Broken Bayou

by Rhonda R. Dennis

  “I will, but tell me what this is first.” I point to the paper tray with the deep fried bread roll.

  “That is crawfish cooked in a sauce, stuffed into a pistolette and deep fried.”

  I eye the two unique dishes, unsure of which I want to try first. Reaching for a piece of boudin, Cal laughs when I close my eyes to take a scant nibble.

  “Really?” he teases.

  “I know I said I’m not picky before, but I guess I’m really not all that adventurous when it comes to trying new foods.”

  “I see that. So what do you think of the boudin?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t like it do you?” he asks. Offering a coy smile, I shake my head. “What about the pistolette?”

  With an apprehensive sigh, I lift the fried dough to my lips and hold it there to procrastinate before finally sinking my teeth into the rich filling. “Wow,” I cover my mouth with my hand. “I’ve found my new favorite food.”

  “Good, huh?” Cal asks, obviously relaxing as he reaches for his roll.

  “Do they offer these in Cane?”

  “They sure do,” he says with a smile. “You’ll find little convenience stores with food like this all over the place. This is only the beginning. Wait until we get to New Orleans.”

  “More good food?” I question.

  “The best.” As soon as we finish up, Cal says, “Come on. Let’s get back on the road. It’s your turn to tell your story.”

  Once we’re back in the car, I considerably condense my life story. I tell him about my childhood growing up on the ranch, about my strict parents, and about how I married at a young age, but it ended in disaster. He doesn’t push for additional details, so I thankfully move on to graduating, teaching, and almost as a side note, I mention the death of my parents. Again, there aren’t any of the follow up questions I’ve been bracing for. I am very much at ease.

  Cal easily manipulates the conversation away from our pasts and starts fresh with comparing our favorite things. We laugh nearly the entire ride to New Orleans, and I have to admit I haven’t felt this comfortable around a man in a very long time.

  The French Quarter is charged with energies collected over centuries; energies that are virtually indescribable—they’re something a person has to experience to understand. My spirit is renewed, and my mind is refreshed. The trip to New Orleans is more cathartic than anything I’ve experienced in years, yet I’m reluctant to share this information with Cal. I don’t want him to know how bad off I was not all that long ago, and secondly, I don’t want him to get the wrong idea and think I’m interested in anything other than friendship. A little voice in my head that sounds very much like my therapist nags at me to quit over thinking things. I semi-ignore it.

  Cal points out historical buildings and sites and tells stories of days of yore that leave me mesmerized and excited for more. It’s while we’re sitting in the crowded beignet shop having café au lait and fried doughnuts that I finally let my guard down and confess my enjoyment and gratitude.

  “No thanks necessary. I’m just glad you’re having fun,” Cal says over the cacophony of voices that surround us. My response is a smile. A yellow-orange glow coming from the setting sun adds to the ambiance of the historical city, and I take out my phone to snap a few pictures of a jazz band playing nearby. I turn the camera on Cal, and he quickly stops me. “You’re doing that wrong. Here, like this.” He takes the phone from me, slides in close, and adjusts it so we both fit in the frame. The goofy face he’s making causes me to laugh, and he starts snapping off a series of pictures. “There. One of those should be a keeper,” he insists while sliding back to his previous seat.

  I smile as I flip through the photos then tuck my phone back into my pocket. Cal tells me that he’d like to take me around Jackson’s Square before driving back to Cane, so after leaving the beignet shop, I allow him to usher me across the street. Essentially, the Square is a gigantic courtyard with a black wrought iron fence around it. Wide sidewalks border the Square, and are littered with tourist, artists, and street performers. The artists hang their work from the posts, street performers put on unique and entertaining acts, and rolling food carts offer refreshments to anyone craving a snack. The yellow-orange sky fades, and a soft glow from the shops surrounding the Square light our way once the darkness sets in.

  Cal excuses himself to find a restroom, so I meander to the far end of the Square where several women, each seated at individual card tables, offer to read palms and tell fortunes. Basically ignoring them because I’m more interested in the architecture of the Cabildo, I’m shocked when one of the women grasps my wrist.

  She wears a long patchwork skirt and a wispy white blouse. Her hair is covered by a long red scarf, and her eyes desperately search mine for something. I’m extremely uncomfortable and try to break the hold she has on me, but her grip is as tight as a vice.

  “Let go!” I demand.

  “You poor child,” she begins. “You poor, poor child.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, let me go.”

  “The pain. The agony. The horror. You’ve been through so much.”

  “You’re scaring me. I’ll scream if you don’t release me now.”

  “I’m supposed to warn you. The compulsion is strong, so I must do it. If you choose not to heed it, that’s up to you, but I have to give you this message.”

  “You’re crazy!” I exclaim, searching for Cal to help; my stomach turns when I can’t find him.

  “Don’t fear me. Please, just listen. You’ve survived it once, you’ll survive again, but only if you live without sin. The boy in black, the girl in red, the lady in white, the man who prays—beware, beware, beware. Don’t go their way. Don’t run from the past, just let it go. Hold onto it and you’ll welcome a foe.” She releases the grip on my wrist, and I snatch it to my chest while rubbing it briskly.

  “What’s going on?” Cal asks, startling the hell out of me.

  My breathing is still somewhat erratic as I try to find the words to explain, so the woman takes over. “Nothing, dear. I offered her a reading, but she declined. Not very accepting of the sixth sense, I suppose.”

  “It’ll be fun,” Cal prompts. “You should do it.”

  “No, I’d like to go home, please. Now.” Only one thing she’s said makes any sense, and there’s no way she could possibly know about the little girl in red who may or may not haunt my place. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Thoughts race in and out like a roaring hurricane. I can’t concentrate on anything but getting away.

  “Did something happen? What did I miss?” Cal asks, confused.

  “Nothing. I’m just ready to go,” I anxiously assert.

  “Take care, little owl,” the fortune teller says. That sends me over the edge. Bursting into a full run, I scurry through the crowds and don’t stop until I reach Cal’s car even though he repeatedly calls after me to stop. A mix of panting and crying hunches me over as I try to catch my breath.

  “Cheyenne! Cheyenne, stop!” Cal calls before finally catching up with me. His stance is protective, and his voice laden with concern. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand what happened.”

  “It’s nothing,” I gasp.

  “Nothing? Cheyenne, you just ran six blocks to get away from a kooky fortune teller. Nothing is not a valid answer.”

  Slowly, I slink to the ground while putting my face in my palms. Sobs that had been kept at bay since the move return, and I’m embarrassed that I can’t control my emotions in front of this man. Cal sits next to me on the warm asphalt of the parking lot. “Should I call someone?” he softly questions.

  I shake my head. “There’s no one to call. I’m sorry. I’m a grown woman, and I’m crying like a toddler. You probably think I’m nuts, and you know what? You’d be right to assume as much.”

  “I don’t think you’re nuts. I think you’re hurt. That woman said something that brought back some bad memories, didn’t she?”
<
br />   I swipe away some of the tears from my cheeks. “Good and bad memories.” Cal patiently waits for me to elaborate. “I’ve told you that my parents are gone, but what I haven’t confided in anyone except my therapist is how much their deaths have affected me. I went into such a deep depression that I couldn’t teach anymore. I completely shut off myself from the outside world. I’m embarrassed to say that I couldn’t handle it. There I was, a fully grown woman, and I couldn’t handle something that everyone is forced to deal with eventually.”

  “Were their deaths sudden and unexpected?”

  I nod. “Mom’s mind was a jumbled mess after her stroke, and Dad could barely get around because of some old injuries. I lived with them and took care of them. A sitter came in to help them during the day when I worked, but other than that, it was all on me. Some may have grown resentful being so tied down, but I truly loved every second of it. My parents were my world, and I was thankful that I was well enough to care for them myself.” I fall silent for a moment.

  “You’re doing great. Just take your time,” Cal encourages while lightly patting my knee with his palm.

  “The pharmacist called to say their scripts were ready, so I went to town to pick them up. It wasn’t something out of the ordinary. I often left them alone when I ran short errands like shopping or paying bills. The fire trucks barreling down Main Street, sirens wailing and air horns blaring left me feeling uneasy, yet I went inside the pharmacy and picked up their medications anyway. When I left, smoke wisping high in the sky told me that my uneasiness was warranted. I don’t even remember driving back to the ranch, but I remember the sight of the trucks surrounding the shell of the only place I’d ever truly called home. Running through the crowd of emergency workers, I desperately searched for my parents. Once I started shouting for them, a paramedic came to me and asked if I’d follow him to the ambulance. Guessing my parents were being treated, I ran to the ambulance and threw open the back doors. It was empty.”

  Silence hangs heavily for a while. There are a few times that Cal looks like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

  “The rest is pretty much a blur: finding a new place to live, making their final arrangements, the funeral, the succession. I was on autopilot through all of it. I tried to go back to life as usual, but couldn’t. Every single thought was commandeered by guilt and loss. The nightmares were horrid. Nothing mattered to me anymore. My students were fed bullshit babble, and that was only when I bothered to show up or actually speak to them. I’d just give them some random writing assignment and send them on their way.

  “Complaints poured in, but the school was very understanding. I was given a sabbatical and encouraged to seek treatment. Once I finished treatment, I was welcomed back with open arms, but there were just too many reminders. I was better, but I couldn’t get back into the groove of things. In my search on the internet for helpful tips, one site mentioned that I should send resumes out to prove my importance to myself. Shadow Oaks responded, and when I came down to interview, I realized the pain wasn’t so bad here. There weren’t constant reminders, and I felt functional again. I accepted the job, and now I’m here. In New Orleans, crying my butt off in a parking lot with a man who assuredly thinks I’m insane. Anyway, that’s my story. I’d really appreciate it if it stayed between us, but I understand if you feel the need to report this.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m sorry you had to endure such pain and tragedy, and I most definitely do not think you’re insane. I think you’re incredibly brave and that you have a very kind heart. Recovery doesn’t happen overnight, especially when it comes to such a traumatic experience.”

  “Thank you for understanding. I’m not really a weak person…”

  “I never thought you were,” Cal interrupts.

  “I did. I still do sometimes. Look at me.” I wave my hands in a ta-da fashion.

  “So, what did she say that upset you?”

  “She rambled some nonsense, but it was the way she said it that creeped me out. She wouldn’t let go of me.”

  “No, it was something she said at the end. The color drained from your face, and you bolted.”

  “Little owl,” I murmur.

  “Little owl?”

  “Yes, it’s what my dad used to call me. Cal, how could she know that?” I ask getting upset again.

  “Take a deep breath and try to relax. There’s a very logical explanation for it, I’m sure.”

  “Really? Like what?” I prompt.

  Cal points to my throat, and instinctively I run my hands up to my neck and feel the cool metal against my fingers. I roll my eyes.

  “My necklace,” I say with a sigh. “Of course! I just made a fool out of myself because she made a lucky guess based upon her powers of observation. I’m so embarrassed.”

  Cal pulls me in for a hug. “Don’t be embarrassed and don’t feel foolish. It’s how she makes a living.”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine what you must think of me.”

  “Still? Haven’t we been through this? I think you’re a beautiful and charming woman.”

  “Nope, just say it. Insane.”

  “How did you get insane out of beautiful and charming?” he asks with a huff.

  “How could you not after what I’ve told you and what you’ve witnessed?”

  “Because you’re human, Cheyenne.”

  I look in his direction. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime,” he says with a smile. “Can we get up now? This asphalt is really burning my ass.”

  A hearty laugh escapes as I nod my head. I decide against confiding in him about the woman mentioning the little girl in red. I’m still not convinced of what I’ve been seeing, plus she probably just pulled some random gibberish from the air. The woman in white? The man who prays? I know no people matching those descriptions, and the only boy in black I know is Billy Thibodeaux. Don’t most boys wear black? Feeling rationale once again win over the panic; I am much calmer and more focused.

  Cal stands while holding out a hand to hoist me upright, and I dust off my shorts before getting into the car. Reflecting on his words makes me smile. Beautiful and charming. Maybe it would be okay to let him in? Whoa, way too soon to be thinking about this stuff. I was a babbling mess not thirty seconds ago. Louisiana has turned out to be a great move for me, but she sure can keep her hoodoo and voodoo. I’m over the ghost stories. Unfortunately, I sense there will be more to come.

  Chapter Four

  The beam from Cal’s headlights slices through the darkness as he pulls into my driveway. The fluttering of the upper story curtains in the blue house lets me know that Agnes has noticed our arrival.

  “You have zero privacy; you know that, right?” Cal asks, peeping upwards.

  I smile. “It’s okay. I’ve got nothing to hide, plus I’m pretty boring. If the old lady wants to watch me read in the courtyard, so be it.”

  “You’re a better person than I am. I believe I’d have to have a conversation about boundaries with ol’ Agnes.”

  “I’m sure she’s harmless. Besides, how do we know it isn’t George? Maybe they’re both peepers?”

  “Because George is right there,” he says, opening the car door. Donning a semi-opened terrycloth bathrobe, black socks, slippers, and a frown, George stands squinting in the driveway.

  “How ya doin’, George?” Cal calls.

  “Who’s there?” George grumpily asks.

  Cal kills the headlights before walking over to George with an extended hand. “Callahan Gage. Felton’s son. How have you been, George?”

  “Oh, Cal. Right. Look, I’ve been sent down to tell you that late night arrivals disrupt Agnes’ sleep.”

  “It’s nine o’clock, George,” Cal says with a laugh.

  “And Agnes goes to bed at eight,” George fusses.

  “So you’re saying Cheyenne isn’t allowed to come home if she’s going to be out past eight?” Cal asks.

  “No, I’m saying that the pain in my
ass sent me down here to fuss about it, so I’m doing it. Enjoy your evening, kids. Kill the damned lights the next time you pull in after dark.” He turns on his heel and shuffles up the steps to the house.

  Cal and I chuckle once the door is shut. “I’ll walk you upstairs. It’s pretty spooky out here at night.”

  “It is, isn’t it? That’s why I try to stay inside after dark,” I say, nervously looking around and praying there’s no child in red. Branches reach out from the darkness like sinister hands searching for something to grasp onto, while dark shadows play tricks on the eyes. The dim porch light coming from my upstairs apartment does little to illuminate anything past the stairs. I feel like eyes are watching us, separate from the obvious stare from Agnes. I peer out into the darkness while Cal fumbles for the doorknob, but I only see shadows and darker shadows.

  Cal hands over my keys once the door is open, but he stays towards the banister. I’m not even afforded the opportunity to play out the whole should-I-let-him-in argument because he wishes me a good night and waves upward once he hits the bottom step. “See you Monday, unless…”

  “Unless what?” I ask.

  “Unless we see each other sooner. Would you’d like to go with me to tour a historical site tomorrow? Purely educational. Definitely not a date.”

  “What would this non-date entail?” I question.

  “Touring an antebellum house, perhaps picnicking on the grounds. Ham and cheese sandwiches only. Nothing sexy like wine and cheese.”

  “You had me at ham and cheese,” I tease. “What time should I be ready?”

  “Ten thirty. Hoop skirt is optional.”

  “Good to know,” I say with a smile. “Thank you for today.”

  “It was my pleasure. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I’ll say good night till it be morrow.”

  “Shakespeare. You just earned bonus points, good sir.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. I flunked Shakespeare.”