by Hester Young
On Saturday evening, he tells me he’s going to drop by to see Hettie. It’s raining, a chilly January rain. He stands outside my cottage in his windbreaker, a bowl of flower bulbs in one hand.
“I’ll be by a bit later tonight,” he tells me. “Just didn’t want to leave you wonderin’.”
“Are those for Hettie?” I point to the bulbs.
“Yeah. Thought some paperwhites might cheer her up. Nice to have growin’ things around.” He doesn’t mention she might not live to see them bloom.
“Can I come with you?” I brace myself for a comment about vulture journalists, but he runs a hand across his damp head, considering it.
“You can’t interview her, if that’s what you’re after,” he says.
“I know.” It’s not the book I’m thinking of now. “I’ve just read so much about Hettie, it would be nice to spend some genuine time with her. To get a sense of her, you know?”
Noah touches the green shoots of the flower bulbs and shrugs. “Fine. Just behave yourself.”
I toss on a raincoat and we trudge up to Evangeline through the dark and drizzle. On the way over we pass Zeke, the security patrolman, who’s outfitted in some heavy-duty rain gear. Inside, the house is still. Most of the help have gone for the weekend.
I’m sort of amazed that no one stops us when Noah and I start up the large staircase. Somehow I always had a feeling that sirens would go off and guards would come running if I went upstairs uninvited. The reality is an eerie quiet. A series of gold sconces bathe the hallway in their drowsy light. Every door is closed.
Noah stops at the end of the hallway, raps on the door. Waits. Knocks again, a bit louder.
“Must be the guy with the iPod,” he mutters. He opens the door a little and gives an exaggerated wave, trying to get the nurse’s attention. Sure enough, a guilty redhead in scrubs peeks out a minute later, earbuds dangling around his neck. He seems to recognize Noah and ushers us in.
Hettie’s in a standard hospital bed, sterile white sheets and all. Something about that awful bed in the middle of this beautifully decorated room hits me. I’ve been picturing her wasting tragically away, and the looming pieces of mahogany furniture and mauve drapes are about right. But I forgot the ugliness of dying. How slow it can be. How degrading. Whether you’re Didi Minot or Hettie Deveau, cancer is cancer. Hettie’s a sad sight: three children living, yet no one but hired help here to care for her.
“Hettie,” the nurse murmurs, “you have visitors.”
She’s propped up in bed, eyes closed though she’s awake, wincing. She looks even thinner than she was at last weekend’s dinner. Has she stopped eating these past few days?
At the sound of the nurse’s voice, Hettie’s eyes flicker open, and the naked, undisguised pain on her face is quickly replaced with a strained smile. “Well, hello,” she says to Noah in a hoarse voice. “I was hoping you’d stop in, honey.”
“Promised you, didn’t I?” He sets down the bowl of bulbs on a table by her bed. “Have your nurses take good care a these, okay? They’re paperwhite narcissus. Should be out by Valentine’s Day.”
“A Valentine gift?” Her blue eyes bulge from her gaunt face, but she’s still smiling. “I’m not sure I care to make it that long.”
Noah nods, not shocked. “Nobody would fault you any for lettin’ go.”
Her hand is milky white and veiny when she points a shaky index finger at him. “You’re a good boy. Always were.” With some effort, she turns her head in my direction. “That your girlfriend?”
I’ve met her twice now, and she still doesn’t remember me. Given my embarrassing performance at dinner the other night, I’m relieved.
“Yeah, that’s my girl,” Noah says with a smile.
I don’t read too much into that one. It’s a more polite introduction than I probably merit, but simpler, too. “Good to meet you,” I tell Hettie.
“You two better start having babies soon,” she says, and I marvel at that total disregard for manners that only young children and the elderly can get away with. “You’re not getting any younger.”
Noah holds up a hand. “Let’s not go there.” He doesn’t mention his divorce or his burning desire to avoid kids. And he doesn’t even know about the baggage I’m carrying. “So how you feelin’, Hettie? Heard you hit a rough patch this last week. I stopped by, but they told me you were restin’.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Hettie,” she complains.
“What should I call you?”
“You used to call me Mama.”
My heart squeezes up when I see her mistake. Noah appears less disturbed.
“Hettie,” he says, taking both her hands and looking directly into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
The nurse, who has been sitting quietly in the corner with a Men’s Health magazine, is now following their conversation carefully. Put your iPod back in, dude, I want to tell him.
Hettie meets Noah’s gaze and her eyes fill with tears. “You’re my boy.”
“No, I’m Noah,” he says firmly. “Do you remember me? Noah.”
She stares at him, wide-eyed, and a tear spills onto her cheek. I wish he wouldn’t argue with her, wish he’d just let Hettie believe what she needs to believe, but Noah persists.
“I’m Sean Lauchlin’s boy, do you remember him? My mother’s name was Violet, but she died. Remember Maddie and Jack? Those were my grandparents.”
Now she’s weeping openly. “I want my baby back.” Her voice is so small and pitiful that I wish I could cradle her in my arms, tell her shhhh, offer Noah up as the substitute Gabriel. But she scares me, too. Will I be calling for Keegan on my deathbed, ready to turn any man who fits the part into my lost son?
Noah can’t watch her anymore. He turns to the nurse, shaken. “How long has she been like this?”
The guy puts down his magazine. “I dunno. I haven’t seen her get confused like that before, but it’s been a hard few days. She hasn’t been talkin’ much.”
“Is it permanent?”
“Gotta wait and see.” There’s sympathy in his voice. “She’s been declinin’, then fightin’ back.”
They both stare at Hettie, who clutches her sheet, still crying for her son. Noah takes a deep breath and kneels beside her. Very, very quietly, he says something in her ear. I can’t make out the words, but she stops her weeping and regards him with big eyes. He touches her cheek.
“I gotta go now,” he says. “I’ll check on you soon.” He points at the nurse. “Give her somethin’ to help her sleep. She’s hurtin’.”
I hurry after him into the hallway, trying to get a sense of whether or not he wants to talk. Above us, rain falls loudly against the roof. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Noah stops walking.
“We’re gonna get soaked,” he says.
“Probably. You okay?”
“I’m tired a watchin’ people get old and sick.” He leans against the wall for a moment, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “My granddaddy was sick a long while, too.”
I think of my grandmother and pray that she’ll die peacefully in her sleep, or else suddenly, with minimal pain. Mostly I just hope she’ll be there when I get back to Stamford.
“What did you tell Hettie?” I ask. “At the end, before we left?”
He sighs. “Told her Gabriel was comin’ for her. That he’d be there when she passed.”
“You believe that?” It’s not just his religious views I’m feeling out with this question. I want to know if he believes in spirits. If my visions might make sense to him.
“I just wanted her to feel better,” he says wearily. “I mean, I believe in God, but I don’t claim to know how He works. Although . . .” He cocks his head to the side. “Every now and then I’d swear my Daddy Jack’s still keepin’ an eye on things. When I’m alone sometimes, you know? I ju
st feel him.” He gives a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry, that’s weird.”
“No. It isn’t.” I slide my arm around his. “Come on. Let’s go get wet.”
We do. We get very, very wet. We arrive at my cottage drenched and shivering. Kick off our shoes, throw our jackets in a heap by the door. Peel articles of soaking clothing from each other, one by one. Our skin is cold and damp, but our mouths are warm. Outside, lightning flashes. Thunder rolls through. I wrap my arms around Noah’s neck and enjoy the storm.
• • •
ON SUNDAY MORNING it all begins to unravel. We stop by Noah’s cottage to get him fresh clothes, and as I’m rummaging through his sock drawer, my hand hits metal. I brush aside a pair of socks and find a handgun. Heart pounding, I turn to face him.
“What the hell is that?”
He doesn’t even have the grace to be apologetic. “I told you I had a nine-millimeter. Quit worryin’, it’s not loaded unless I’m wearin’ it.”
That hardly eases my mind. “Jesus, Noah! Why do you have a gun with you at all? Is that even legal?”
He rolls his eyes. “Sure it’s legal. I carry it with me when I go to town. Had it at the diner with us the other mornin’.”
His loose-fitting shirts become suddenly sinister.
“They let you carry a concealed weapon?”
“I got a permit in Texas,” he says. “They got reciprocity in Louisiana. We don’t have all your East Coast rules out here, baby.”
Of course I’ve known, intellectually, about these laws. To have been out with a man I didn’t even realize was armed, though—that’s something else. I thought killing animals was bad, but he could kill people. Himself, if he’s not careful. I try not to think of all the other widely divergent views we probably hold. This relationship does not have a long shelf life, I remind myself. You’ve always known that.
I take a few steps back from the drawer. “Put it away. I don’t want to see it.”
Noah makes a big production out of closing his sock drawer. “I’m not the only person who carries a gun in these parts,” he says. “You might as well get used to it.”
Okay, I think, gritting my teeth. Things are different here. I’m not on my home turf, so I’ll just bite the bullet. Hopefully not literally. In a matter of minutes, though, the morning gets much, much worse. As we’re walking through the fog to my car, Noah gets a phone call. He glances at the caller ID and quickly carries his phone out of earshot. I watch him pace across the grass, patches of fog wrapping around his ankles like some detestable white cat. I can already sense that our plans to grab breakfast won’t survive this conversation.
When he returns minutes later, Noah’s all business. “That was my landscape designer,” he says, rubbing his neck. “She’s outside Houston, on her way over. Should be here this afternoon.” He hasn’t mentioned this woman much, but I don’t think it’s a big deal until he tells me, “I’ll be really busy while she’s here. I won’t be able to hang out.”
“Okay,” I say, although it strikes me as a bit odd. “How long’s she in town?”
“A week, maybe.” He scratches his head, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . it’s probably better if you two don’t meet. I don’t wanna mix my personal life with work, ya know?”
What does he think I’m going to do? Try to make out with him in front of his coworker?
He takes a few steps back toward the cottages. “I better skip breakfast. I got some stuff to get ready.” He sees the skeptical look on my face and tries to smile. “Soon’s I got time, I’ll come see you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me with growing misgivings.
• • •
I CAN’T FOCUS. My mind spins in anxious circles. Who is this woman coming? Why is Noah acting so sketchy? What’s he hiding? I drive into town, hoping a change of scene will help. The temperature is in the high forties, unusually chilly, I’m told, and not the best weather for a jaunt, but I walk up and down the historic district of Main Street, hands in my pockets.
I should’ve just asked Noah straight up what was going on. Now it’s too late.
I stop and read a couple plaques about historic homes, admire the wraparound porches. The houses on this side of the street open up to the bayou in the back. I see a few boats in driveways and imagine the days when people hopped into their vessels and sailed all the way to the Mississippi.
On the opposite side of the road, nicely dressed families start to trickle out of a local church. I continue walking, still ruminating about Noah’s weird behavior, and then pause. Did someone just say my name?
“Charlotte!”
Detective Minot is waving at me from across the street. I raise a hand to greet him just as his wife, Dr. Pinaro, reaches me. I recognize her from all my Internet stalking. She’s a short but sturdy woman who could probably rock a pantsuit, though at present her cheeks are flushed with cold and her short auburn hair windswept.
“Sorry to chase you down like this,” she pants. “I’m Justine Pinaro. I just really wanted to meet you.” Despite all her degrees, she has a sweet, down-home voice that has probably served her well career-wise. I try to shake her hand, but she engulfs me in a quick, clumsy hug. “No, no. You aren’t a stranger to us. Not after everything.”
“I’m so sorry about Didi,” I tell her, and she shakes her head.
“She’s in God’s hands now. And I had my good-bye with her. I couldn’t have asked for more.” She manages a weak smile. “To be honest, it’s still hard to believe it’s over.” She motions for her husband to join us. “I don’t know if Remy told you, but the funeral was yesterday.”
“No, he didn’t. I wish I’d known, I would’ve—”
“It’s fine. There were too many people anyway.”
Detective Minot joins us on our patch of sidewalk. Unlike the first time I saw him, he’s dressed up, slacks and a tie, a classy-looking trench coat. But still haggard. He lays a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You all right?”
She nods. “I just wanted to thank Charlotte here. And I was going to—” A plump woman walking by us pauses to offer her condolences. Dr. Pinaro’s face immediately slips into public-figure mode, sad but gracious. “We appreciate your prayers, Maggie, we really do. And the lasagna you left the other night was wonderful. Thank you.”
Detective Minot shifts his weight from one side to the other. He doesn’t like people talking about his personal business in the middle of a busy sidewalk; go figure.
“Listen,” Dr. Pinaro says as soon as her well-wisher has gone, “I don’t want to waste your time, Charlotte—may I call you Charlotte? I bet you have things to do. I just wanted to tell you, I think you have a very special gift. And I feel fortunate you and God brought that gift to my family.”
I glance at her husband to see how he’s taking the God talk, but he’s staring at the pavement. “I’m . . . just glad if I helped.”
“Remy said you might be able to help him with a case. I hope you will.”
“I’ll try.”
She moves closer to me. Her mouth, coated in a plum shade of lipstick, is just inches from my ear. “Before today, my husband hadn’t been to Sunday service in ten years. There are no accidents, I know this.” Her voice is low and assured. “You,” she whispers, squeezing my hand, “are an instrument of God.”
It’s not the unblinking intensity of her eyes that terrifies me, or even the gross violation of my personal space. It’s the fact that, with all my years of spiritual ambivalence, I can’t be sure she’s wrong.
Detective Minot swoops in and expertly steers his wife away from me. “You better get going, Justine. The Pellerins invited us for lunch today, remember?” He looks back at me. “You got some time now, we could talk. I’m not a big fan of the Pellerins.”
I check to make sure Dr. Pinaro won’t be upset, but she’s nodding enthusias
tically like, Oh yes, God would approve of his ditching this lunch date.
“All right,” I say slowly, because an idea is just occurring to me. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll take you to Evangeline.”
15.
On the drive back, I tell Detective Minot about my Gabriel dream. Having told only my grandmother up to this point, I’m hesitant, but Detective Minot makes it easy. He doesn’t seem surprised or incredulous, just repeats back the salient details like he’s planning on filing a report.
“Okay, so chipped tooth. He lived at the big white house and had a dog. And he said that a man had been hurting him.”
“Right,” I confirm. “He said the man threatened to kill him and his mom if he told her. I’m thinking sexual abuse.” We come to a yellow traffic light. With a cop in the car, I actually stop instead of breezing through.
“Threats to Mom does sound like sexual abuse,” Detective Minot agrees. “Anything else?”
I rack my brain for details. “Gabriel had a white shirt on. Dark eyes, dark hair. Oh, and we were in a swamp. A rowboat in the swamp.”
“You think that’s where he ended up? The swamp?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know how you’d ever prove it.” We’re not far from the fork in the road where I took a wrong turn my first day in Chicory. On impulse, I make a decision. “There’s a place I need to show you,” I tell him. “Before we go to the house.” Maybe he knows something about that boat launch.
With the recent rainfall, the gravel path is partially flooded. My Prius creeps through puddle after cloudy brown puddle, and I can hear the tires spin out a few times, floundering for solid ground. Ignoring Detective Minot’s dubious looks, I successfully coax my little car down to the circular parking lot. The minute we step outside, I regret coming. The feeling is so strong it’s almost physical, like hands pulling me somewhere I don’t want to go. Sweaty, dirty hands.
Detective Minot heads over to the wooden dock, squinting, trying to determine exactly where we are. “Is this part of the Deveau property?”
