Saving Savannah

by Sandra Hill

  Savannah hated self-pity, but, honestly, she had become the poster girl for Murphy’s Law. Whatever could go wrong, did, in her unfortunate case.

  It started with Hurricane Katrina. Her apartment and almost all of her belongings were swept away in the flood. Then the school where she was a teacher closed, and all the children were parceled out to other districts. The school never reopened. Despite her excellent credentials, she was unable to find another permanent teaching job locally.

  Until recently, she was able to get by with substitute teaching, but because of government cutbacks, those assignments dried up.

  In order to move to Alaska, where she heard employment opportunities abounded, she figured she needed five thousand dollars. Thus far, she had only three thousand. Murphy’s Law again, what with a mugging and a long bout with the flu, not to mention the dentist and pediatrician for Katie. Two steps forward and one step back.

  Living in her car ended up being her only option for saving, unless she wanted to risk losing her daughter by going into a homeless shelter. Child Protective Services hovered there, like vultures. Oh, she had to give CPS credit. They did good for lots of neglected or abused kids, but they also thought nothing of taking a child away from her mother. Being homeless and working in a strip joint did not stack in her favor.

  By the time she and Katie had completed their early morning swim at the Y, followed by a quick shower and change of clothes, they were both starving. Luckily, the St. Christopher shelter was still serving breakfast.

  When they’d gone through the line and were about to sit down, Savannah noticed an old lady staring at her. A really strange old lady. Wearing tight capri pants with a glittery red tank top, a huge blond wig disproportionate to her small stature, and a generous slathering of make-up. Actually, she resembled a dolled-up version of that actress Estelle Getty who used to be on the TV show Golden Girls.

  More important, Savannah was pretty sure the same woman had been watching her when she pulled into the parking lot a short time ago. Not a good thing. Hers and Katie’s clothing were stacked to the roof of the back seat, along with clear plastic boxes holding all their belongings, including photo albums she had luckily rescued before the flood. A person wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out their situation. Staying under the radar had been Savannah’s code for too long to not be fearful of any attention now.

  She led Katie to the back of the room, far from the serving area where the woman continued to stare suspiciously at her. With their backs to the cafeteria, she and Katie sat down and dug in. Scrambled eggs and toast. Pancakes and syrup. Oatmeal and dry cereal. All washed down with milk for Katie and black coffee for her. She would take several packets of crackers and a carton of orange juice with her for later.

  “Hello.”

  Savannah jumped with surprise, almost knocking over her coffee. Katie giggled at her side.

  The old lady sank down into a chair across from them. No more than five feet tall, she had to lift her arms to rest her elbows on the table.

  “Are you a grandma?” never-bashful Katie blurted out. “I don’t have no grandma.” The little devil pouted her lips with exaggerated woe. Her daughter had been on a grandmother kick for a week, ever since the grandmother of a classmate brought chocolate cupcakes to school. So far no questions about a daddy, thank God.

  “No, but I’m an auntie. My real name is Louise Rivard, but you kin call me Tante Lulu. Thass what everyone calls me. Tante means aunt.”

  Katie’s eyes went wide. She tried the words out hesitantly. “Tan-te. Lu-lu. You talk funny.”

  “Katie!” Savannah admonished.

  Katie ignored her and continued talking to the stranger. “Are you Spanish? My teacher, Miss Sanchez, is from Party Rico.”

  Tante Lulu laughed. “No, mon petit chou, I’m jist Cajun from down the bayou.”

  Savannah had thought she detected that lyrical accent prevalent in Southern Louisiana. Having an English minor in college, she’d once done a paper on the various patois prevalent throughout the South. The Cajun dialect was by far the most fascinating.

  But wait. Her persistent daughter had a new idea, and before Savannah could halt her running tongue, the little girl asked with wonder, “You’ll be my aunt, too?”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa! Too much, too soon. Not ever.

  “Sure. Jist like I am to my nieces and nephews, Luc, Remy, René, Tee-John and Charmaine, and ta all the folks that ain’t blood kin but like family anyways.”

  Katie practically beamed.

  Savannah bristled.

  “And who ’zackly are you, sweetheart?” The wily old witch was addressing her daughter, probably sensing that she would get no response from the mother.

  “Katherine Mary Carrington.”

  Savannah was going to have a talk with Katie again, the one where she insisted on caution with strangers, even seemingly innocent looking old ladies.

  “What a pretty name fer such a pretty little girl!”

  Katie preened. “But you kin call me Katie, like my mommy does.”

  “Even prettier,” the old lady remarked, then looked pointedly at Savannah.

  Realizing that there was no avoiding the woman, she said, “Savannah Jones.”

  “I ain’t never heard of anyone named Savannah. It could be worse. I had a third cousin named Galveston. Tee, hee, hee!”

  At least she hadn’t commented on her and Katie’s different last names. Although she’d never married Katie’s father, Matt Carrington, she’d given her baby his surname at birth. Big mistake, she’d learned later. Matt’s parents would love to take their only grandchild away from Savannah, and her being homeless would give them all the ammunition they’d need. Thus the need for anonymity and caution.

  “I was born in Savannah,” she explained. Not that she had any reason to defend a perfectly good name.

  “I dint mean no offense,” the old lady said with genuine regret.

  Just then a tall, good-looking guy in khakis, a black T-shirt, and a blazer sat down next to the old lady and smiled at her and Katie. He carried two styrofoam cups of coffee, one of which he placed in front of Tante Lulu.

  “This is my nephew John LeDeux. We call him Tee-John.” To Katie, she explained, “That means Little John ’cause when he was a boy, he was the littlest LeDeux.”

  The guy grinned and winked at Katie. He better not wink at Savannah. She was immune to good looking men who promised the moon and then . . . Oh, God! Why do I keep thinking about Matt today? I’ve got to focus, and besides, this guy is wearing a wedding band. Not that marriage inhibited some jerks. Working where she did brought that fact home every day.

  Katie flashed a toothless smile and said, “Maybe I could be Tee-Kate.”

  “Sure as gators got snouts.” Tante Lulu smiled back, then added to Savannah, “Tee-John is a cop up Fontaine way.”

  Savannah stiffened. Okaaay! Time to get this show on the road! She began to gather up the remains of their breakfast. “We have to go,” she whispered to Katie.

  The old lady and the man exchanged glances.

  Her reaction had caused them to be suspicious, Savannah could tell, but she couldn’t help herself. Every time she saw a policeman come in her direction, she figured that Matt’s parents or CPS had finally found her and were about to take Katie away. For all she knew, that’s exactly who this one was, though she didn’t think a hired cop would bring his elderly aunt along.

  “What’s yer rush?” the nosy old biddy asked.

  “I have to take Katie to kindergarten.” She checked the wall clock. “We only have fifteen minutes.”

  “And Mommy has to go to work so we can earn enough money to go to Alaska. There’s polar bears in Alaska. And seals. We looked on the computer at the library.”

  Savannah groaned inwardly at her daughter’s running tongue.

  “And where do you work, honey?” the old lady asked Savannah.

  Before she could come up with some hazy answer and drag her daughter
away, Katie revealed with a giggle, “Crazy Hal’s.”

  What was it with the giggling today? Katie had become a regular giggle machine. “Isn’t that a crazy name?”

  “Sure is, sweetie,” Tante Lulu agreed.

  But the guy gave Savannah a knowing look. Obviously, he was familiar with Crazy Hal’s.

  “I’m a waitress, not a stripper.” Not that it’s any of your business.

  “Strippers are ladies that take off all their clothes,” her precocious daughter whispered to Tante Lulu.

  The guy pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. “Do you like magic tricks, Katie? I always carry these in my pocket because I have a little boy your age who loves card tricks.”

  Katie nodded enthusiastically.

  He began to deal them both cards and explain some game to Katie in a low voice. It soon became obvious why. He was giving his aunt time to get Savannah in her crosshairs.

  “Girl . . .” Tante Lulu started to say.

  At first, Savannah didn’t realize she was talking to her. At twenty-nine, she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had referred to her that way. And sometimes she felt so tired, she could be ninety-nine.

  “Are you in trouble?” Tante Lulu continued.

  “What? Why would you ask that?”

  “Because St. Jude, he’s tappin’ on my shoulder ta beat the band.”

  She’d always wanted to be a private dick . . .

  “DID YOU GET her license number?” Tante Lulu asked Tee-John as the red Subaru peeled out of the parking lot.

  “Yep.”

  “What kin you find out about her?”

  “Pretty much everything.”

  “Her address?”

  “Usually, except I’m thinkin’ she lives in that car.”

  Tante Lulu gasped. “Why wouldja say that?”

  “All the signs are there. Looks like everything they own is in that car. Bed rolls and pillows. Labeled plastic boxes. Toiletries. Clothes. Shoes. Toys. Stuff like that.”

  “Thass awful. If she has a waitress job, why wouldn’t she have a place ta live, even if it ain’t real nice? And if she’s short of cash ta pay fer an apartment, why wouldn’t she stay at the homeless shelter?”

  “She’s probably afraid of losing her daughter. Plus, I’d bet my left nut—I mean, my left arm that’s she’s on the run.”

  “From what?”

  “Don’t know, but I’ll find out. Guar-an-teed.”

  “I gave her my bizness card, in case she’s in trouble.”

  “You have a business card?”

  “’Course, I do. I need it fer my traiteur bizness. It has the St. Jude prayer printed on the back.”

  “That should help Savannah.”

  He probably didn’t know that she could recognize sarcasm when it hit her in the face. What an idjet! “Yer darn tootin’ it will.”

  Then she said a little prayer in her head. We got us a mission, Jude. At least, she thought she’d said it in her head.

  But then, Tee-John said, “Jist don’t be draggin’ me inta any more of your acts of mercy. Last time I ended up bailin’ you out of the slammer.”

  “I dint ask you ta help. In fact, I was havin’ fun. You meet all kinds of interestin’ folks in jail, y’know?”

  John’s jaw dropped, as it often did when in the company of his wacky great-aunt. I know! I’m a cop. I deal with those “interestin’” folks every day.

  “The food ain’t so good, though. I tol’ the captain he needs ta find a cook what knows how to make a good roux. The gumbo was downright disgustin’.”

  Rolling his eyes, John cautioned, “You need to slow down, auntie. Relax and enjoy yer golden years!” Like that is ever gonna happen. Even so, Tante Lulu was getting old, and he hated the idea of her overdoing and ending up in a hospital or worse. She was precious to him and all his family, despite her interfering, outrageous ways. Probably because of those interfering, outrageous ways.

  “Pfff! There ain’t nuthin’ golden about creakin’ bones and farts what slip out without warnin’.”

  He chuckled before he had a chance to catch himself.

  “Besides, I like helpin’ people.”

  “Even when they don’t want yer help?”

  “Specially when they doan want my help. Those are the ones needin’ me most. Wait, wait, wait. Doan be in such a rush.”

  What now? He was steering her toward their parked car in hopes of getting out of Nawleans before noontime.

  “I tol’ you I need ta go to the Voodoo Palace over on Dumaine Street.”

  He’d been hoping she would forget. As he drove them over, he asked, “What herbs are you missing? I thought you had every weed and plant that ever grew.” The pantry off the kitchen of her bayou cottage was overflowing with hanging dried plants and shelves of all her different herbs in labeled bottles along with ancient ledgers spelling out her remedies. As a child, he’d loved standing in there, sniffing the various intriguing scents.

  “A love potion.”

  “Huh?” His mind must have been wandering. Did she really say . . . ? “Um, you have someone who’s looking for a love potion?”

  “Heck, no! I’m wantin’ some fer myself. Have you seen that new butcher over at Boudreaux’s General Store?”

  He had to think for a minute. Then, he exclaimed, “Tante Lulu! Thass Boudreaux’s great-grandfather, Gustave, helpin’ out over the summer. He’s almost bald and walks with a cane.”

  “Yeah, but have you checked out Gus’s hiney?”

  Un-be-liev-able! “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Watch yer sass, boy. Even us older ladies notice a man’s back side now and then. Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that.”

  “His hiney, huh? Does Gus have a fart problem, too?”

  She smacked him on the arm. “If you weren’t so busy bein’ sarcastic, you would have noticed the man’s cute hind end.” She waved a Richard Simmons fan in front of her face to emphasize her point.

  What could he say to that? “And you need a love potion because . . . ?”

  “Because Gus pays me no nevermind. Even when I wear my ‘Wild Girl’ T-shirt, he doan even blink my way.”

  “Why don’t you just get some of Sylvie’s hopped up jelly beans?”

  Years ago, his half-brother Luc’s wife, Sylvie, who was a chemist, invented a love potion that she put in jelly beans. What a stink there was in the newspapers about that! The product never was sold to the public.

  “First of all, Luc gave Sylvie strict orders not ta give me any. I cain’t imagine why.”

  John could. Being an inveterate matchmaker, Tante Lulu would probably be feeding them indiscriminately to every couple she deemed worthy, whether they wanted them or not. Like the time she planned a secret wedding for his half-brother René and his nemesis, a court TV lawyer. The wedding had been a secret to everyone, including the bride and groom.

  “Secondly, Sylvie claims they doan really work.”

  “Seemed to work with Luc. He was head over heels in love with her after popping a few of the candies.”

  “Thass what I said.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that Gus has cataracts? Boudreax tol’ me when I picked up that poke of okra fer you. His PawPaw is goin’ in fer surgery soon. His vision’s so bad that he gave Millie Pitot ham hocks when she asked fer chicken thighs last week.”

  “So, it wasn’t me?” Tante Lulu smiled. “Well, I want some of those love potion herbs anyways. You never know when I might need ta do some emergency matchmakin’.”

  Emergency matchmaking? He didn’t want to think what that might mean.

  “Mebbe that Savannah gal needs a little help in the love department.”

  Yeah, a homeless stripper living in a car with her five-year-old kid is thinking of a man. More like where her next meal is coming from. That’s what he thought, but what he said was, “Whatever you say, auntie.”

  Chapter Two

  Georgia . . . and other things . . . on his mind . . .

&n
bsp; CAPTAIN MATTHEW Carrington, U.S. Army Special Forces, sat down at a desk in the temporary office assigned to him at Fort Dix in New Jersey. He was so shocked, he felt gut-shot.

  After five years of hell in an Al-Qaeda prison, after torture that would haunt him for life, after a badly tended leg wound that gave him a limp, and after six months of multiple surgeries and rehab in a D.C. hospital, he’d thought he couldn’t be hurt any more. He was wrong.

  He examined the creased and stained envelope in his shaking hands. It had so many forwarding addresses, it was amazing that it had actually caught up with him. From Georgia to three different Army Post Offices to five other addresses, it had traveled, finally sitting in a dead mail box until some postal employee had given it one more shot.

  He pulled the letter out and read it once again. It was dated more than five years ago.

  Dear Matt:

  You’ve been gone for a week now, and I haven’t heard from you. I know, I know, you hate letter writing, and you’re probably still in transit. You need to give me your new email address, BTW. Your old one isn’t working.

  First of all, I love my ring. I’m looking at it now and getting tears in my eyes. I swear it is the most beautiful engagement ring a woman has ever received.

  There’s something I need to tell you, honey. Pretend you hear a drum roll. I just can’t wait any longer.

  I’m pregnant.

  I know, I should have told you in person, but I didn’t want to ruin our time together. You said, repeatedly, that we’d set a wedding date when you came home, and we’d have kids sometime in the future. The future is now, sweetheart.