by Greg Hall
“I already told you—”
“I just need to know if there have been any new visitors to Bunkie in the last couple of days,” Henri said.
“You’re new.”
“I am, yes. But have there been any others?”
“I know my regulars. That’s about it. I ignore everyone else.”
“You knew I was new.”
“I know the local clergy. You’re not one of them,” the bartender said as he pointed to Henri’s clerical collar.
“Please. I just need some help.”
“I’m not a God-fearing man, priest, so it’s best if you just finish your drink and get on your way.”
“I’m not looking for trouble. I must find someone that came off the train. Just in the last couple of days. Is there anyone in town who would know?” Henri pleaded.
“You’re putting a real damper on my day,” the bartender said but then had a momentary change of heart. “There are a few negroes who work the line. They would see who is coming and going. Not sure they would be helpful, though. Doubt they could even tell a cat from a dog.”
A few chuckles carried throughout the tavern. Henri eyed a few of the patrons but didn’t share in their laughter.
Henri placed his eyes back on the whiskey that he forgot was still gripped in his hand. It was a strange feeling. The glass felt like an extension of his hand, the fluid inside calling out to be consumed. He glanced back to the window to see if Modeste was watching him, his natural reaction was to hide it from her, and once in the clear; he poured the contents into his mouth. He closed his eyes and slammed the glass back down on the counter.
It burned just like he had hoped. A calmness that he hadn’t felt in years rushed over him. A warmth that made him feel at ease.
He tried to avoid looking back at the window for a few seconds in case Modeste had seen his lack of willpower. He contemplated having another drink. He let the burn dissipate for a few more seconds, then looked back at her.
Modeste remained in the window, except this time, he couldn’t see the boy. Instead, a large male locked his arms around her. From Henri’s view, it looked like he was hurting her.
Henri didn’t think twice. He leapt from the barstool, knocking it over, and charged toward the door. He didn’t even hear the bartender calling out from behind, asking for his money.
15
Modeste stood outside like all the times before. It was an obvious annoyance, but there was nothing she could do about it. The tavern was the first place where she might have been allowed to enter, but Henri saw it fit to leave her outside.
She watched through the window as Henri stood motionless a few feet from the door. She wondered why he had stopped. No one had even acknowledged him, and he made no move to converse with anyone.
A young boy carrying a frayed broom approached from an alleyway opposite the tavern. Modeste locked eyes with the child, but he looked away almost instantly. His tattered clothing had more than a few holes. His bare feet were covered in dirt and dust. He had rolled the bottom of his pants up in hopes of protecting them from the same fate.
Modeste was about the same age when Marie took her under her wing. The thought brought a smile to her face. That moment was the moment that changed Modeste’s life.
She recalled traveling with Marie all across Louisiana. Marie had built a reputation in New Orleans, strong enough that even rich white folks sought her help. These wealthy clients helped Marie and Modeste help the more impoverished black communities; that was what Modeste loved doing the most.
Modeste loved every moment of it. But nothing lasts forever.
After one particular client, Marie became sick herself. After performing a spirit transference, Marie fell ill. Marie knew the consequences before performing the transference. It’s the most difficult request to make to the conjurer. The one asking must be willing to use their own energy. Marie was never the same after it, and Modeste watched as she slowly wasted away. It had only been ten years since Modeste had lost her mother, and now Marie had passed.
Modeste was alone.
She tried to learn as much as she could, but it was never enough. Marie Laveau’s reputation was a difficult one to live up to. Her clients expected Modeste to compare with Marie, but that was not realistic. Modeste only had a few years of training, Marie had decades.
Ever since the injury to her knee, she would speak with God the Conjurer and seek help. Modeste wondered if he wasn’t listening, or if it was a lesson for herself. The healing energy that Modeste tried to manipulate arose from individuals who passed and left their spirits behind. Modeste assumed her God chose not to heal her wounds.
She thought that maybe the conjurer left her with the pain as a reminder of the night she lost her daughter. There wasn’t a day that passed that she didn’t think about Tiara, and every ache and pain from her leg brought back the horrible memories from that night.
Although the ragged child in front of her was a boy, he reminded Modeste of Tiara. Something about his youthful innocence that was reminiscent of every child his age. It brought a smile to Modeste’s face.
“Excuse me,” Modeste said as she stepped out in front of the young child. An idea had popped into her head, and she hoped it was going to work.
“Can I help you?” the boy responded. He stepped out of her path and clung toward the edge of the porch.
“I don’t mean to bother you, and, well, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something pretty important?”
Modeste noticed that the boy never made eye contact with her. It was a shame, but she knew he was just trying to stay safe. She had acted the same way when Marie first spoke to her.
“I ain’t supposed to talk to you.”
“I know. And that’s a brilliant way to be. But you might be the only one who can help me.”
“What is it?” the boy asked, visibly intrigued. His eyes bounced around the area, making sure people weren’t watching their conversation.
“Do you know this town well?”
“Lived here all my life.”
“And how long is that?”
“Ten years.”
“Oh, well then, I was correct with my assessment. You will be the perfect person to help me,” Modeste said with a playful smile. “You must pretty much know everyone in this town, correct?”
“I know you ain’t from here,” the boy said with sass.
“That’s right. Smart kid,” Modeste replied. The boy was full of spunk, and that was something Modeste enjoyed. She hadn’t had a conversation with an innocent child in so long that it brought joy to her heart. “Can you tell me if you’ve noticed anyone strange come here on the train in the last few days?”
“I didn’t see anything. I’m not allowed to go by the tracks. Pa says too many of us go missing.”
“Your pa sounds like a smart man, raising a smart child.” Modeste wanted to dig deeper. She knew children were the ones who noticed the most and the ones no one ever thought to ask. He would at least be able to point her in the right direction. “Can I ask you another question?”
“I’m already late. Pa is going to be mad.”
“Just one.”
“Fine,” the boy finally gave in.
“Has anyone gone missing lately? Or do you know of anyone who might have disappeared lately?”
“Like?”
“Disappeared. Someone from the black community.” Modeste hoped her inflection would be noticed.
“What’s going on here?” a voice called out from behind. “Kenny, you’re supposed to be home. Your ma is going to be very upset.”
Modeste didn’t turn around. She knew her minute of questioning had finally drawn to a close.
“I was stopped…” Kenny’s voice trailed off.
“I don’t care. Get home. Now,” the voice said.
Slowly, Modeste turned around. The man was towering over her, standing at least two feet above Modeste. His button-down shirt opened to cool off his chest as beads of sweat
trickled down it. He had a cloth draped over his shoulder that he used to wipe it away. His pants were a grown-up version of Kenny’s, rolled up above the ankle to prevent dirt and dust from forming or collecting onto them. Unlike Kenny, he wore flat shoes that strapped over his foot. The base appeared to be leather, but Modeste wasn’t sure. She noticed that they were hand-made.
“Excuse me, sir. I meant no harm. It was all my fault. Please don’t take it out on him.”
“Modeste?” the voice asked.
Modeste met the stranger’s eyes. It took a moment since it had been a few years, but finally, Modeste recognized the man.
His name was Franklin Williams, and his wife, Selaisse, had come to Modeste a ten years earlier. Modeste had already begun her downturn into self-denigration, and she wasn’t considering new patients. But when the mother came in, carrying a newborn—Kenny—Modeste wanted to help any way she could. The child was running a fever of over a hundred and three for almost a week. As they spoke, his temperature was reaching a hundred and four.
Both parents were anxious about their son and had tried everything. And after years of unsuccessful births, Kenny was the first to survive longer than a few days. `
Modeste surrounded the child with wool blankets to help control his external temperature. She produced a syrup consisting of garlic, vinegar, and ginger. There was one more ingredient, but Modeste never spoke it aloud. This one, in particular, was an ingredient that God the Conjurer blessed before each treatment.
His temperature lowered to a low-grade fever almost instantly after consuming the concoction. Kenny remained in her care for several days, and on the fourth day, he became responsive. He was able to eat. His appetite came back with a vengeance.
For Modeste, it was the last treatment she provided for anyone, until Sarah Jane. She figured she’d end her healing on a high note.
“Franklin?” Modeste said, then turned to look at the boy who was now ten and standing a few feet in front of her. Alive and healthy. “When did you move to Bunkie?”
“We’ve been here since Kenny was a year old. We have a small plot. Figured we could work the land a bit.”
Modeste tried to kneel to inspect the child, but she didn’t get a chance as Franklin grabbed hold of her. He wrapped his arms around her so tight that Modeste was struggling to breathe. The man was powerful, and she could feel his strength, as she was unable to do anything but let it happen. It was a welcomed sentiment since most people she had crossed paths with so far didn’t want anything to do with her.
Suddenly, they were pulled apart. Before Modeste could realize what was happening, it was too late.
Henri had already thrown a fist.
16
Franklin caught Henri’s fist with ease. He side-shifted out of the way, causing Henri to falter and almost fall on his face. If he hadn’t thrown back the whiskey, maybe he wouldn’t have had a balance issue. Henri awaited a return from Modeste’s attacker, but the impact never came. Instead, the pair both stood a few feet from Henri, staring in disbelief.
“Do you know this man?” the man asked Modeste.
“I do,” Modeste replied.
Henri picked up the hint of embarrassment in her voice. He only now realized that the pair must have known each other. That the stranger was simply offering Modeste a hug, not attacking her. He also saw the young boy staring at him, with the same unpleasant expression that Modeste currently showed.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were … it doesn’t matter,” Henri stammered.
“Did you try to punch him?” Modeste asked.
“I’m not sure what I was thinking,” Henri responded. He wanted to tell her it was the alcohol. He was overwhelmed with shame ever since he swallowed the whiskey. He worried about what she would think, as if she would be disappointed in him. It was an odd feeling. It was a new feeling, especially around Modeste.
“So, you came out here and thought I was attacking her? You came out to protect her?” the man asked.
“I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish,” Henri said, trying to hide his embarrassment.
“You threw a punch,” the man said.
“The first one ever. And not a very good one at that,” Henri responded coyly. He tried to break out a smile, but he knew everyone could tell it was forced. He would not be able to laugh this situation off.
“You’re a priest…”
“His name is Henri. We’re traveling, looking for someone,” Modeste explained.
“Any friend of Modeste’s is a friend of mine.” The man extended his hand.
“Henri,” he said and took the man’s hand. It was nice to meet a compassionate person. So far, everyone who had crossed their paths had been unwilling to even speak to them.
“Franklin.”
Henri felt a wave of calm rush over him. He wanted this whole situation to be behind him, but something in Modeste’s playful smile said she wouldn’t let this go quickly.
“Seriously, though. Anything you folks need. A place to sleep. Food. Anything,” Franklin said.
“We’re trying to find someone. Someone who might have come through here in the last few days,” Modeste said.
“That’s what she asked me. I said I ain’t see nobody,” Kenny said from behind Franklin.
Almost everyone had forgotten that the boy was still there. Henri looked at the innocent boy and saw a spitting image of Franklin. He put two and two together.
“Who are you looking for?”
“We can’t explain it…” Modeste said and glanced down at Kenny.
Franklin picked up on the hint. “Kenny. Go see your ma. She’s going to be angry.”
Kenny let out an annoyed sigh and pretended to stomp away. He was relatively small, so his intended thunderous stomps were merely light taps on the rotting wood.
All three watched Kenny disappear around the side of the tavern. Once he was out of sight, Henri and Modeste moved closer to Franklin, just in case anyone was within earshot.
“A murderer is traveling the rail line. He killed three people in our town. We went back to Maringouin because Modeste knew that a few went missing there too. And on our way back to Bunkie, we stopped in Melville and more were killed there too.”
Franklin’s eyes bounced back and forth between the pair. He let out a laugh. “You both lookin’ for a killer?” When Henri and Modeste didn’t react to his comment, he added, “You’re serious? Why you? If this is true, get the law involved.”
Henri looked away. ‘We tried.”
“And what? He sent you two?”
“No. He didn’t send anyone.”
“Why not?”
“The victims have been black,” Modeste added, cautiously.
It was enough to convince Franklin. “And you think he’s here?”
“We think this is the next town. It’s been Maringouin, Melville, then our town. Next in line is Bunkie.”
“You guys must be hungry.”
Henri found the change in subject to be jarring. He was starving and didn’t think about it until Franklin mentioned food. “I need to eat, but I think we need to plan our next moves.”
“Well, he’s only killing black folk, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll have a barbeque. Keep all of us together tonight. He can’t attack us in a group.”
“Sounds perfect,” Modeste added. She must just be as hungry, Henri thought.
“Do you know anyone who would know if there have been any new visitors in the last day or so?” Henri repeated hi question.
Before Franklin could answer, his attention was taken by someone across the street. Henri followed Franklin’s line of sight and caught a man gawking at all of them. The man leered, and when they all turned to look at him, he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was watching.
Henri offered a wave in hopes of building rapport. The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting and continued to stare. Henri began to feel uncomfortable. By the look on Modeste and Franklin’
s faces, they were feeling the same.
“Let’s talk somewhere else,” Franklin offered as he guided the pair away from the tavern’s porch.
It wasn’t far to the slums from the main drag of Bunkie. It didn't give Henri enough time to think about the man who was watching them. Nobody welcomed them to the previous towns, but the glare from the stranger weighed heavy on Henri.
It was a noticeable difference from the rest of Bunkie, like the slums were meant to be out of sight, out of mind. All eyes remained on Henri. It wasn’t common for white priests to join their town, Henri assumed. There were people everywhere, and they were all helping each other. The main road dividing all the dilapidated homes and shacks was filled with the black community. They were preparing a meal together, every single person had a job. Even Kenny was carrying a stack of steel plates and stacking them on a small table. Behind the meal was a fire pit. Some of the children, Keny joined in, were loading the pile with combustible items. Everyone was helping each other. The strength of the community was in full bloom.
The exterior of the houses were in need of work. Mis-matched panels that were held together by struggling tape. Chipped stone walls that were missing mud in between. Most didn’t appear to be livable for one, but by the large number of people, Henri assumed most housed families.
There was a distinct line between the slums and the rest of Bunkie. A border that was meant to divide. As Henri viewed the content families working together to provide for each other, he was overwhelmed with a joyous feeling he had never felt before. This is what it means to be a community. This is the feeling he wanted to have in Morrow, but as much as he tried, he never felt anything like this.
Many locals kept their eyes on Henri, but he didn’t feel judged. It was as if they were studying him, curious as to why he came here. Most were relieved once they saw the clerical collar around his neck. A man of faith should be one without judgment.
“Who was that man that was watching us?” Henri asked Franklin.
“His name is David Mantle. The self-proclaimed mayor of Bunkie.”
“Self-proclaimed? I thought Jesse Winston was the mayor?” Henri asked.
