Broken Bayou

by Rhonda R. Dennis

  “This sounds like a movie plot,” I interrupt.

  “You haven’t heard anything yet. After a few weeks, Shirley comes up with a plan. She puts enough sedative in John’s coffee to take down an elephant, and she gives him a special pastry with ground glass baked into it, but here’s the deal. John never ate or drank the stuff he picked up from Shirley in the mornings. He brought them as gifts for June. Shirley closes the bakery and follows him to the campus where she hides behind a cluster of trees and bushes. You see that balcony over there?” He points to the building farthest from us across the quad. I nod. “That was John’s office, and Shirley hid right over there somewhere.” He points again to a densely landscaped area. I’m so enthralled with the story that I’m barely breathing.

  “Go on,” I encourage.

  “June downed the coffee, and when she takes a bite out of the pastry, blood pours from her mouth. She freaks out, running into John’s office, but the combination of the drugs and panic caused her to misjudge her step. She stumbled out of the opened doors onto the balcony and went right over the railing.”

  I gasp.

  “John runs downstairs, all the while calling for help. He takes June into his arms, and that’s when Shirley comes out of the bushes with a gun. She curses him for ruining her life and for making her the joke of the town. She aims the gun at his head, all the while June lies in his arms barely clinging to life. Just as she’s about to squeeze the trigger, she suddenly turns the gun on herself and ends her life. Chaos filled the quad as students and staff poured out of the halls to surround the sobbing John, grossly injured June, and deceased Shirley. June survived for a while, but never left the hospital. John stayed by her side. He stepped down from his position, and after her death, he moved away. Rumor has it that Shirley never got over it though. Her tortured spirit supposedly roams the quad at night, especially when there’s a full moon out. Some have even seen her inside the buildings. Have you met Odell yet? He’s the janitor with the bright white streaks in his hair. They say the streaks happened after a run in with Shirley’s ghost.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. The way Cal tells the story with such passion and intensity has my nerves on end. “You don’t believe that, do you?” I cautiously ask.

  “Me? Nah.”

  “Good, although I have to admit that it will be creepy spending late nights on campus now.” A shiver runs through me.

  “I’m happy to stay behind to escort you anytime you need, but you shouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Why? Because I can call campus police to walk me to my car? Because Shirley’s ghost is only after men?”

  “Because it’s made up.” The mischief shines brightly in his eyes, and I don’t know whether to furiously sock him one, or to laugh because he caught me hook, line, and sinker. “Please don’t be angry. It was all in fun. Kids have been telling that story forever. The shooting and such happened, but it was far less dramatic. And the ghost stuff, well, you know how that goes.”

  I give him a sideways glance. “You got me good with that one,” I say, shaking my head. “How am I supposed to believe anything you tell me from here on out?”

  “I’ll always tell you if it’s not true…” He pauses briefly. “But only AFTER I finish the story.” His grin is contagious.

  “I see. So, I shouldn’t be worried about ghosts?”

  “I’ve never had a run in with one, but Odell might tell you otherwise. That part’s true, too. He swears he was visited by Shirley.”

  “What happened at my place? Was it very tragic?”

  “Aw, I wouldn’t even bother with it. I’d let it go if I were you.”

  “So George isn’t an ax murderer and Agnes his love slave?” I ask jokingly.

  “Nah, I don’t think you have to worry about that. George and my dad used to be acquaintances. I would go with him to visit every once in a while when I was a kid. Do they still have that rose garden?”

  “They sure do. I’m not allowed to touch the roses, but I get to enjoy them from my bedroom balcony.”

  “Yeah, leave the roses alone for sure,” Cal warns.

  My gaze goes to a dark blob moving in the distance, and I realize it’s Billy Thibodeaux slowly making his way into the English building. A repulsed sneer crosses his lips when he notices me looking his way. I sigh heavily. “I just don’t get that kid,” I mumble under my breath. Cal turns to see to whom I’m referring.

  “Wow. Looks like he carries a mighty large chip on his shoulder.”

  “I guess,” I answer. “I’ve tried different tactics to break through to him, but nothing has worked. Frankly, he gives me the creeps.” I quickly draw my hands to cover my mouth. Cal offers a reassuring smile.

  “Anything you say stays between us.”

  I let out a pent up breath. “Thanks. I don’t normally talk about students, especially when the connotation is negative.”

  “Well, I do. Let me tell you about this dumbass I had last period…”

  I burst out laughing. “Thank you for helping to make this transition easier for me, Cal. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

  “Well, you can show me just how much on Saturday.” I sit in silence, stunned by his blatant forwardness. “When I let you buy me my favorite dessert, bread pudding with rum sauce. What were you thinking?” He feigns shock. “Did you think I meant? Oh, shame. Shame, shame, shame.” He rises from the table and tosses his plate lunch box into a nearby trashcan. “Well, we know whose mind lives in the gutter now, don’t we?”

  I toss my plate on top of his. “You’re terrible.”

  “I agree.” His tone becomes serious. “Let me know if that kid doesn’t straighten up his act.”

  “I will. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Can we do it again?” Cal calls as I walk away. I turn to face him.

  “Absolutely, but I’m buying next time.”

  “Damn right you are,” he teases. I’m still shaking my head when I enter the building.

  Chapter Three

  I sit in the courtyard doing my best to pay attention to the story I’m reading, but fail miserably. The same paragraph rolls through my brain about four different times, yet its message is never comprehended. George is butchering the hedges, while Agnes pretends not to watch me from the sanctity of the upper floor. The only reason I know she’s there is the gentle sway of the curtain when she adjusts to get a better view.

  I’m nervous about this trip with Cal. I’m not a prude by any means, nor do I think this is anything more than a simple outing. However, the fact is, I haven’t been in the company of a man in quite some time. The few moments that I’ve spent with Cal here and there on campus have helped me realize that male companionship is another one of those things I’ve missed.

  As expected, there have been some good and some bad relationships throughout the course of my life. The bad were mostly the result of my stupid rebellious streak. Mom and Dad were strict on me as I grew up, and the older I got, the more I fought it. I was frequently accused by my mother of being hotheaded like my dad, yet I never witnessed this temper myself. Dad was always gentle and mild-mannered around me. His discipline often involved sitting me down and discussing problems instead of reaching for a switch like some other kids’ parents.

  He was the type of man who commanded attention simply by walking in a room. His super tall frame and broad shoulders were complimented by hard muscle that came from tending to the farm. His skin was dark and leathery and his hair jet black, much like mine. I inherited a good bit of his Native American features, but my eyes are clearly from my mother’s side of the family. They’re an odd shade to be seen on someone with my features, kind of a mix between emerald and amber, and they’re generally the topic of conversation when meeting someone new.

  My parents demanded I maintain excellent grades, and I did. They insisted I act like a proper lady, attend church faithfully, and help out on the farm, and I did—until my first year of college. I’d been kept on such a tight leash that my f
irst taste of freedom sent me on a rollercoaster ride of bad decisions and promiscuity, but that rebellion started and stopped with Luke White. He was the epitome of masculinity wrapped up in a tight, muscular package. I was smitten the second I saw him, and he knew it, too. He was a total bad boy, constantly in trouble with the law, but never anything more than a misdemeanor or warning from the local authorities. He’d get booked and released, never once showing fear or remorse for his actions.

  He asked me to marry him, and being young, dumb, and stupid, I accepted his proposal. My parents weren’t happy about their eighteen-year-old marrying, but I played the religion card knowing it would get me what I wanted. I confessed that I’d “caved to my carnal desires and allowed Luke to deflower me” even though it was a complete lie. My “flower” had been plucked long before Luke came around. They gave their blessing for our marriage but stipulated that I should continue with college and that they would cover the expense. Other than that, I was on my own in every sense of the word. I truly enjoyed my classes, and surprisingly, Luke provided well for me, so that was an easy compromise.

  About two months into married life I discovered how Luke provided for us so well on a farm hand’s salary. It wasn’t unusual for him to drop me off on campus then take the truck to his job site and pick me up later in the day. This one day, instead of going to the ranch, he detoured to a local convenience store and robbed them of every cent in the register. He was responsible for a rash of robberies in the county, and I had had no clue. What Luke didn’t know was there was a police cruiser in the back parking lot of the store and an officer in the restroom. The officer came out just as Luke was forcing the terrified cashier to the ground. Luke aimed his gun at the officer and pulled the trigger, clipping him in the shoulder.

  I was gotten out of class by a uniformed officer and led to a car where my father stood, arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes cut through me, and though I had no idea what was wrong, I instantly felt guilt and remorse. After hours of interrogation, I was released into my parents’ custody. Though the detective didn’t look altogether convinced, he couldn’t prove that I had any knowledge of Luke’s sinister pastime. He’s still in prison, convicted of attempted murder of a police officer, and he’ll continue to reside there until the day he dies.

  Finding out your husband is secretly a felon makes one grow up pretty damned fast, and before I knew it, I was graduating with full honors. Continuing the quest for excellence, I barreled my way through graduate school. The day I became Dr. Cheyenne Douglas was the only time I ever saw my father cry. It’s a memory I still hold tightly in my heart.

  I’m not sure why I never married again. Maybe the experience traumatized me? Maybe I realized I didn’t need marriage? With all the therapy I’ve undergone, perhaps I should have broached the marriage issue? I was content taking care of my parents. Mom had a stroke not long after I started teaching, and Dad suffered a broken hip and femur after falling from his horse. Neither of them was in any shape to care for themselves, much less each other, so I did it. Until the day they weren’t there anymore and I was left with no one for whom to care.

  The sound of Cal’s car pulling into the driveway breaks my train of thought. I slam my book shut and rush up the stairs to deposit it on the nearest end table. Cal’s standing in the open doorway when I turn around. Knock. Knock.

  “Hi. Come on in,” I say, searching for my keys.

  “Nice place,” Cal comments.

  “Thanks. I enjoy it.”

  He does a quick jig. “I just got the frissons.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask with a slight chuckle.

  “A cold chill. The goose bumps.” He slowly turns around, and his gaze fixes on the upper story window.

  “Agnes,” we say in unison.

  “Does she do that often?” he asks.

  “Yes! Let’s get out of here,” I offer, turning off the lights before closing the door and locking it.

  Once we’re situated in our seats, belted in, and the car is running, Cal looks in my direction. “What would you like to do today?”

  “I thought you were going to show me all the important stuff.”

  “Do you know where the grocery store is?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “The bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds to me you know all of the important stuff. Want to go have fun in New Orleans?”

  I shake my head. “You are so terrible.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No, I haven’t but...”

  “But nothing. A visit to New Orleans is important for visitors, but essential for citizens. I think there’s some requirement or law that states newbies have to visit the city within three months of assuming residence.”

  “A law, eh?”

  “Well, maybe not so much a law. A strong suggestion?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to violate any laws or ignore a strong suggestion. New Orleans sounds wonderful.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Cal says, grinning broadly. He lowers his window long enough to wish George well and to offer a quick wave goodbye as he pulls onto the street. “I have you trapped in a car for the next hour or so. That’s plenty of time for you to tell me all about you. Who is Cheyenne Douglas?” he asks in a commentator voice.

  “There’s really not much to know. How about you go first?”

  “Aw, come on. Everyone has a story, Cheyenne.”

  “True. But still, you go first.”

  “Okay. I told you that I was born and raised in the area. I never knew my mom, and for the most part, I raised myself. My dad worked as a police detective, so I saw him on occasion, but most often, he was pulling extra shifts. It wasn’t until I was much older that I overheard some stories about him. Supposedly, he was reclusive because he didn’t deal well with my mom’s disappearance, and he tried to bury his pain in the bottom of liquor bottles. Times were different then, and his behavior was overlooked by the department because he was good at solving cases. Anyway, about ten years ago, he sobered up, straightened up, and had a heart attack—not necessarily in that order. That’s when I came back to town to help him.”

  “Did you move around a lot before moving back?”

  “Just for school, and I have taken lots of trips. I’ve always been passionate about history, so I traveled around hoping to suck as much knowledge into my brain as possible. Telling the stories of our ancestors is important to me. To accurately relay those stories is something I love doing, because unfortunately, some of the versions floating around out there aren’t as accurate as they should be.”

  “So you’re the truth seeker, roaming from town to town, searching for historical inaccuracies everywhere?”

  “I was, but dissecting the past is exhausting. I’m not as zealous about it as I used to be. I’m happy to be in the classroom, hopefully sparking some interest for the hundreds who roll in out and every semester.”

  “I understand that. You must be doing something right. I hear your classes fill up quickly.”

  He slows the car to barely a crawl, and he stops it in front of a run-down convenience store. “I try to make it fun for them. We’ve all had the antiquated professor who never moved from behind the podium while reading notes in monotone, right? I’m the anti-him.”

  I look at the shabby store. “What’s in there?”

  “Culinary bliss,” Cal replies.

  “In there?” I ask, warily looking around. A huge oyster shell parking lot reaches from one end of the store to the other. Just behind it is a boat launch; one of the slips holds a small bass boat while the owner backs his trailer into the water. To the left of the launch site are more slips, most of which are occupied by medium-sized boats with shrimp nets that jut high in the air.

  “Absolutely. Have you ever had a crawfish stuffed pistolette? What about boudin?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know wha
t that is.”

  “Prepare to be enlightened.” He holds the door open for me, and entering the store only serves to increase my anxiety. Preserved gator heads of varying sizes, their mouths permanently agape to showcase their impressive teeth, line one entire shelf at the far end of the store. There are gator claw back scratchers, gator tooth jewelry, and even gator meat for purchase.

  Mostly unoccupied wooden picnic tables fill up the right side of the store, whereas the left has a cashier and a glass case filled with piping hot foods. Cal encourages me to that side of the store, and I stand in front of the glass case utterly clueless as to what’s inside.

  “Are you about to feed me alligator?” I sort of whisper.

  Cal laughs. “No. I’m going to break you in slowly. Two crawfish pistolettes and a link of boudin, please,” Cal requests from the lady behind the counter. The older woman dons a clear plastic glove before assembling his order. She tosses the fried bread rolls into a paper tray then slides them across the counter to Cal. Next, she opens the lid of a steamer pot and pulls out a link of sausage unlike anything I’d ever seen. She wraps it in foil and pushes it next to the pistolettes.

  “Need a bag for those?” she asks in a voice far raspier than I expected.

  “Nah, we’ll have them here, and two drinks, as well.” She passes over two Styrofoam cups, and he suggests I fill the fountain drinks in the self-serve area while he pays. Once finished, he sits across from me at one of the picnic tables.

  “Okay, tell me what I’m eating,” I demand now that I have his undivided attention. “This looks frightening.”

  Cal laughs. “It might look frightening, but it tastes amazing.” He slices a good sized chunk off of the stuffed sausage link, and I thoroughly inspect the inside before I’ll take a bite. “It’s just rice, meat, and seasonings. Try it.”