by Rhodi Hawk
There were just too many of them. Patrice could only pigeon one at a time. She gave up and ran forward.
The sound of her footfalls caused them to look up. Like in the warehouse, once they got a look at her, their attentions didn’t easily slip.
“Let my brother go!”
Poor Trigger was sagging like a wet rag, with one of the men holding him by the collar. But the man paused to eye Patrice.
“Ho there, sweetie,” one of them said.
Gil came to her side and linked her arm around his. “Just leave us alone, please.”
The one who still held Trigger glanced at the Bible in Patrice’s hand, then leered at her. “What are you, missionaries?”
Arrhythmic laughter, and then they were jeering.
“I heard missionaries are good eatin!”
“She looks like she’d taste real good.”
“High yella pie.”
One of them picked up the machete. Many of them looked hungry—a sick kind of hunger. They were bone thin and mean and stupid, and their eyes showed they intended to take whatever they could get from the children. Patrice didn’t have to search inside to know this.
The sound of horse hooves. She turned to look. The policeman they’d seen earlier?
Next to her, Gil started singing:
Holy, holy, ho-ly!
Lord, God almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee
The men’s faces went slack, then split into grins. She could smell them—good Lord, they were so close and so foul. Black teeth and rotting from the inside. Two of them were clean, though. She recognized them from having been in the warehouse. The others must be vagrants. More of them now. At least ten.
Gil brought the Bible up so that he and Patrice were holding it together. She realized then that Gil was trying to make it look like they were missionaries. As though for some insane reason that might make a difference. Nevertheless, Patrice started singing, too.
Cherabim and seraphim
Fall down before Thee
The men looked like they wanted to lapse into fresh laughter or slap the song from the children’s mouths, or both. But the clip-clopping hooves were now full in the street, too close to ignore. Patrice looked and recognized the same policeman they’d seen earlier. The men were looking at him, too.
But as she watched, the policeman turned his head toward them and then immediately looked forward again and kept moving. He would be gone in a moment.
Patrice and Gil kept singing, and then Rosie and Trigger joined in though Trigger botched the words. The four huddled in around one another.
Patrice focused her pigeonry on that policeman. That one man riding the horse.
The clip-clopping stopped.
Patrice heard from the street, “You there!”
Some of the men seemed uncertain. But the one with the machete looked toward the street and passed his tongue over his lower lip.
Patrice didn’t dare let go of the policeman’s mind. She held, hoping these wicked men would just scatter and leave them alone. She couldn’t very well force the policeman to march into that machete blade.
Some of the men lost that wild look in their eyes. The ones who’d been at the warehouse and two of the truly rough-looking fellows. But the one with the machete and the ones who’d been striking blows to Trigger and Rosie looked ready for a fight.
“Go on get outta here before you get hurt,” the man hanging onto Trigger said to the policeman.
And then little Marie-Rose stepped forward. She was singing that song, right along with Patrice and the twins. Patrice kept singing, too, and couldn’t afford to keep Rosie in check lest she let her attention slip from the policeman.
The policeman was now approaching, still on horseback. Some of the men avoided eye contact with him. And yet no one left. They seemed unwilling to relinquish the spectacle, if not the spoils of war.
Before Patrice knew what was happening, Rosie walked right straight up to the man with Trigger’s machete and reached out to him. He looked down at her, his jaw gaping and confusion in his eyes. But then he very gingerly placed the hilt into Rosie’s waiting hands.
Patrice wondered if Rosie had pigeoned him to do that. Perhaps the singing had forced her into a more stable frame of mind.
And then two of the men picked up the rest of what was in Trigger’s bundle—the frog gig, the fishing pole, the slingshot—and handed them to the children. The man hanging onto Trigger let go.
The children kept singing.
One by one, each of the men stepped back and drifted away. No one hurried. They certainly didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the policeman. But they did filter off, each in his own way—this one lingering as though he must check to see if he’d forgotten anything; that one shuffling off with mincing steps like in a soup line. One actually sang “Holy, Holy, Holy” in off-beat timing with the children as he shuffled away.
When they were all gone save for the policeman on horseback, the children stopped singing.
Patrice released the policeman.
* * *
“TRIGGER,” PATRICE SAID, AND she put her handkerchief to his face.
He moved it down under his nose and coughed, spitting between his feet. “I’m alright.”
“What are y’all doin out here?” the policeman asked.
“We’re lookin for a boy named Ferrar,” Gil replied.
“You sure picked a damn fool time and place to do that.” And then he regarded the Bible in Patrice’s hands. “Sorry ma’am.”
The horse watched them from behind what looked like an eye patch. Patrice could see only its eye and long lashes if it turned its head toward her.
The policeman said, “Y’all got a home?”
“Yes,” Patrice replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.
The policeman paused, scrutinizing her. “You from the children’s home? I’ll need to take you back there.”
“They’re with me.”
Patrice turned to see Simms walking toward them with Hutch at his side.
Simms said to the policeman, “I hired some missionaries to do some singing for me.”
“That so?” the policeman said.
Patrice was too perplexed to either support or deny Simms’ claim, but Gil was nodding.
Simms took Patrice by the arm and used his hat to herd the others back in the direction of the warehouse. “Come on, your parents are worried sick. Try not to get lost from now on.”
The policeman called after them, “Tell them to keep their children locked up at night! Damn missionaries.”
From behind them, the clip-clopping started up again as the policeman rode back toward the street.
Patrice freed her arm from Simms the moment the policeman was out of earshot. “What do you mean by this?”
Simms said, “Can y’all read sheet music?”
Patrice looked at him, too puzzled by his strange question to reply.
But Gil was nodding. “She plays the piano all the time for us back home, and we all sing along.”
Simms said, “Fine. Y’all can share a room. Girls in the bed, but the boys’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
Patrice said, “No thank you.”
Simms opened his arms in a disarming manner. “Don’t worry, no monkey business. I meant what I said. I wanna hire y’all to do some singing.”
“You’ll pay us?” Gil said.
Simms eyed him and then his gaze fell on poor, bloody Trig. “Just the girls. Y’all lookin a little too rough.”
“I don’t understand,” Patrice said.
“Just get some sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Patrice folded her arms. “No sir, you’ll tell us now or we won’t be going anywhere.”
Simms paused and faced her, sighed, then said to Hutch. “Tell her.”
Hutch said, “Y’all sing for us out on the street corner. We give you the music to sing from. Folks pause to listen, then we sell them the sh
eet music. Got it?”
Patrice considered a moment. That didn’t sound so terribly bad. The good Lord knew they needed the money.
She and the other children started walking again in the direction of the warehouse. First sign of nonsense and we’ll march right back out again.
Simms chuckled. “There, that’s it. You do got some sense in you.”
“Have sense,” Trig corrected from beneath the bloody handkerchief.
Patrice shot him a grin.
It would be nice to take a bit of sleep. Daylight was only a couple of hours away.
twenty-nine
NEW ORLEANS, NOW
BO COULD DO EXCELLENT impressions of crickets, frogs, and birds. Usually his clicking faded into the background the way a clock tick disappeared unless you put your attention on it. Here at the clothing store, though, he was under strict orders to keep quiet. No animal or bug calls, and absolutely no clicking. The only exception was if he sensed Zenon was nearby as he’d done under the bridge. In that case, he was to avoid speaking a single word, but he would alert Madeleine and Ethan by doing his cricket chirrup.
Ethan seemed grim and sleep-deprived, but he kept looking around like he expected the Ross to fall under siege at any moment. Madeleine kept a hand on Bo’s shoulder as they moved through the racks. Her other hand was pressing her cell phone to her ear, with Bo’s mother, Esther on the line.
Esther was saying, “Mare didn’t tell me much about what happened. Just called me up and told me she was moving out.”
“She did?” Madeleine said.
“I heard from my neighbor Cheryl that Mare blew off three fingers with a homemade gun, but your Doctor Manderleigh put all them fingers on ice for her and the doctors had gone on and reattached them. Two of them, anyway.”
Madeleine chewed her lip.
“Bo’s safe for now…” Madeleine said, her voice trailing like she meant to add something else, but she let it fall.
Her free hand still rested on Bo’s shoulder as he moved through the aisles, and she knew he was listening to Madeleine’s end of the conversation. He wanted to see his mother. See her in person.
Madeleine and Ethan hadn’t dared let him back inside that trailer, so they needed to quickly and subtly buy some clothes for him. The fact that he was still alive hadn’t been something they wanted to broadcast in case Zenon came around.
Esther continued. “I can’t say I have one tear to shed for watching Mare go. But the truth of it is that without Mare’s rent every month I don’t know how we’re going to make ends meet.”
Madeleine paused. “Esther…”
Esther interrupted her. “That isn’t … It doesn’t … I’m not saying what I mean to say here, Doctor LeBlanc. You got to understand…”
Madeleine listened, but Esther went silent. Her breath sounded quick and shallow.
Finally, Esther said, “Bo’s safe. That’s the most important thing right now. The rest I just need to work out. What I mean to say to you…”
She paused again. “The cravings are jumping in my blood. After all these years. Whatever got into me the day I stole that fool’s stash, I’m afraid it’s not over. That the addiction’s only part of it. Do you … Is this making any sense?”
“You need to stay where you are and get better, Esther. We’re taking good care of your son.”
“I think I might lose my job.”
“I know.”
“And with Mare gone and no job and no car…”
“Esther, listen for a minute, OK?”
“I know. One thing at a time.”
“Yes.”
“These cravings. I can’t believe I let that back in.”
Madeleine scanned the store. If Zenon had any reason to doubt that Bo was dead, he could work with his river devil to find out the truth. But he had no reason to doubt it. He’d witnessed Madeleine holding Bo beneath the water’s surface and had no cause for suspicion. Unless of course he saw Bo walking around alive and healthy.
Now they were on the other side of town where nobody knew Bo. Still, a little Hispanic boy with no eyes who clicked his way around town was a pretty high profile thing.
Esther said, “I have to ask you something, Doctor LeBlanc.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just … When y’all were over at the trailer that day. When those huffer kids came and tried to chase Bo down. I saw the way you looked at my son. When he run past you. I saw it. I wasn’t imagining it, was I?”
Madeleine removed her hand from Bo’s shoulder and pressed her fingers over the phone. “I … No ma’am. I wish you were imagining it. I can’t say that you were.”
Madeleine stopped, and Esther remained quiet.
Then Esther said, “And so how can you tell me he’s safe for now?”
Madeleine took a deep breath. It wasn’t an easy question to answer.
She tried, “This is about as stable as things are going to get for him right now. If something were to happen, Ethan and I are pretty much the only ones equipped to handle it.”
Esther said, “I know. I think you’re telling me the truth. I’ve prayed for help, and maybe the answer is that God sent you.”
She let a breath go by, then: “I just, I hope you understand. I need to see my son.”
“It’s dangerous…”
“I know. I have to see him. I’m his mother. Can you bring him here? Or I’ll check out of this place and come to you.”
“You can’t check out of the hospital. From what I heard you can barely walk.”
She could hear the anxiety in Esther’s breathing.
Esther said, “I’ve got to see him.”
“Let us figure this out. We’ll have Bo call you as soon as we’re finished here.”
They ended the connection and Madeleine glanced at Ethan. He’d overheard, of course. She looked away.
Bo ran his hand along a table of folded shirts. “Do they have one in periwinkle blue? It’s my favorite color.”
Ethan looked at him. “How do you even know what periwinkle blue looks like?”
“I don’t, but it looks good on me.”
He was giving an open-mouth grin with the gaps between his upper teeth making him look like the Cheshire cat. One of Ethan’s shirts poured over his shoulders and a pair of Madeleine’s drawstring shorts were cinched around his waist.
Madeleine said, “We’ve got to get out of here. Are you sure size twelve is going to fit?”
“Yes ma’am, it’s my size.”
“OK, we’ll skip the fitting room.” She added the shirts to the shorts they’d already selected, and herded them toward checkout.
“After this are we going to see Mom?” Bo asked.
Ethan looked at Madeleine.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Madeleine said.
Ethan gave a tired shrug. “He might as well, baby blue. Zenon’s got to sleep some after last night and the longer we wait the riskier it gets.”
The truth was, the thing neither of them wanted to admit in front of Bo, was that Bo may not have another chance to see his mother. Both their lives were in danger. Madeleine and Ethan had already gone over all the possibilities while Bo was sleeping. It seemed the hospital wasn’t all that much riskier than home.
Also, Zenon was at the same hospital as Esther. But Zenon was on a different floor of a different wing and it might as well be a different town for his inability to move. Of all the places he’d care to project his ghost for a prowl, lowest on the list would be the same old tired institutional halls that confined him every day.
“So can we go?” Bo asked.
Madeleine looked up at Ethan, and he gave her a nod of encouragement.
She said, “Alright. But it’ll have to be quick.”
They stood in line behind a woman with three children. Ethan turned and walked a few steps away to a stack of boys’ shirts, pulling out one that was cobalt but that Ethan undoubtedly thought was periwinkle. She looked at the family checking out in front
of them, the kids both energized and bored. Recollections filterd through her mind—what Zenon had said about changing the face of humanity. What that might mean for her. And what it meant to everyone else in the world, like that family standing there.
thirty
NEW ORLEANS, 1927
AS USUAL, PATRICE AWOKE to a rooster’s crow. Then she realized she was not in her own bed, but in a room she did not recognize next to her baby sister who’d twisted the blanket around her ankles. Guy and Gilbert lay back-to-back on a thin pallet on the floor.
It came to her that she was in New Orleans. Surprising to learn that there were roosters in New Orleans. Slowly, she remembered:
Simms. The warehouse. That horrible incident in the rail yard. The Ford was long gone. So were most of Trigger’s things. Though they’d recovered the machete and fishing pole and other gear, his valise and its contents had been stolen where he’d dropped them in order to give chase to the Ford.
With no change of clothes, he and Patrice were in the same fix.
She sensed movement. Her river devil was in the room, stealing glances at her as it moved about, but it didn’t address Patrice directly. Strange. The devil’s lips moved. Patrice couldn’t understand what it was saying.
Gil had awakened, too, and was looking at Patrice. She put her hand to the back of her neck and found that the scratch had finally scabbed over.
* * *
THE SUN HAD REACHED and passed its apex but still no sign of Simms. People were filtering in and out of the warehouse, people who seemed to know what they were doing and who had real business there. They took no more notice of the children than they did of the skinny cats who darted behind the corners and stopped moving when you looked directly at them. The children had slept late and then took to idling outside near the street, asking anyone if they’d seen the boy with the blood-shined eye. No one had. Patrice was starting to get a real sense of just how big New Orleans was—a city of strangers. Patrice never saw the same person twice. The only recurrences were that distant clock that chimed the hour and the ships on the Mississippi sounding off at one another beyond the rail yard.
