by Laury Falter
“Ms. Valentine…,” he interrupted without waiting for her to end her sentence. “I’d like to introduce your newest student.”
He snapped shut his umbrella and ushered in a girl so stunning that a few of the guys audibly drew in their breath. She was Indian and had dark brown hair that hung straight down, nearly the entire length of her petite frame. She was wearing a white tank top and a red pagmina wrapped around her shoulders which made her dark skin that much more striking. I would guess that every other girl in the room felt they paled in comparison. This was probably because every guy in the class instantly sat up. Their undivided attention settled on the new student, waiting for her introduction.
“Sarai Patel…this will be your fencing class,” The Warden said, his fingertips lingering on her shoulder as he guided her through the door. “Ms. Valentine will ensure you are treated exceptionally well. Won’t you, Ms. Valentine?” He turned to our teacher, pursing his lips and flashing a fierce expression.
She must have been just as stunned as I was by his sudden change in behavior because she stuttered over her words. “Of-of course. She’ll-she’ll be well taken care of.”
“Sarai is from Hawaii. She’ll be staying in New Orleans for the remainder of the year, while her parents are taking an extended vacation in Bombay.”
With The Warden’s proximity to Sarai and his stern protection of her, it almost looked like The Warden was under some sort of trance.
The girl, however, didn’t seem to notice his overtly personal interest in her. She had her attention directed at the class.
During The Warden and Ms. Valentine’s brief discussion, Sarai was busily scanning the room, until her eyes landed on me. They locked with mine and something in them flashed. It seemed to be hatred, but I couldn’t be certain.
Ms. Valentine escorted Sarai to a place on the mat. Only then did she break her stare as she was forced to sit in front of me, facing the teacher. Matt and Josh, sitting on each side of her, immediately leaned in with broad, giddy smiles and introduced themselves, fighting for her attention.
The Warden lingered at the door a few minutes, watching the display and appearing disgruntled. As Ms. Valentine continued her lecture, he reluctantly opened his umbrella and stepped out into the rain, watching Sarai until the door clicked.
For the remainder of class I was now the one staring at the new girl – along with most of the guys although not for the same reason.
If I had been given a pop quiz on the rules of engagement using a foil, I would have failed. I missed the entire lecture. Instead, my mind was focused on Sarai and how she made my hair stand on end, just like Achan…just like Sharar…just like Gershom. I was searching for any possible link between the four individuals who were capable of eliciting such a severe reaction from me.
They didn’t come from the same place. This I knew because Achan had relocated from New York and Sarai was from Hawaii. None of them seemed to be from the same economic background, or even the same ethnicity, and they weren’t the same age.
As far as I could tell, they didn’t appear to know each other. Gershom knew of Achan from a distance, but they weren’t friendly with each other. It was evident that Gershom held some level of disdain for Achan, though it probably wasn’t as high as mine.
By the time I left the gym, there was only one thing I was certain of. They each scared me…beyond understanding; and I had never even been fearful before…of anyone or anything…in my life.
CHAPTER SIX: THE GIFT
I was shocked when I got home and found Felix in the kitchen. It was Friday, a very good day to make cash on tourists coming in for the weekend. He was puttering across the tile floor with his typical white apron emblazoned with the words, “When all else fails…everyone is gagging…and the stove is on fire…I read the recipe.” Those words couldn’t be truer, but today, surprisingly, the kitchen actually smelled delicious.
“What are you cooking?” I asked, dropping my backpack on the table. I immediately noticed the ceramic white holder that was absolutely taboo for Felix. “You’re using butter? Good for you.”
He gave me a wide-toothed grin. “Lard too.”
“No!” Bringing my hands up to my hips, I demanded, “What’s gotten into you?”
He cocked his head back regally. “I am making everyone a good old-fashioned southern meal!”
“Really?” I was intrigued.
“I am, of course, only using organic ingredients.”
“Of course,” I said, grinning back. “What’s the meal?”
“Blackened catfish, sautéed greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread muffins!”
“Sounds great!” It really did, so much so my mouth began watering. “Can I help? It’s Friday so homework can wait.”
“No, it cannot,” he insisted.
It always amazed me at how dedicated my roommates were to my education.
“Don’t worry, Felix. I can do it at The Square over the weekend.” It was hard to resist laughing at his adamancy.
To my relief, that seemed to placate him. It surprised me when he started untying his apron.
“What are you doing? I thought we were cooking.”
“There’s one last ingredient I have to pick up…and I need your help to get there. Will you drive?”
“For this delicious meal? Anywhere.”
“Excellent!” He immediately went to work finishing what he could while I made sure to turn off the stove, the oven, and the broiler. When Felix cooked, no single appliance went unused and every cooking utensil, pot, and pan in the house ended up stacked in the sink. Since it appeared he was only midway through the meal preparation, the dishes were only barely breaching the sink rim, but I mentally prepared myself for more.
“So where are we going?” I asked, arranging the dishes in the sink for easier washing later.
He peered over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Well…I had to leave the car for Rufus – knowing his arteries are clogged with animal fat I figured I shouldn’t push the subject – but I still need to pick up alligator for my appetizer.” He made a tantalizing sound and announced, “Cajun Alligator Sausage.”
“Alligator?” I was appalled and didn’t mind showing it.
“Darling, you’ll love it,” he said enticingly. “I need a mode of transport to and from and that, dear Mags, is where you come in.”
Brushing the last of the flour from the counter into the sink, I smiled at him even though he had his back to me. I was getting used to him calling me by my nickname. In fact, it was almost endearing now, something I wouldn’t have bet my life on a few weeks ago.
“Come, come.” He clapped the rest of the flour from his hands noisily. “We mustn’t keep our fishermen waiting.” He grabbed my hand and dragged me with him out the back door.
“Fishermen? Felix, where exactly are you taking me?”
“Oh, you’ll see…,” he replied mischievously.
A few minutes later the shed was unlocked and my bike was ready to go. I handed him a spare helmet I happened to pick up recently for just this type of situation and he frowned. “Blue? This color does not go with my outfit.”
“Felix,” I groaned. “No one will know it’s you.”
“I will,” he grumbled, slipping it over his head anyways.
Once on, I didn’t bother to stifle my laughter.
“What? I look ridiculous, don’t I? I knew it.”
With his orange hair spiking out from underneath the helmet’s edges, he almost looked like a cartoon character. “It’s fine. It’s not high fashion. It’s safety equipment, meant to keep you alive so you can look good another day.”
“Fine, fine. Let’s get on with it.” His voice was muddled through the helmet, but I could still hear the dissatisfaction in his tone.
I ignored it. Helmets were one area I did not budge on.
He refused to give me a final destination saying it was too many turns. He was right. He chose instead to direct me with taps to my shoulder when he
wanted me to turn right or left, and there were a lot of taps. He led me to the freeway heading out of town, where he tightened his hold on me as I increased the speed.
“Relax! Enjoy the ride!” I yelled back to him.
He screamed something in response but the wind carried his voice away. I was able to catch something about his stomach being left behind.
We drove for a good two hours, exiting close to Lafayette. From there, he took me on a road with more potholes than smooth pavement – which was not easy to maneuver on a motorcycle. The route was chaotic too. We took so many turns that I was surprised Felix remembered them all. Eventually, we ended up on a dirt road running along a wide, muddy river. Green trees ran along the side of us obstructing anything set farther than fifty feet, except for two colossal alligators resting in the shallow marshes. It looked like we were going to meet a dead end in the middle of nowhere and I was getting ready to stop and insist we turn around when a shanty appeared up ahead. Felix began tapping my right shoulder feverishly, so I figured we’d finally reached our destination.
I parked my bike next to a decaying pickup truck - which looked like it’d been cured in swamp water for at least a decade before being hauled up - and an equally rusted bicycle with one flat tire, although it was standing upright as if it had been ridden here.
The shanty sat at the very edge of the swamp. It had been painted red at one time, but the humidity had taken its toll until it became a mixture of rotting grey wood and maroon paint peels. The trees here were covered in moss and so dense you couldn’t see farther than twenty feet into the water. A porch wrapped around the shanty, sagging so much on the right side it dipped into a large muddy puddle stretching up from the swamp.
“How do you know this place?” I asked Felix, as we unstrapped our helmets.
“Ah, the culinary world is full of friends who are more than happy to suggest where to find good eatin’.”
“So you were referred here?”
“Yep,” said Felix, attempting to balance his helmet on the seat and failing; so he placed it on the ground, open side up.
“Ever tried their catch before?” I asked skeptically, noting the dirty moss creeping over the boats anchored to the porch.
Felix grinned back at me. “Have faith. In this part of the world, the older an establishment…the better the food.”
He winked at me and sauntered toward the shanty.
In the porch shadows we could see a robust woman wearing a dark purple dress and an overwhelming number of different bracelets on both arms. She sat in a rocking chair, slowly creaking back and forth, smoking a pipe with a single curling wisp of white drifting up, collecting at the top of the porch overhang. Sitting next to her was a man well into his nineties, rocking in sync with her and wearing jean overalls with a white tank top. He, too, held a pipe, although his didn’t seem to be lit.
Pulling the pipe from her mouth, she spoke with a thick Cajun accent, “Well podna, whot is it jew need? We gotta lotta caimon but ain’t mucha of the crawfish.”
“Caimon?” I whispered to Felix.
“That’s alligator in Cajun,” he leaned, whispering to me, but then yelled out to her, “Well you certainly have enough moustiques!”
She gave one bellowing laugh, “Ha!”
“Mosquitoes?” I asked, inferring.
“Good! You’re quick, Mags.” He smiled and launched into a Cajun dialect. “You canbe talkin’ like one of them soon enough.”
I snorted at the impossibility of it.
Even though we were approaching them, the woman didn’t get up until we reached the porch. The man never once looked in our direction. He simply continued rocking back and forth with the pipe barely hanging on from the edge of his lips.
“We’re looking for some plump, juicy caimon,” said Felix, not bothering to hide his excitement.
“We got it,” said the woman who’d already walked passed us heading for the screen door.
“I won’t be long,” said Felix with a quick, reassuring pat on my back before hurrying to follow the woman.
Their voices from inside were muffled, but I figured she was showing their catch of the day judging from the “oohs” and “ahhs” coming from Felix.
Outside, it was instantly noticeable how much more quiet it was here. I could hear a few crickets making chirping noises and the old man’s rocking chair groaning in protest to the constant motion, yet these were quiet, slow sounds. Everything else was still.
“Mind if I take a seat?” I asked the old man, leaning in to see the name printed across a coffee mug sitting on the table beside him. “Battersbee….”
He didn’t look at me or utter a word. In fact, if I hadn’t been watching him, I would have easily missed the slight nod he gave toward the other now-available rocking chair to his left.
I took a seat, appreciating how comfortable it was even though it was made of wood.
“Nice…” I mumbled, as I stared out across the dirt road toward the trees lining the edge of the grassy weeds.
A few seconds passed with the two of us rocking in unison, Felix and the woman’s voices reached us muddled from somewhere inside, and then the old man spoke. His voice was gritty and thick with a southern accent that I couldn’t place. He wasn’t Cajun, but I’d guess somewhere from the woods of Arkansas or Tennessee. That wasn’t what left an impression with me, though. It was his words that caught me off guard.
“Brought a spirit wit ya, I see.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t think I heard him clearly. “I thought you said we brought a spirit.”
“I did,” Battersbee replied bluntly.
“We brought a spirit with us?” I asked, wondering if the man was senile. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, I kin see him. Out ova thea.” He pointed with a nod of his chin toward my bike. “He’s hazy…but he’s thea.”
I stared in the direction he’d motioned to, but I only saw an overgrown fence ending at the roadside.
“Who? Who’s there? I don’t see anyone.”
“How should I know who he is? I neva met ‘im,” he replied, indignantly.
Battersbee rocked a bit more and started to describe the figure he saw.
“Tall…dark, wavy hair…limba – or as you Texians say,” he drew out and pronounced the last word. “Limber.”
I couldn’t avoid the fact that his description sounded oddly like Eran, sparking my curiosity more.
“I’m not Texan,” I corrected him, still staring in the direction he’d motioned.
The old man laughed to himself, but sounded slightly offended when answering. “It’s what we call all you that ain’t Cajun.”
I chuckled at that, but Battersbee didn’t join me. Returning to his original subject, I asked, “Why do you think he’s here?”
Battersbee snorted. “How should I know?” He ventured on, guessing, “Sometimes thea tryin’ to communicate. Sometimes thea just curious. Sometimes thea lookin’ afta someone they know. Neva kin tell…”
A few minutes passed silently. I must have glanced to where Battersbee pointed no less than twenty times. Never seeing anything, yet I couldn’t ignore the distinct, strong feeling of being watched.
“I still don’t see him,” I said, slightly frustrated.
“Maybe he don’t want ya to. N’ if that’s the case, ya won’t…that’s the way it works. Communin’ with the dead ain’t done the same by everyone all the time. Different people…different times…different ways….”
“So you can commune with the dead?” I asked, watching his response.
“Used to. No need to now. I’ll see ‘em all in a short while anyways.”
“A short while?”
Keeping his gaze focused straight ahead, he answered, “I’ll be dead soon.”
I stopped rocking immediately and sat motionless for what seemed to be an eternity, waiting for him to break into a teasing smile. He remained calm and continued rocking, as if he was just commenting on the weather. I had nev
er seen anyone use such blunt words or emotionless acknowledgment when speaking of their alleged, impending death. It jolted me to the core. “I’m…I’m very sorry,” I offered, not knowing what else to say.
“I ain’t…my time is up n’ I’m ready.”
The way he said this comforted me in an odd way. Most likely because it never occurred to me that some people I deliver messages to in the afterlife were prepared to leave their loved ones on earth.
I watched him, wondering if I’d be ready when my time came.
“Thank you,” I said, quietly.
“Fer what?”
“Informing me that death can be peaceful.”
“That ya already knew,” he stated simply.
I began to shake my head but he cut it short by reinforcing, “Ya know it ‘cause you’ve got the gift.”
I didn’t reply immediately, my mind refusing to believe this complete stranger could know such an intimate, personal detail.
“The gift?” I asked, looking for clarification. I needed to make sure that he wasn’t talking about something else entirely.
“Ain’t many with that gift, though a lotta phonies.”
I was still staring at him, but he never once looked my way…he just kept rocking.
“How-how did you know?” I stammered.
“When ya’ve been around as long as I have, ya get a sense fer things,” he said, plainly. “Best take care yerself. Those with our talents don’t stick around too long.”
“That sounds like a warning,” I said, staring at him and finding no comfort in his blank expression.
“It is.” His tone was not ominous or dramatic. It was straight forward and unaffected; but I appreciated it.
Still the goose bumps rose up on my arms. “What do you mean?”
“They’re out there. Lookin’ fer ya. Anyone with our gifts. That’s the way it works.”
“What exactly…is the way it works?” I demanded, softening my voice, “And who are…they?”
