayed at the abandoned gas station when the rain fell, but she led them into the woods when it let up. The sleeting began, and now the freezing misery soaked through to their underclothes and socks. Hans’s limp grew worse. He’d lost his shoe running after the last car and he’d kept going until he’d hurt his foot.

“Where we going?” asked Hans through chattering teeth.

“Away,” said Greta.

“Away ain’t a place. I don’ wanna be here.”

“I wanna go home.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Don’ know where home is.”

They sheltered under a battered carport next to a spot once home to a doublewide. Greta and Hans had lived in a trailer with their father. Now they knew they were hungry, wet, and painfully cold. They knew they were in the dense pines and cypress woods near Caddo Lake. They knew they were alone.

“Guh, Gu, Gheta, I shee lights,” said Hans with a slur through chattering teeth.

She turned in the direction he pointed where warm lights shone. The lights came from a house near the lake with ‘gators in it, according to Pa. Hans trotted to the light. Greta wanted to sit down and sleep.

“Wha you doing?” she asked.

“I’m hunry and col’ and I’m wet, and I’m goin’ there,” slurred Hans amid tears and chattering teeth.

“Wha are you gonna do?”

“Don’ know.”

“Hans, stop.”

Hans staggered toward the lights. Everything scared Greta, but she followed her brother. They crossed under tall pines and cypress trees draped in Spanish moss, covered in frost, and emerged into a clearing.

Before them stood a cozy red barn turned into a home. To one side spread a gravel parking lot, and to the other were tall fences blocking the view of the lake. Steps led up from the parking area to a wooden deck. Signs over windows read “Tickets,” “Snacks,” and warm, inviting light came through the windows. Signs on gates through the fence read “Entrance” and “Deliveries & Pickups.”

Hans slipped as he went up the steps near a large sign. Greta read it.

“The Laveau Alligator Farm.”

Hans limped towards the door. Being here could only be terrible for Greta, and she couldn’t remember how they arrived. She remembered Pa told her to avoid the Laveau kid at school, and about ‘gators eating people and how the Laveaus owned ‘gators. Now they stood in front of the Laveau place, and she knew hungry ‘gators waited past the fence, and the darkness under the deck could have held anything. Greta began crying as the night closed in on her. Hans knocked on the front door.

“Don’ Hans,” she shouted, but the sleet muffled her voice.

The front door opened as Greta closed her eyes.

---

Greta came back to herself in warmth and catching the scent of wood smoke and what might have been food. She found herself stripped down to her underwear and wrapped in a dry quilt.

“Oh, you’re awake,” came an accented, irritated, and unfamiliar woman’s voice.

Greta opened her eyes. A short, thin, old black woman, with milk-colored eyes, holding a white cane, stood before her. The old woman had dark skin and with darker freckles and grey dreadlocks with red tips, and wore a red sweater. The little girl jerked back.

“It’s okay, you’re safe here,” said the annoyed old woman.

The old woman spoke fast and in a sing-song rhythm. Greta turned to Hans, who wore a cheerful expression.

“He banged on de door, and I found you two outside,” said the old woman in a grumpy tone. “You had passed out, and I brought you inside. I didn’t want frozen children on my doorstep.”

The little girl lay on a sofa, and Hans rested on an easy chair in a homey living space. It held a TV at one end and a dining and kitchen area at the other end, while stairs led up, doors opened into other rooms, and exposed rafters hung overhead. The scent of wood smoke came from the stove, and a scent of spices from a pot simmering on the stove. Greta didn’t recognize the scent from the pot and knew the scent of wood smoke from when their previous trailer burned. The warmth and comfort of the place shamed her compared with the cold and rotting trailer Pa had them call home lately.

This strange old blind woman had brought them in and dried them out, and Greta didn’t know how to respond. Hunger, shabby clothing, and mildew-smelling bed were comfortable in their familiarity. Kindness frightened her with its unfamiliarity. The birds didn’t help.

There were a lot of birds in the room, and they were all the color of vanilla ice cream. Some were free—including a large buzzard staring at them from a rafter—and some were in an array of cages. The picture frames hung the wrong way, with the photos facing the walls. But the tribal masks faced out and frightened the little girl.

“What’s your name, fille?” asked the old woman grumpily.

“She’s nice, Greta,” said Hans.

“My name is Brigette,” said the old woman with exasperation. “What’s your name?”

“Greta.”

“Greta, well, you’re warm inside my house.”

The old black woman grunted when Greta’s stomach grumbled.

“We’ll have snacks soon.”

Brigette stepped to where the kitchen met the living room.

“Yeah?” Hans asked Brigette.

“Where are our clothes?” yelled Greta.

“In de dryer,” said Brigette. “And don’t shout inside de house. Wait here.”

Brigette stepped into a room off the kitchen and returned with their clothes piled up in her arms. She carried them into a bathroom, set the clothes on the counter, and returned to the kitchen while muttering about “trah-kah” and “bree-gon.”

“You can go in dere and put dem on,” said Brigette.

Hans got off the chair and shuffled into the bathroom, and Greta followed. The siblings dropped their blankets after Greta closed the door. He pulled the dry clothes off the counter. The clothes she and Hans had were dirty and had tears and worn-out parts.

“They’re warm,” Hans said with a bit of wonder in his voice. “She put a bandage on my foot.”

He pointed to the gauze wrapped around and taped to the foot. Something occurred to Greta; Brigette hadn’t returned their shoes. The old woman wanted to keep them because they couldn’t run away in bare feet.

“We can’t stay here,” said Greta.

“Why not?”

“Pa said not to talk to the Laveaus.”

“What do you wan’ to do, stop talking to Ms Brigette while we’re in her house?”

She didn’t have an answer.

“We need to go home,” said Greta.

“Maud don’ want us,” said Hans flatly.

“This is like a story Ma used to read us, about witches and ogres and kids who got lost in the woods. Brigette’s a witch, just like Pa said.”

“You aren’t Snow White or Cinderella. This ain’t one of those stories.”

Hans grinned and wriggled as he put the clothes on and enjoyed their warmth. But Greta frowned and didn’t trust it. He stepped back into the main room, and Greta closed the door to use the toilet.

“Ms Brigette, where are our shoes?” asked Hans.

“In de utility room, drying out,” said Brigette. “I couldn’t put dem in de dryer.”

Greta returned to the main room.

“If you’re going to use a toilet, flush it when you’re done and wash your hands,” scolded Brigette.

Greta sullenly did so and wondered how the blind woman knew. She wanted to act out at home, but Hazel had broken her. She wanted to act out here, but Brigette scared her.

“Why are there birds in here?” asked Greta.

“Dey are part of the show here and-” started Brigette.

“Show?” interrupted Greta.

“Don’t interrupt people,” said Brigette crisply. “Mostly we raise ‘gators for meat, but some folks like to see dem eat and do tricks. After dat, we show people my albino birds. But it’s too cold outside for de birds. Where are your parents?”

“I don’ know,” said Hans.

“We don’ know,” said Greta at the same time.

“How’d you end up on de road and get here during de storm?” asked Brigette.

Hans opened his mouth before Greta’s glare stopped him.

“I don’ wan’ to talk about it,” said Hans. “We… got lost and saw the lights at your house.”

“Who are your parents?”

“Our Ma’s dead,” said Greta tonelessly.

“Pa is Pat Cutter,” said Hans. “I know him.”

Brigette blinked in surprise. Greta hadn’t known the blind could blink.

“Pat Cutter is your fader?” asked Brigette with a guarded tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Hans

The black woman painted a fake smile across her face. Greta could tell Hans believed it from the expression he wore; people offering him food made him stupid.

“It’s good for me you came here, and good for you I was home,” said Brigette in a tone Greta found sarcastic.

“Where are your alligators?” asked Greta.

“Don’t be so demanding,” said Brigette. “De swamp puppies are in de pens. Dey don’t like this cold weather, and dey are hibernating.”

“Can we see them?” asked Hans.

“Alright,” said Brigette.

“Those dealers told Pa they feed people to ‘gators and you’ve got ‘gators and you’ve got to tell us if that happens here,” said Greta while staring at Brigette.

Brigette snorted and covered her face with a hand to compose herself.

“Greta, dat’s terrible, a terrible ding to say,” said Brigette. “We don’t feed people to my ‘gators.”

“What do you feed the alligators?” asked Hans innocently.

“Leftovers from fish farms and chicken parts,” said Brigette.

The old woman faced the children for a moment and made a tsk, tsk sound.

“Why does Pat Cutter work wid men like dat?”

Greta turned away.

“I think those men were lying,” said Hans in a soft tone.

“I wan’ to see Pa,” said Greta.

“But not Maud,” said Hans fearfully.

“Who’s Maud?” asked Brigette.

“Pa’s new girlfriend,” said Greta with scorn.

Brigette took a large cell phone from her pocket and handled it with care.

“Do you know Pat’s number?” asked Brigette.

They did and gave it to her. Brigette entered the numbers, turned it on speakerphone, and a “this line has been disconnected” message played.

“You used the number wrong,” accused Greta.

The old woman flicked the little girl’s nose, and Greta’ made an “ow” sound. Brigette turned the phone out so the children could see the number displayed.

“Is dis his number?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Hans sullenly. “I forgot it hasn’t worked in a while. I heard him tell Maud he can’t pay for the phone.”

“You two, come join me,” said Brigette.

The old blind woman moved into the kitchen, and Hans hopped up and followed her while Greta dragged her feet and resented the fact that Brigette couldn’t see her expression.

“Greta, pull some paper plates out of de cabinets and spoons from de drawers and set places at de table,” directed Brigette. “You know how to do dat?”

“Yes,” said Greta.

“Yes, ma’am,” demanded Brigette.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Greta.

“When you’re done wid dat, get the milk from the fridge and warm three cups of it in the microwave.”

Greta thought about dropping the milk, but the old woman had turned to face her. She wondered if the blind woman could see her thoughts. Or maybe she saw through the bird’s eyes, which is how she didn’t trip on anything and found what she wanted.

“If you drop it, you’ll have to clean it up,” said Brigette. “When you’re done with de table, stir de pot on de stove with a wooden spoon.”

“Yes… ma’am,” said Greta.

“Hans, come over here,” said Brigette as she found her way to a mudroom. “Put on my granddaughter’s outdoor dings and we’re gonna check the ‘gators.”

Hans followed to the mudroom and did as asked, and Greta wondered how the blind woman knew the jacket and boots would fit Hans. He followed the strange old woman outside after grabbing a flashlight off a shelf.

“Can I pet one?” asked Hans.

“Do you want to keep all your fingers?” asked Brigette.

The door closed behind them. The staring and wrongly white birds were the only company Greta had.

Greta did as the blind woman had asked and did it at a run. Milk-shaded birds squawked and flapped their wings as the girl darted around, opening drawers and doors and checking everywhere. She gave a disappointed hiss at finding nothing scandalous. Greta peered out the window where Brigette and Hans crossed an elevated walkway in the rain. The walkway ran along the inside of the wooden fence, and the little girl hadn’t seen it before. She considered the stairs but decided on the ground-floor bedroom. She found it to be a normal room for someone rich and arrogant. Greta ignored the white buzzard following her into the room, but almost screamed when she peered behind a beaded curtain.

The space held candles in jars with images of people on the glass, painted porcelain statues of a woman in blue, fearsome statues of dark wood, a polished brass bowl holding plant cuttings, photographs of people Greta didn’t recognize, pictures of black saints tacked to the walls, a bottle of rum, a drum, and a pair of (fake?) human skulls. Designs appeared on the walls—lines and a heart shape above a triangle on one wall, a heart shape with a knife in it on another wall, and a skeleton on the third. Fancy crosses hanging from hooks swayed, and candles flickered without a breeze.

The buzzard nipped Greta. She returned to the stove and stirred the oily and strange mix in the pot as the mudroom opened and Brigette and Hans reentered and removed the outdoor gear. Greta tried to wear a “not guilty” and enjoyed a sense of relief the old woman hadn’t thrown her brother to the ‘gators.

“All the ‘gators were trying to hide in their houses and sleeping ‘cause they don’ like the cold,” said Hans. 

Greta faced Brigette over Hans’s shoulder. The old woman fed something to the buzzard and turned her white eyes towards the girl before she checked the pot, nodded to herself, and had Greta and Hans get some potholders and carry the pot to the counter.

“I’ll finish up dis black cat later,” said the old woman. “But you two are too skinny. I knew it when I helped you in. All skin and bones and with fingers like sticks. So, now we’re gonna have sweets.”

Greta watched as the black woman’s hands found a polished wooden block on the counter with a lot of handles—the old woman wanted to show off her fancy things. Near panic pushed Greta’s resentment away as Brigette pulled two handles out, revealing a large knife and a white rod, and began running the knife up and down the rod. It made a schkd, schkd sound. This strange woman, alone in the woods, wanted to kill them! She’d feed them to the ‘gators and or she dice Hans and Greta up, cook them, and eat them herself! The little girl grabbed her brother and squeezed his arm as Brigette brandished the knife.

Brigette yanked up the battered chrome cover to reveal a cake she had sliced up. Hans reached out to grab a cake slice and stopped himself. He turned to Brigette.

“May I have one?” asked Hans.

“Dat’s why I sliced it up,” said Brigette.

Brigette smacked Greta’s hand with a wooden spoon when she reached for a piece.

“You hit me! You didn’t hit Hans.”

“He asked for a piece, and you didn’t.”

“Can I have a piece?”

“I don’t know, are you capable of getting a piece of de cake?”

Greta glowered at the old woman, who acted like she didn’t know it.

“May I have a piece, please?”

“Yes, you may.”

Brigette poured something golden into the little glasses—a spoonful into two of them and a generous amount into the third—and it had a sweet, spicy scent. She set the bottle down and took the third glass.

“Laissez les bons temps rouler,” said Brigette.

She couldn’t see their blank looks, but the silence spoke up.

“It means we’ll have a good time.”

“What is that in the glass?” asked Greta, knowing it had to be a potion.

“Something to help you sleep and keep me warm,” said Brigette.

Hans turned the bottle and read its label.

“Pakenham Rum — a full-bodied rum.”

Brigette merrily hummed to herself as she sipped hers, and Hans liked it when he tried it. Greta made a face and didn’t finish hers. But they ate the cake, and the siblings drank the warm milk. Hans told the blind woman they hadn’t been in school in the past few months. Greta reluctantly talked about their Pa losing his job. He’d once worked on roofs, but now works with a group of men who scared Greta and Hans.

“I tried calling your papa, and de line’s disconnected. What about Maud?”

“She wouldn’t come get us anyway,” said Hans fearfully.

“Are you sure?” asked Brigette.

“She–” started Hans.

“Hans, no…” interrupted Greta.

The story poured out of the little boy as his sister cried for him to stop.

“She’s the one who left us in the woods. She waited until Pa was asleep and got us in the car and took us to this old gas station where there wasn’ no one and she got us out of the car and drove off and I ran after her ‘til my shoe came off and my foot got bleeding on the road.”

“You’re gonna get us in trouble again,” said Greta as tears ran down her face.

“You’re not in trouble,” said Brigette with a level voice. “I called de sheriff, and he’s going to be here in de morning, after de storm.”

The woman passed her a napkin.

“Wipe your face,” said Brigette.

Greta did as asked and wondered how the blind woman knew she needed to clean her face.

“Do you have a family?” Greta asked Brigette.

“Greta… stop being rude,” said Hans. “She’s got a family.”

She turned to him.

“How’d you know that?” she asked.

“There are pictures of them on the walls,” said Hans.

He pointed to the walls covered in framed photos. The frames were hanging properly and held photos of Brigette, a young black woman, and a little black girl most often. When had someone turned the frames around? This had to be a trick. Greta waited before she talked to Hans, and didn’t have to wait long—the black woman opened an enormous chest at the end of the sofa and pulled out quilts.

“It’s late and we’re all tired,” said Brigette. “You two will sleep here. I’ll be in dere.”

She pointed to the large bedroom. Hans enjoyed it all, and Greta wrapped herself in resentment as much as the quilts. But the little girl waited until she thought Brigette had gone to sleep.

“Hans,” Greta said in a loud whisper.

“What?” said Hans.

“Not that loud.”

Hans groaned.

“I wan’ ta sleep.”

“I don’ like her,” said Greta.

“Why not?”

“She gave us cake.”

She knew he wore an expression like she’d announced up to be down.

“She’s trying to make us fat,” said Greta.

“How long do you think we’re gonna be here?” he asked. “And what’s she gonna do once we’re fat?”

Greta didn’t have an answer.

“She wants us to like her. Pa said not to trust… people like her. He talked about this place.”

“Pa also said Maud would be good to us,” Hans said in a flat tone.

“How does she get around and find things and not trip?”

“She lives here, so she knows where stuff is.”

“I bet she made that cake with buzzard eggs.”

“Why are you saying that now, after we ate it?”

She told him in a tumble of words what she found behind the beaded curtain.

“Maybe she’s a Catlic,” he said, “You know, like the old women in the black outfits Maud used to take us to for food.”

“She’s a witch, just like Pa told us,” said Greta.

Silence hung in the air for a long time.

“Pa lied about a lot of things. Greta, let’s go to sleep. It was a bad day until Brigette. What do you think we’re gonna do, anyway? There’s no such thing as witches or magic.”

He moved toward the chair when Greta’s crying stopped him. He moved up next to her and wrapped them in the quilts. She cried herself out at last, and sleep found her faster than she would have guessed.

---

Mr. Cutter

He had been distressed and volatile all day. The kids weren’t around the trailer park—he searched during a break in the rain—and didn’t know what to do. A buzz in the back of his head told him he needed to protect his kids from a world full of predators. But he couldn’t call the cops. Maud, sullen and smug, stayed in the bedroom. Cutter obsessively reorganized the vile kitchen and tried to wrestle his thoughts under control. He began drinking the 18-pack of beer he’d lifted the day before when none of it calmed him. Things hadn’t been this tough when he could still afford decent ice. It took more and more to get a kick out of it.

Later, he didn’t know how long he had sat in the car with the engine running. Cutter had more and more trouble keeping track of time after he’d been smoking. He eventually drove off to search for Greta and Hans. He went in loops through the shitty weather until the gas light had come on.

Greta’s voice came to him after dark, and he ran the car into a ditch in the freezing rain. Cutter didn’t see anyone. He drove down the road he’d been passing when Hans and Greta’s voices caught him as he passed an old road, and his sharp turn took out the sign identifying the country road and tore a gash into the car’s fender.

Cutter slowed when fear he’d miss a turn drilled through his meth psychosis. He took turns here and there, motivated by the voices of his children. He never asked how he could hear them. Sometimes the voices came from the radio, and sometimes they came from the back seat, and sometimes they came from outside the car. It became his reality because he’d given up his ability to question.

“This way, Pa,” came Greta’s voice.

He turned off the tar road to what might have been a driveway and bumped down it until the car died.

“Help, Pa, help!” came Hans’s voice.

Cutter lurched from the car into the icy rain. He got an axe from the trunk and stumbled forward until he stood in a grove of juniper and cypress. Trees decorated with tokens, statues, masks, and candles swayed like dancers itching to perform. A dozen or more mossy mounds marked the ground covered with a dusting of sleet. Cutter shivered from the cold and his addiction, and didn’t see his children.

“Dey isn’t here, Pat Cutter,” came a woman’s voice behind him.

He gave a frightened shout and turned around. He recognized the old woman standing there with a mental snap—Brigette Laveau. Where had she come from? She wore an ancient and sooty wedding dress. She’d painted a skull on half her face and now towered over him.

“Wha… where are my kids?”

“Dey came to me, and having dead white kids at my front door would have been bad for my business. But you’ve not cared about dem in ages, so why are you hunting them now, Pat Cutter?”

He couldn’t form a coherent thought and swung the axe above his head, where it got tangled in tree limbs. Or maybe the tree grabbed it from him. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. He stared at her again as all the candles blazed to life and light and flames as though the sky didn’t drop sleet on them.

“You’re a fool, Pat Cutter,” roared Brigette over the sounds of the storm. “No one made you into a fool but you. You traded being a man for your highs, and you’ve got no right to dose children. You’re too broken to even know what dat bitch you fuck did.”

He curled into a ball in the icy mud.

“You threatened me and my daughter once? Is dere enough of the man you were still in you to remember dat? You wanted to get to my ‘gators and wouldn’t tell me why. But I could guess. Do you remember it? I never forgot it.”

He gaped over his shoulder at her and maybe she had painted half her face like a skull, or maybe she didn’t have skin over half her face.

“Don’ kill me, don’ please, please donkillme…” he groveled.

“You’re not dying here, Pat Cutter,” said the old woman with scorn deep as hell. “Dis is a slave cemetery and sacred place, and you won’t taint it with your sickness. Crawl away, dog.”

He crawled away.

“I’ve got your children, Pat Cutter, and you won’t see dem again. Take dat with you.”

He crawled towards his car out of animal instinct and worked his way inside. Cutter couldn’t get it cranked, and the cold crept into the car to join him.

---

Brigette

Brigette made the children oatmeal and buttered toast the next morning. Hans ate his breakfast with a spoon while Greta ate hers with caution.

“De sheriff and CPS will be here soon,” said Brigette firmly.

Hans made a sad sound.

“We talked about dis last night,” said Brigette. “You can’t stay with me.”

“We can’t go back to Pa, can we?” asked Greta.

“No, no, you can’t,” said Brigette.

“What happened to Pa?” asked Greta.

“I don’t know what happened to him after de last time I saw him,” said Brigette in a tone smooth as warm butter.

A knock came at the door after they finished their breakfast. Brigette answered it and a man in a deputy’s uniform and a pair of women in office clothes—all bundled against the cold—waited on the deck. The sky shone bright blue, and the air held biting cold. The women were with CPS and went into a well-practiced routine to set Hans and Greta at ease while the deputy asked Brigette questions. The woman thought the girl looked resigned but could face the future without fear.

“Will we see you again, Miss Brigette?” asked Greta.

“Maybe,” said the black woman.

The CPS women loaded the children into their van. The kids gazed out the back of the van, and Brigette waved at them before the van turned onto the road. The old woman returned to her empty house and told called her daughter when the silence got on her nerves.