The Heat

Parish

Chapter 11: The Heat

July. The heat is not weather. The heat is a state of being, a geological condition, a force as constant and as shaping as the river. The heat arrives in June and deepens in July and reaches its essential form in August, the form that is not a temperature but a presence, the presence of the air itself become hostile, the air that should be invisible become visible in the shimmer above the blacktop, the shimmer that is the heat made visual, the light bending through the heated air the way light bends through water, the bending being the distortion, and the distortion is the truth, because the truth of July in Concordia Parish is distortion, the distortion of everything — time, energy, patience, the body's ability to regulate itself, the mind's ability to maintain its shape against the pressure of the heat that presses on everything and everyone and every animal with the indiscriminate weight of a thing that does not choose its targets.

Ninety-eight degrees. Ninety percent humidity. The combination produces a heat index of 117, which is a number generated by the National Weather Service to describe the perceived temperature, the temperature that the body feels as opposed to the temperature that the thermometer measures, and the difference between the felt and the measured is the humidity, the humidity being the water in the air, the water that the body needs to evaporate from the skin in order to cool itself, the evaporation being the body's air conditioning, and the humidity prevents the evaporation, the water in the air refusing to accept the water from the skin, the refusal being the physics of saturation, the air already holding as much water as it can hold, and the holding is the problem, and the problem is the heat, and the heat is July.

Clem's shirt is wet by 8 AM. He puts on a clean shirt every morning and the shirt is wet by 8 and by 10 the wetness is complete, the shirt adhering to his body like a second skin, the second skin being the uniform of Louisiana outdoor work in July, the uniform that everyone wears who works outside — the ranchers and the farmers and the road crews and the utility workers and the veterinarian, all of them wearing the same uniform of wet cotton, the wet cotton being the marker of the work, the evidence that the body is working in conditions that the body was not designed for, the body being a temperate-zone machine operating in a subtropical furnace.

The veterinary box is hot to touch. The aluminum sides absorb the sun and the absorption raises the temperature of the metal to a point where Clem's fingers register the heat before they register the texture, the heat being the first information the fingers receive when they open a compartment, and the first information is: Careful, and the careful is the July amendment to the practice, the amendment that says: Everything you touch will be hotter than it should be, the instruments and the bottles and the handles and the latches and the tailgate, the tailgate that Clem rests his hands on when he lays out his supplies and that burns his palms if he forgets, and he does not forget because twenty-eight Julys have taught his hands to remember, the remembering being the adaptation, the body adapting to the season the way the body adapts to all the things it cannot change.

The refrigerated unit works harder. Clem can hear the difference in the hum, the compressor running longer cycles, the unit fighting to maintain 36 degrees inside the compartment while the outside temperature pushes 98, the fighting being the unit's July struggle, the struggle that is the same struggle everything in the parish is having, the struggle to maintain against the heat, to keep the inside cool while the outside burns, to hold the temperature that the thing inside requires for its survival, the vaccines and the medications requiring the cool the way the people require the air conditioning and the cattle require the shade and the pond, everyone requiring the escape from the heat, the escape that is not an escape but a reprieve, the reprieve being temporary because the heat does not end, the heat is the condition, the condition persists.

The cattle stand in the ponds. Clem sees them from the road, the black bodies in the brown water, the cattle submerged to their bellies, standing in the pond with the patience of creatures who have found the one solution to the one problem and who will stand in the solution until the problem ends, the standing being the cattle's July posture, the posture of endurance, the body in the water because the water is cooler than the air and the cooler-than is enough, the enough being the margin, the margin between tolerable and intolerable, and the cattle know the margin the way all animals know the margin, instinctively, without calculation, the body finding the place where the temperature is survivable and the body staying in that place.

The horses seek shade. They stand under the trees at the edges of the pastures, the trees that are the pastures' air conditioning, the shade being the temperature reduction that the tree provides, the fifteen or twenty degrees of cooling that the canopy creates, and the horses stand in the cooling the way the cattle stand in the ponds, with the same patience, the same endurance, the same July resignation to the fact that the day will be hot and the hot will last and the lasting is the condition and the condition must be borne.

The dogs dig holes. They dig in the shaded ground under the porches and the sheds, the digging being the dog's engineering solution, the excavation of a depression where the earth is cooler, the cooler earth being the dog's pond, the dog's shade, the dog's version of the same strategy that every animal in the parish employs, which is: find the cool place and stay there, the staying being the July activity, the activity of not-moving, the conservation of energy that the heat demands, because the heat taxes every movement, every exertion, every calorie burned by the muscles producing work, the muscles generating heat as a byproduct of the work and the generated heat adding to the environmental heat and the addition being the body's betrayal, the body heating itself while the world heats the body, the double heating being the July equation.

People move slower. This is not laziness. This is physiology. The body in 98-degree heat with 90 percent humidity is a body operating under load, the cardiovascular system working to move the blood to the skin for cooling that the humidity will not allow, the heart rate elevated, the blood pressure redistributed, the body's resources diverted from the muscles to the skin, the diversion leaving less for the work, less for the walking, less for the lifting, less for all the activities that the day requires, and the less-for produces the slower, the July pace that is not a choice but an adaptation, the body pacing itself the way a runner paces a long race, conserving what must be conserved to reach the end, the end being the evening, the evening being the reprieve, the temperature dropping from 98 to 82, the 82 being July's version of cool, the version that the parish accepts because the parish accepts what it is given.

Tempers shorten. The heat compresses the patience. The patience that the parish maintains through the other months — the patience that is the parish's character, the slow, steady, enduring patience of a people who have lived in this place for generations and who have learned that the place requires patience — the patience is compressed by the heat, squeezed by the 98 degrees and the 90 percent humidity into a smaller space, the space that is the temper, and the temper in July is shorter than the temper in January, the shortening being the heat's emotional effect, the effect that produces the arguments and the fights and the domestic disturbances that Deputy Arceneaux handles more frequently in July than in any other month, the frequency being the heat's index of social damage, the way the heat index is the index of physical damage, the two indices rising together, the bodies and the tempers heated by the same source.

Clem works in the heat because the animals do not take July off. The cattle still need their vaccinations and their deworming and their pregnancy checks. The horses still throw shoes and develop colic and stand on nails. The goats still eat what they should not eat and catch what they should not catch and require the veterinarian's attention regardless of the temperature, the regardless being the practice's July clause, the clause that says: The work continues, the temperature is irrelevant, the irrelevance being not a dismissal of the heat but an acknowledgment that the heat cannot be allowed to prevent the work, the work being the thing, the work being always the thing.

He drives the parish roads and the roads shimmer. The blacktop absorbs the sun and re-radiates the heat upward and the re-radiated heat creates the shimmer, the visual disturbance that makes the road ahead look like water, the mirage that is Louisiana's July joke, the joke being: You are driving through a place that has too much water (the river, the rain, the humidity) and the place is showing you more water (the mirage) and the more-water is the least of your problems, the least being the illusion, the problems being the real water, the sweat and the rain and the river that is always there, always present, the river's presence being the background against which the heat operates, the heat and the river being the two forces that define the parish, the two forces that compress the people and the animals and the land between them, the compression being the parish's July condition.

He stops at a farm outside Monterey. A bull with a swollen sheath. The bull stands in the pen, 1,800 pounds of Angus genetics and July lethargy, the lethargy being the heat's effect on the bull's libido and energy and willingness to do anything other than stand in the shade, which is where the bull is standing when Clem arrives, the shade of the pecan tree that overhangs the pen, the tree being the bull's July refuge.

Clem examines the bull. The sheath is swollen, the prepuce edematous, the swelling likely caused by an insect bite that has become infected, the infection producing the inflammation that produces the swelling that produces the discomfort that produces the bull's reluctance to move, the reluctance being the layered result of the heat plus the infection plus the weight of the body that must be moved and the moving being the effort and the effort being the cost and the cost being paid in sweat and in energy that the bull does not have in excess.

He sedates the bull lightly — enough to calm but not enough to drop, the dosing being the July calibration, the calibration that accounts for the heat's effect on drug metabolism, the heat increasing the blood flow and the increased blood flow distributing the drug faster and the faster distribution requiring a lower dose, the lower dose being one of the July adjustments that experience has taught Clem, the adjustments that are not in the textbooks but that are in the practice, the practice being the place where the textbook meets the field and the field is 98 degrees and the meeting is the adjustment.

He cleans the sheath. He drains the abscess. He flushes it with antiseptic. He injects the antibiotic. The bull stands through it, sedated enough to be cooperative, the cooperation being the drug's contribution and the shade's contribution and the heat's contribution, the heat having taken the fight out of the bull the way it takes the fight out of everything in July, the fight being the first thing the heat removes, the resistance reduced, the body's willingness to protest diminished by the same heat that diminished everything else.

The farmer — a man named Trosclair, sixty, third generation on this land — stands beside the pen and watches Clem work and does not speak about the bull. He speaks about the heat. He speaks about the soybeans, which are stressed, the plants showing the curl of drought stress even though the rain has been adequate, the stress being the heat's stress, the temperature stress that the rain cannot fix because the stress is not about water but about temperature, the temperature exceeding the plant's tolerance and the exceeding being the damage and the damage is visible in the curled leaves and the slowed growth and the reduced yield that Trosclair calculates in his head while Clem works on the bull, the calculation being: This heat is costing me, the cost being measured in bushels per acre, the bushels that will not be there in October when the soybeans are harvested, the absence of the bushels being the heat's invoice, the invoice that Trosclair will pay with the money he does not have.

Clem listens. He always listens. The listening is the practice. Trosclair tells him about the heat the way Earl tells him about Lorraine's roses and Marie-Claire tells him about the drive to Angola, in the space that the veterinary work creates, the space between the man and the animal and the veterinarian, the triangular space where the confession happens, and Trosclair's confession is the heat, the heat being the thing he cannot control and the not-controlling being the vulnerability and the vulnerability being the opening and the opening being the confession: I am at the mercy of the temperature and the temperature has no mercy and the no-mercy is the condition and the condition is July.

The heat continues. Clem drives. The truck's air conditioning fights the outside temperature and produces a cab temperature of 78, which is the compromise, the mechanical compromise between the desired and the possible, the desired being 72 and the possible being 78 and the 78 being the truck's version of the margin, the margin between tolerable and intolerable that every living thing in the parish is seeking.

He drinks water. He carries a gallon jug in the truck, the jug refilled every morning, the water being the medicine he prescribes for himself, the self-prescription being: One gallon minimum, drink before you are thirsty, the before-thirsty being the rule because thirst is the late signal, thirst is the body's alarm after the dehydration has already begun, and the already-begun is the danger, and the danger is the July danger, the specific danger of a man who works outside in 98 degrees and who sweats through his shirt by 8 AM and who must replace what he sweats or the replacing will not happen and the not-happening will be the heat exhaustion and the heat exhaustion will be the body's July failure.

He finishes the day's calls. He drives home. The evening is not cool but it is less hot, the less-hot being July's version of relief, the relief that allows the porch-sitting and the dinner and the brief window of reduced suffering that the evening provides before the night, the night that does not cool to the point of comfort, the night temperature in July being 78 or 80, the temperature that allows the body to rest but does not allow the body to recover, the resting-without-recovering being July's specific cruelty, the cruelty that accumulates, night by night, the body not fully recovering from the day's heat before the next day's heat begins, the accumulation being the fatigue, the July fatigue that is different from ordinary tiredness, the July fatigue being the body's running debt, the debt accrued by days of heat and nights of insufficient cooling.

Clem sits on the porch. Renee sits beside him. The parish is hot and still and the stillness is the heat's stillness, the stillness of a place that has stopped moving because moving costs too much, the cost being the energy and the sweat and the effort that the heat extracts from every movement, the extraction being the tax, July's tax, the tax that everyone pays and that no one can avoid.

The ceiling fan on the porch turns. The fan moves the air but does not cool it, the moving of hot air being the fan's futile gesture, the gesture that is not cooling but companionship, the fan's breeze being the acknowledgment that something is being done about the heat even if the something is insufficient, the insufficiency being the parish's July relationship with all its strategies, the strategies being: the fan and the water and the shade and the pond and the air conditioning and the early-morning work and the midday rest, the strategies being the parish's answers to the heat and the answers being partial, always partial, the heat being bigger than the answers, the heat being the thing that cannot be answered, only endured.

Clem drinks his water. Renee drinks her tea. The evening deepens but does not cool. The parish sweats through its clothes and waits for October, for the breaking of the heat, for the morning when the temperature will be 65 and the air will be dry and the body will not sweat and the shirt will stay dry and the day will be bearable without strategies, without margins, without the constant negotiation between the body and the temperature.

But October is three months away. Three months of July and August and September, three months of the heat's condition, the condition that flattens and compresses and reveals. The revealing is the heat's gift, if the heat can be said to give gifts. The heat reveals what the cooler months conceal. The heat reveals the infrastructure's fragility — the roads buckling, the power grid straining, the water pressure dropping as the pumps work harder. The heat reveals the people's fragility — the tempers and the arguments and the domestic calls that Arceneaux answers with the patience that the heat has not yet taken from him, though the patience is thinner in July, the thinness being Arceneaux's July condition, the same condition as everyone else's.

The heat reveals the animals' fragility — the cattle that overheat and the horses that founder and the dogs that pant until the panting cannot cool them and the panting becomes the symptom of the heat stroke that Clem treats with cold water and shade and the prayer that the treatment is enough. The heat reveals the parish's fragility, the fragility that is always there but that the cooler months allow the parish to forget, the forgetting being the cooler months' gift, the gift of not-knowing how fragile you are, the gift that July revokes.

July revokes. July says: You are fragile. You are vulnerable. You are a collection of bodies — human and animal and plant — living on a floodplain behind a levee in a climate that does not want you here, the not-wanting being the heat, the heat being the climate's objection to the occupation, the occupation continuing despite the objection because the people are stubborn and the cattle are stubborn and the goats are stubborn and the stubbornness is the parish's answer to the climate's objection.

The parish endures. The parish has always endured. The enduring is the identity. The heat comes and the heat stays and the heat reveals and the parish endures the revelation the way it endures the heat, which is: by continuing, by getting up, by putting on the shirt that will be wet by 8 AM, by driving the roads that shimmer, by working the cattle that stand in the ponds, by trimming the hooves of the horses that stand in the shade, by holding the goats while the medicine goes in, by sitting on the porch in the evening when the evening does not cool, by drinking the water and waiting for October and knowing that October will come because October has always come, and the coming of October is the faith, the faith that sustains the parish through July, the faith that the heat will end, that the condition is temporary, that the temporary is survivable, that the surviving is the life.

Clem sits on the porch. The heat sits on the parish. The fan turns. The water sweats in the glass. The parish endures.