by Herren, Greg
Daphne wrote to me at LSU, and I’d send her a card every now and then. As the years passed, I heard from her less and less. A card for my birthday, the wedding invitation, announcements about the birth of her kids, and of course Christmas. I never bothered to read the notes she wrote on the cards, just tossed them in the trash. I didn’t care what was going on with my parents. I didn’t want to know anything. I had a different life. I was a different person. No one in New Orleans knew I’d grown up in a trailer with a drunk for a mother and a violent father, and that was fine with me.
Paige and I had met for dinner at the Avenue Pub the night Daphne called. After a couple of drinks, I told Paige about it.
“Are you going?” she asked.
“No way,” I said.
“I think you should.”
“When was the last time you talked to your mother?” I snapped. “You cut your mother off just like I did.”
“I’ll never forgive my mother. Her boyfriend raped me and I had to get an abortion. I was thirteen, and she blamed me! You know that, Chanse. But if she were dying, I’d go see her. You need to do this.”
So, I’d driven the six hours to Houston with a knot in my stomach and gone to see my mother at the M. D. Anderson medical facility, not knowing what to expect. The last time I’d been in a hospital had been the day Paul died. Would my father be there? My younger brother? What would I say to my mother after fifteen years?
I’d knocked on the open door to her room. The beautiful woman in a chair by the bed looked up and smiled at me.
“Chanse,” my younger sister Daphne said, and ran across the room, throwing her arms around me and nearly knocking me down. She held on to me and sobbed. After a few awkward moments, I hugged her back. Finally, she pulled away from me.
“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered. “Go say hello.”
I couldn’t speak.
My mother was hooked up to tubes and monitors. Her eyes were closed. I cursed myself for not bringing flowers, or something. I stood there in silence, unsure of what I should do.
She’d lost weight, and aged. Her hair was shot through with gray around her wrinkled face, which was made up. (I found out later that Daphne did that for her every morning.) She looked like a shell of her former self.
Then her eyes opened, and her face softened. “Oh, Chanse,” she said. Her eyes filled with water and her chin trembled. “Thank you for coming. I’m so, so sorry.”
In that instant, my life history was rewritten. I forgot the woman who always seemed to be complaining, who always smelled slightly of stale liquor as she chain-smoked her way through daily visits to the soap opera towns of Pine Valley, Llanview and Port Charles. And I knew it wasn’t the first time I’d done this.
The morning I left Cottonwood Wells, I’d been packing my car. My father was at work, Daphne at her job, and my younger brother was off at baseball practice. I’d said perfunctory goodbyes to all of them and was coming back into the trailer to get another box of my stuff when my mother confronted me.
“I found this in your room,” she said, her voice shaking and her eyes wild.
It was a Playgirl magazine I’d shoplifted from a bookstore in town about a year before. I’d forgotten all about it.
“It’s not mine,” I said automatically.
She slapped my face. “Don’t lie to me!”
In all my eighteen years, my mother had never raised a hand to me. That was my father’s job. She always used tears and guilt. I stood there and looked at her, not knowing what to say. Finally I responded.
“It’s mine,” I admitted petulantly.
She became hysterical, screaming at me about sin and God and how no son of hers was going to be a pervert. I’d never seen her so angry. I stood there under the barrage of words, getting angry myself, and more hurt by the second. All I could think was that I needed to get away, and that once I did I was never coming back.
When she finally stopped, her rage spent, she collapsed onto the couch and sobbed.
After a few moments, I said, “Goodbye, Mother,” and walked out of the trailer for the last time. There were a few more boxes left, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to put as much distance between Cottonwood Wells and me as humanly possible.
I drove out of town with tears on my cheeks, forcing all my good memories of her out of my mind. I trained myself to remember only the bad. If I only remembered the bad stuff, it wouldn’t hurt anymore.
As I stood by her hospital bed, I saw love and sorrow in her eyes, and I started remembering the good.
I remembered the woman who had walked me to my first day of school, the woman who’d gotten up at five every morning to make breakfast for my father before he left for work, and then made breakfast for the rest of us when we got up. I remembered the face that turned sad whenever we shopped for school clothes at the Sears in the mall instead of the Gap, the Levi’s Store, and all the more chic places where the other kids’ parents took them. The woman who packed my lunch every day with my favorite chips and sandwiches—and how much I resented not being able to buy lunch like the cool kids. I remembered the woman who came to every one of my football games, and when my name was called when they introduced the starters before the game, shouted louder than everyone else, loud enough that I knew it was her. I’d see her in the stands, jumping up and down and telling everyone around her, “That’s my son! That’s my SON!”
Finally, I remembered looking back in the rearview mirror as I fled the trailer park, and seeing her standing at the foot of the driveway when I sped off to LSU, her shoulders bent, crying as she waved goodbye to her son. She’d had a shock that rocked her world and didn’t know how to deal with it, and had reacted badly. And she’d regretted that reaction every minute of every day ever since.
For the first time in years, looking down at my dying mother, I didn’t see a monster. And God help me, I started crying as I stood there. She’d reached out and grabbed my hand.
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. All that matters is you’re here now.”
I sat down next to her bed, grateful for the chance I’d never had with Paul before he died.
“I love you, Mom,” I managed to choke out.
The whole Sheehan case, really, had been about mothers and their children. Cordelia and Wendell. Janna and Carey, Grace and Alais, and of course, Vernita and Jerrell. Sure, Jerrell hadn’t been Vernita’s son, but she thought of him that way.
“Thanks again, Paige,” I said.
“What are friends for?” she said quietly.
She turned up the sound on the television with the remote. The governor was holding a press conference, urging everyone who lived in the path of the storm to evacuate as soon as possible. He reiterated that there would be no rescues until after the storm had passed, when in any case the water supply would most likely be contaminated.
Paige muted him. “I hate that bastard.”
“I don’t like him either, but I have to give him credit,” I said. “He’s handling this crisis pretty well.”
“It’s easy when you’ve experienced the exact same crisis once already,” Paige retorted. “They’ll compare him favorably to Governor Blanco, who had, what? A whole three days to prepare? He called a state of emergency before the damned storm even entered the gulf.”
“Maybe they’ve learned from the mistakes last time.”
“Whatever. I’m going to make a sandwich. You want anything?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t hungry, but knew I needed to eat something.
We spent the next few hours talking, watching the clock as it slowly moved towards six. I wasn’t looking forward to getting on the road. The traffic reports seemed to indicate some lessening on I-10—the drive to Baton Rouge was now projected to take a little more than four hours. Cameras showed the line of cars heading west. Ginevra was holding steady as a Category 3, and the slight turn to the west was continuing. The eye was projected to come ashore through Breton Sound, almost due south of Lake Borgne, by five-thir
ty. But the storm surge was still going to come in through Lake Pontchartrain, and New Orleans would be on the east side of the eye—the side that contained more rain. A normal downpour always flooded the streets on the east side, so the pumping system would already be working hard to pump the water out when the storm surge came into the lake and rushed into the canals looking for a way out. All we could do was pray the levees held this time.
At five-fifty, Paige chased Nicky down and placed him, struggling and howling, into his cat carrier.
“I’m going to put him in the car and then do one last check around here,” she said.
I listened to the news one last time. The eye was now projected to come ashore near Grand Isle, where a solitary man refused to evacuate. Grand Isle was almost completely destroyed by Katrina, and already the sea level was starting to rise. This was very bad news for Lafourche and Terrebonne parishes, which took a beating not only during Katrina but also during Hurricane Rita a few weeks later. The Louisiana Gulf Coast had not fully recovered from that one-two punch during the horrible hurricane season of 2005, which remained the worst on record.
I hit the OFF button, and the television screen went black. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The door opened.
“You’d never know there was a storm coming,” Paige said. “It’s hot out there, but such a beautiful day.”
“It was beautiful the last time,” I said.
Paige walked around the house, checking windows to make sure they were closed. She went through the refrigerator again, and carried the bag of perishables to be discarded to the front door.
“Seems kind of silly to put this in the garbage,” she said. “It’ll just blow away. But I don’t want this shit to rot in the house. I’ll check upstairs and then we can go, okay?”
I reflected on our situation while she moved around upstairs. Ginevra wouldn’t come ashore until around six the next day. We had twenty-four hours to get to Houston. A full tank should get us both there, even at the gas-guzzling crawl we were expecting.
Paige gave me a shaky smile as she came downstairs. “This is it.”
I took her in my arms and we held each other for a few moments, and then she broke away from me. I went out the door first. She slammed it shut with a loud clang that startled me in the silence. I put my key in the car door and turned it, pulling on the handle.
That’s odd, I thought. I was sure I locked it when I got here.
But I couldn’t swear to it. It was something I did reflexively, and I’d had a lot on my mind when I’d pulled up.
I looked in the backseat. Nothing seemed to be missing.
I put the key in the ignition and gave it a little gas.
Nothing.
All the dummy lights came on. I slammed my fist on the steering wheel, turning the key again.
Nothing. Not even that annoying rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr that signified a dying battery.
But if the battery were dead, the dummy lights wouldn’t come on.
I popped the hood, got out and slammed the car door shut just as Paige opened her car door and called back to me, “Stupid son of a bitch won’t start.”
My body went cold, despite the humidity.
“Pop your hood,” I called as I lifted mine.
My distributor cap was gone, and so was Paige’s.
Vinnie hadn’t left town. We were trapped in an empty city with a hurricane on its way—and a professional killer about to pounce.
Chapter Fourteen
I did a quick 360-degree turn, scanning the immediate area as I shouted at Paige to get down. I dropped to my knees, scrutinizing the big brick apartment building across the street. If he was in there, we were easy targets.
But he wouldn’t be behind one of those windows, peering through the blinds. A professional would first make sure he had a clear shot. His second priority would be to ensure easy access to the target, in case he missed that first shot. The third priority was a clear and easy escape route. I could rule out the massive apartment building. If he missed a shot from there, we’d be able to escape while he came down to the street. If Vinnie was still here—and undoubtedly he was—he had to be on the same side of the street as Paige’s house. He would have to come get us.
I reached up and opened my car door, keeping my head down, and retrieved the gun in the armrest between the front seats. As I shut my car door, I glanced over at Paige, who was getting hers. Sweat rolled into my eyes.
I dialed Venus from stored numbers on my cell phone, and swore under my breath when I got the circuits-busy message yet again. Fingers shaking, I sent a text—SOS P n I stranded cars dead Vinnie here SOS—and said a brief prayer that Venus and Blaine would come soon.
I scuttled along the side of my car to the back fender and made a hurried scan of the house next door and the ones beyond. All the windows were empty. I pulled my head back and moved to the front bumper of the car. Paige was at the back fender of hers.
“Nothing at the house next door,” she said, her voice low. “Where do you think he is?”
I ran over the geography of Paige’s house again in my mind. The fences were high, with razor wire on top. Even with a ladder, the drop down would be at least seven feet. He’d have to jump across and come down on the concrete, and risk breaking a leg or spraining an ankle. From Paige’s side of the house, we’d hear him. It had to be the house to the left, which had a parking area that led to the back of the house. I couldn’t remember if the backyard was fenced off from the lot. Blaine and I had focused on access to Paige’s lot. There was also no way of knowing when Vinnie took the distributor caps. He may have come over the fence at any time after I arrived, and we hadn’t heard him over the Weather Channel.
He didn’t seem interested in coming after us on the street. It was possible we could make a break for it, run the few blocks to my apartment, barricade ourselves in there and wait for help. But if we did that, we’d be in the open crossing Coliseum Square. Even if we made it safely across the park, we’d be sitting ducks while I unlocked the door. There was no way of knowing how long it would take help to arrive. Hopefully, this would be seen as enough of an emergency for Venus and Blaine to let their colleagues attend to looters and evacuating the city.
But we couldn’t count on that. Nor could we stay cowering behind our cars. To get out of range, we simply had to make it to the corner and around the building there. We could also try for the Avenue Pub, almost the exact same distance in the other direction. I discarded that option immediately. Vinnie would have no problem killing us and eliminating any customers who might be there, if the pub were even open. It was bad enough Paige was in danger.
The best option was to make a break for Paige’s apartment. It was only a few yards to the gate and then to the safe side of the house. Her landline was working; we could try Venus again from inside. Her Internet was also working, and the apartment was practically a fortress. The windows were too high off the ground for someone on foot to reach, and even with a ladder, he’d have to break one to get in, which we would hear. By the time he was inside we’d be on him, guns drawn. The only other way in was to kick down the first floor door—again, we’d be ready. Blaine had worried about the second floor patio, but I didn’t see how Vinnie could get in that way without us hearing, either.
The problem was that we’d be trapped inside. Still, it was the only way to buy enough time for Blaine and Venus to save us.
“We have to get back inside your apartment, Paige,” I said.
“I can’t leave Nicky out here, Chanse. It’s too hot. He’ll die without water.”
“We need to go fast, Paige. Lugging the carrier will make us sitting ducks.”
“I’ll get him out of the carrier.”
Before I could object, she crab-walked to the back door of her car. I stuck my head out between the cars, to reconnoiter our escape route. If I opened the gate and got to the porch, Paige could run to her door and open it for me. If Vinnie was in the house next door, he had no good angle on us. W
e could make it. Paige gripped Nicky firmly with both arms while I told her the plan, her gun tucked in the back of her jeans. Nicky hid his head in her armpit.
Clutching the key to the gate in my left hand and my gun in the right, I crawled between the cars, dashed for the gate, shoved the key in the lock, twisted it right and heard the lock disengage. I shoved the gate open and dashed up the stairs, flattening myself against the door to John and Michael’s apartment. The gate clanged shut. I jumped over the side railing and stayed down until I was on the side of the house, then ran back to Paige’s apartment, shut the door behind me and twisted the deadbolt.
I leaned against the door in time to see the white and orange flurry of Nicky scampering up the stairs.
Paige gave me a thumbs-up as she connected with Venus on the telephone and filled her in. She put the phone down and plopped into the reclining chair.
“She’s radioing it in,” Paige told me. “She doesn’t know how long it will take. I’m sorry, Chanse, we should have evacuated as soon as you got here. It was stupid to wait.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said, feeling really tired. “The U.S. Marshals told me Vinnie had cleared out, and when nothing happened again, I thought they might be right after all. I let down my guard. I’m the one who should be sorry, Paige. When Blaine and I checked out your place the other day, I didn’t notice that the backyard next door is easily accessed. Vinnie just needs a ladder to get over the fence. But the only way in here is through the front door, so we should be okay.”
“You forgot the patio. My landlady and I share it. The side door to Harriet’s apartment is a piece of crap. It’s really a set of French doors. They’re old and warped, and you have to latch them to make sure they stay closed. The wind can blow them open. If Vinnie gets over the fence, he can come through there.”
