Patrick McNulty

ROUGAROU GON’ GIT YOU

by

BS Miller

“C’mon, Ti! Dinner’s ‘bout ready!” Evangeline yelled over her shoulder to her son. She pulled the wooden paddle from her gumbo pot and tasted her concoction. “Needs…lagniappe,” she said, reaching for the Tabasco. A blend of greasy bacon drippings, seasoned andouille sausage, fresh shrimp, potent onions, and Tony Chachere’s wafted through the kitchen and blended with the musty swamp air coming through the screen door. “Ti!”

“Comin’!”

“Better listen to me, boy, or Rougarou’s gon’ git you!”

“Rourgarou ain’t gon’ git me just for being late for dinner,” Ti-Jean said under his breath while rolling his eyes.

“Set the table, please.”

Evangeline tossed a handful of chopped green onions onto the top of the gumbo and wiped her hands on her apron. She looked out the window over the sink. Fog rested along the surface of the duckweed covered water. Light from the full moon crept through the branches of the Cyprus trees, illuminating the white fog and green water. Cricket chirps, deep bull frog croaks, tree frog trills, mosquito buzzes, and barred owl hoots blended like the ingredients of her gumbo into a delicious swamp symphony. A loud howl bellowed in the distance.

“Ma—Rougarou real?” Ti-Jean asked, shoulders tense. He stared out the screen door in the direction of the howl.

“Sho’ is, cher. And he got an envie for people who don’t be listenin’ or actin’ right.”

“What’chu think, dad?”

Jean was typing away on his phone at the kitchen table.

“Dad?”

“Huh?” Jean looked up like he was noticing his wife and son present for the first time.

“…The Rougarou?”

“Whatever your ma say.” He looked back down and continued typing on his phone.

Evangeline clicked her tongue, cocked her head, and looked at Ti-Jean.

“How you know he real?” Ti-Jean asked.

“You just heard him howl, ain’t you?”

Ti-Jean looked back out the screen door. His face tensed as if trying to work out a puzzle. “You ever hear of anyone who actually seen the Rougarou?”

Evangeline pulled out a chair and motioned for Ti-Jean to sit down. She passed a glance at Jean on his phone then turned to ladle gumbo into bowls. She handed a bowl to Ti-Jean and told him of the local stories, passed neighbor to neighbor, generation to generation, about people who went missing around the swamp over the years…misbehaving, lying, stealing, being disrespectful...She told him of the haunting screams people reported hearing—screams of those being dragged away by the Rougarou into the darkness beyond the moss covered trees. Ti-Jean never took his amber eyes off his mother. He listened intensely while spooning meaty gumbo into his mouth, careful to chew quietly so he didn’t miss a word.

“What he do to them?”

Evangeline raised her eyebrows, thinking of what words to choose. How could she tell her son what happens to someone taken by the Rougarou without the graphic details?

“Well, cher, I imagine he eat ‘em.” She shrugged. She provided no gruesome images of a wolf-like creature’s jaw dripping with the blood and meaty flesh of children. Eat is neutral…his imagination could fill in the rest.

Ti-Jean’s mouth hung open and gumbo dribbled onto his chin. “How people get him to stay away?”

“Rougarou can’t count past twelve. You put out thirteen of somethin’ and he gonna sit there and try to count it, real obsessive like.” Pointing her spoon at Ti-Jean, Evangeline added, “But—he don’t want no people who do what they supposed to.” She nodded, finalizing the conversation.

As though on cue, another howl carried betwixt the Cyprus trees and in through the screen door. Ti-Jean flinched. Evangeline and Ti-Jean finished eating their meals and Evangeline looked over at Jean’s barely-touched bowl. She looked to her son, feeling a bit sad, and read the fear in his little body.

I just want him to grow up to be a good man. “You help me clean up a bit, cher?”

“Yeah, mama.” Ti-Jean grabbed his bowl and hers while she started to empty the leftover gumbo into a container. He rinsed the dishes out in the sink, plugged the drain, and added hot, soapy water.

“C’est tout. You go on get ready for bed, baby. Thank you for helping me soap up them dishes. I’ll finish it.” She wiped her hands on her apron again and cupped her son’s face. She kissed him on the forehead and told him to get ready for bed.

“You ain’t said but a word tonight. You didn’t even say g’night to your son.”

Jean shrugged.

“Well, Imma need you to get your face out the phone long enough to take these scraps out so the house don’t stink tomorrow.”

With a groan, Jean pushed back his chair and put his phone in his pocket. He gathered up the bag of food scraps and seafood shells, and shoved open the screen door. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked across the porch to the trash can. He sat down the bag, smiled, and began typing again.

Evangeline closed the refrigerator door and noticed a shift in the night’s song. Soft splashes replaced the frog croaks in the chorus—a sign the frogs might be sensing danger. She smiled.

“And make sure you put the block back on the lid to keep them critters out!”

Boards creaked under her bare feet as she crossed down the hallway to Ti-Jean’s room. She peaked in, saw him asleep, and softly closed his door after turning on his fan. In the living room, she turned on the old record player and soft, scratchy zydeco music began playing. She fished in her pocket, walked to the door, and set thirteen coins across the threshold.

Water lapped under the porch and Evangeline heard the front steps groan, accompanied by a deep, guttural growl.

“Rougarou gon’ git you,” she said softly. Smiling, she delicately closed the door and began humming along to Rockin’ Sydney’s “My Toot Toot.”