Whispers of the Bayou

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Behind the building Lisa had called the canning shed, it wasn’t hard to find the spot where my baby had been stung. Judging by the footprints, she had stepped squarely in the middle of the ant pile, a mound about eight inches high and maybe a foot across, made up of particles that resembled gray, uncooked cream of wheat. The mound was currently swarming with angry ants, and I took a step back, lest a few wanderers find their way to my legs. Nearby were the two sticks Tess had been holding when it happened, both lying where she had dropped them on the ground near the ant pile.

  Something about one of those sticks caught my eye, and even though it had a few fire ants on it, I moved closer and leaned down to get a good look. With a shiver I realized why in today’s version of The Lion King Tess had decided to play Scar. Scar was the evil uncle who lived in a cave surrounded by the gnawed carcasses of animals. I sucked in a breath, understanding that this particular stick wasn’t a stick at all: It was a bone.

  To the best of my limited knowledge, it was a human bone.

  I ran to the house, resisting the urge to scream, but when I flung open the back door both women looked up at me with dismay, assuming that I, too, had been bitten by ants. By the time I explained what I had found and brought them back outside to see for themselves, neither one of them seemed to be exhibiting any sort of alarm or excitement.

  “This is the country, Miranda,” Deena said, planting her feet widely in the green grass. “Animals die out here all the time. Doesn’t take long for the insects and other animals to pick the carcass clean.”

  “In rural areas, finding a bone isn’t that unusual,” Lisa agreed.

  “But this isn’t an animal bone,” I insisted. “I had a lot of anatomy and physiology in college, I studied the human body inside and out as a part of my art curriculum. I’m not a doctor, but I think I know a human bone when I see it.”

  I glanced at Lisa, who was summarily unimpressed.

  “You’re a nurse, Lisa,” I cried. “Don’t you agree that it’s human?”

  “I have no idea,” Lisa said, shaking her head as Deena snorted derisively. “You’d probably have to ask an anthropologist or something.”

  “Forget an anthropologist, I’m calling the police.”

  Against their objections—and ignoring the roll of Deena’s eyes—I pulled out my cell phone and dialed nine one one. After giving the operator my location, she patched me through to the appropriate station. The man who took the call was as unexcited as Lisa and Deena had been, repeating their objections almost word for word.

  “But I’m almost certain it’s a human bone,” I said, and then I proceeded to explain my educational background just to make him understand that I knew what I was talking about.

  His answer to that surprised me.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, “it very well could be a human bone. That wouldn’t be all that unusual.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded, wanting to scream. Out of regard for the newly widowed Deena, I took a few steps away, lowered my voice, and hissed into the phone. “Don’t people in Louisiana use caskets to bury their dead? Or do they just toss the bodies out in the woods where the animals will pick ’em clean? What’s wrong with this picture?”

  The line was silent for so long that I was afraid the man had hung up on me.

  “Uh, ma’am,” he said finally, “maybe you don’t realize that Hurricane Katrina did a number on many of our graveyards. We’ve had cemetery ornaments and bodily remains and human bones popping up in all sorts of places. South of here, there were entire caskets floating down the street. Chances are, that’s some fellow’s shin bone that got blown out of one of the graves in town. Or, just as likely, it could be a piece from some old lady’s rib that rode the wind all the way here from Grand Isle or something. A hurricane is a mighty thing, ma’am, and Katrina was one of the worst we’ve had in a while.”

  I took a deep breath, still irritated but also ashamed. I had no experience with anything remotely similar except for Hurricane Gloria, which hit the Northeast back in the ’80s. I had been nine years old at the time, and all I could recall about it was the excitement of watching the wind whipping around the trees in Central Park.

  “So you’re not going to send someone out about this?” I asked, feeling defeated and embarrassed.

  “I can’t any time soon,” he replied. “Though if you’d like to bring the bone into the police station and drop it off, I’d be happy to get it to the coroner and have him take a look. He might have some thoughts on the subject. I guess it wouldn’t hurt for you to mark the place where it was found, just in case.”

  “Fine. We’ll mark the spot and bring it in.”

  I hung up the phone but didn’t have to explain the outcome to my two companions as they were still standing there and had heard most of the call.

  Trying to soothe my embarrassment, Lisa offered to drop the bone at the police station when they went into town.

  “You never know. You probably did some grieving family a favor,” she added. “I wouldn’t want the bones of somebody I love to be scattered around by the wind.”

  Without another word, they headed toward the house, Lisa’s face blank but Deena’s still carrying an expression of amused scorn. I felt sure that as soon as the door closed behind them they would start whispering and giggling about stupid Miranda and her ignorant Yankee ways.

  Feeling churlish and irritated and in no mood for anything but solitude, I decided to continue my walk. Considering my options, I looked around and finally veered off to the right, beyond the garage and toward what must have been the gardens once upon a time. They were mostly a tangled mess of weeds and vines now, but beneath all of that overgrown foliage were rosebushes filled with blossoms and buds, beds of flowery perennials run wild, and even what had likely been neat little rows of vegetables at one point.

  I strolled around the structures and half-structures that remained on the estate, thinking about the paperwork I had seen back when my grandmother died and AJ told me about the will and Willy Pedreaux and his life estate. From what I could recall, this had originally been a working sugarcane farm with a tremendous amount of acreage, though parcels had been given out and sold off over the years, including the part of the land that had held all of the sugarcane fields. Back when I read that paperwork, my impression had been that Twin Oaks had essentially been whittled down to almost nothing by the time it came into my hands, which was why I had always assumed my inheritance was relatively insignificant. To my mind, I had hoped that an old house and some rural acreage would be equal to about four years’ college tuition. While that was nothing to sneeze at, it wasn’t even close to the reality of this estate’s true value—which probably equaled eight or nine times that much, if not more.

  Walking closer to the bayou that edged the property, I studied the one building that still seemed to be mostly intact. Constructed of steel beams interspersed with wood panels, it stood perfectly straight—unlike some of the more slanted all-wooden structures nearby—and it towered over this area of the yard at nearly three stories tall. Shading my eyes, I tilted my head back and looked up, feeling the stirring of some sort of memory. This was just one more building where they had either stored or processed sugarcane, but for some reason I was both simultaneously drawn to it and repelled by it, as if this building represented danger—but a danger I wanted to be a part of.

  With a shudder I stepped back, noting that a big window on the top floor had obviously been sheared away by the hurricane’s high winds. Now only a big hole remained, leaving that part of the building empty and exposed, like a giant eye looking out over the grounds of the estate. No doubt, that whole room had been enjoyed ever since by birds and other wild creatures, probably even bats.

  Losing the traces of whatever memory the sight of this building had tried to bring up, I realized that I could hear a trickling sound nearby, the gentle current of Bayou Serein. Sure enough, peering through the thick tangle of bushes next to me, I could catch glimpses of it
not ten feet away. I wanted to get to it, to kick off a shoe and dip in a toe, but there was so much brush between me and the water that I had to walk alongside the tangled growth for a good thirty feet before it finally cleared to make way for a path.

  There were three paths, actually, heading in three different directions, with a lovely stone bench centered in the clearing where they all began. The bench faced in the direction of the middle path, a short walk that led straight to the water. I ran down it quickly and stopped at the dilapidated dock that jutted out from there.

  Thrilled with the sight, I wanted to pull off my shoes and socks and step in, but for now I contented myself with kneeling there at the land’s edge and dipping my hand into the warm water instead.

  The scene was breathtaking.

  All around me was pure wilderness, the foliage on the far banks so overgrown that vines and moss hung nearly down to the water, creating mirror images of the same. The waterway was wide and slow moving and surely the most peaceful thing I had ever seen.

  There’s bayou water in your veins, Charles Benochet had said to me, and as I stood back up and looked out on the dark, shining surface, I finally understood what he meant. This place felt so right, so normal, so…familiar. Was it possible that this also was a memory, a whisper of some long-lost moment that tickled at the edges of my brain? I couldn’t recall standing on this bank, looking out at this scene, but surely as a child I had, and it felt incredibly familiar to me now. For a moment, I closed my eyes and just listened, inhaling the sweet scent of pine and honeysuckle. Nearby, the wind rustled through the reeds along the bank, and when I opened my eyes again, it was to see a huge white heron slowly sweeping down directly across the waterway from where I stood. I watched as it came to a landing on stick legs. Then it put its entire head into the water and came up with a small fish in its mouth. The beautiful bird tossed its head back and swallowed, and then it paused, perhaps sensing my presence. It didn’t fly away but instead just stood there, frozen, as if waiting for me to make the next move.

  NINETEEN

  Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,

  And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,

  Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,

  Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.

  A dark cloud passed in front of the sun, reminding me of the passage of time and the oncoming rain. Finally, regretfully, I bid the heron farewell and moved away, startling it into flight as I walked back up the path. I promised myself I would return to that spot as soon as I could, even if it was just to sit on the bench and watch the water flow by. I couldn’t imagine how amazing this place would be if we could clear away enough brush so that the bayou could be seen from the house.

  When I reached the bench, I looked toward the house and realized that the nearest room was the very one in which Willy had died. It sat at the perfect vantage point for a view, and I decided that was probably why the room had so many windows, so that one could sit there and look out and enjoy the magnificent scene of the bayou. Oh, how I wished I could remember how the house and grounds looked when they were in their splendor, long before the doors and windows were all boarded up and the banks of the bayou had become so overgrown that the view was obscured.

  Inhaling deeply, I decided to continue my meandering, choosing the path to my left. It led me through high trees and thick woods until it shifted down to the water and ran alongside the bank. It made for a pleasant walk, passing under the giant boughs of waterside trees and moving through the shadows cast by the tallest farm building, the one that had given me that strange feeling of danger just a little while earlier.

  I continued to walk, hoping I wouldn’t encounter any stray dogs or snapping turtles or swamp hermits as I went. I quickened my pace, curious where this path would lead. It didn’t take much longer to find out. As I came around the bend, I could see the end of the tree line ahead, and beyond that the site of a house. I walked closer to get a better view, even though by this point I probably wasn’t on my own property. Stepping out from among the trees, I found myself looking at the back of a beautiful antebellum home, one that seemed very familiar. I wondered if my brain was trying to dredge up yet another childhood memory when I realized why I recognized it, and I had to laugh: This house wasn’t from my past, it was straight out of Gone with the Wind!

  Even from the back, I could tell that this must be Little Tara, the home of Livvy and Big Daddy Kroft. The place seemed lovely, if a bit grandiose, but what I couldn’t help noticing was how perfect it all was, from the white exterior with crisp green shutters to landscaping so manicured it was as if someone had gone around with a pair of fingernail clippers. Somehow, knowing Livvy, that didn’t surprise me.

  I turned and headed back the way I had come, feeling embarrassed for the contrast of Twin Oaks, which was torn up and dirty and weary looking. I appreciated Willy’s dedication through the years, not to mention Charles’ diligence in handling the bigger issues, but the sad truth was that no one had done anything beyond the most necessary of repairs for some time. I remembered Livvy’s offer of her carpenter-brother, and I hoped he’d be able to come over and take a look at the place soon.

  When I reached the bench at the trailhead, I went ahead and took the third path, curious to see if it led to a neighbor on the other side. As I walked, I found myself growing more comfortable with my surroundings, less apprehensive about what scary thing might be lurking around the next bend. The smell of honeysuckle was all around me now, and I inhaled deeply and then let my breath out, wishing suddenly that Tess was still here with me so that I could show her how to pick the blossom and pull out the stamen, bringing with it a single drop of the nectar inside. I froze, shocked at how vividly I could recall the taste.

  How did I know that? Was there honeysuckle growing in New York? Had AJ taught me to get the nectar from a blossom and let it drop onto my tongue?

  Or had I been younger, much younger, only a child, perhaps right here on this very path, when someone else taught me and let me taste, that moment forever embedded into my brain?

  Deep in thought, I forced myself to keep walking, wondering just how many memories might come back if I continued to explore. I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings until I heard a strange noise off to the right, a rhythmic clanging, almost like a metallic drum. Slowing, I continued forward until a man’s voice joined the clanging, yelling out angry commands. I didn’t think he was shouting at me, but I wasn’t sure—and I didn’t feel like sticking around to find out. I turned to go back in the direction I had come but soon passed a break in the trees where I could see what was going on. I stopped, ducking down to observe, stunned at the bizarre spectacle in front of me.

  In a clearing beyond the trees sat a man in a wheelchair, his back to me. He held a pot in one hand and a big metal spoon in the other, and he was banging the spoon against the bottom of the pot and yelling nonsense phrases, such as “Get a move on there!” and “Watch for the hot spots!”

  From what I could tell, there were no other people nearby. There was, however, one other creature present, and what I saw nearly broke my heart: It was a dog, balancing on what looked like a makeshift seesaw, a plank on top of a metal cylinder. The dog seemed terrified, and I very nearly marched right out from my hiding place in the brush to rescue him. Instead, my heart racing in my chest, I simply gathered my nerve and ran toward home. I went as fast as I could, desperate to get some authorities out here to rescue that poor, abused dog.

  I was fully out of breath by the time I reached the house, but this time Lisa and Deena were gone. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed nine one one for the second time today, cringing when I recognized the voice of the officer on the other end from my earlier call.

  Halfway through the description of what I’d just seen, I could tell he recognized my voice too. Sounding very skeptical, he nevertheless took down my address and said he’d send som
eone right out.

  I paced in the driveway for ten minutes, desperate to help that poor dog. Finally, a police car came up the drive, but as soon as a uniformed officer climbed out of the car, I could tell he’d been warned by the dispatcher that I more than likely had a screw loose.

  Ignoring the bemused expression on his face, I thanked him for coming so quickly.

  “We got a report of animal abuse?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to follow me,” I said. “It’s down a path, through the woods a ways.”

  “Just tell me where it is, ma’am. You’ll need to wait here.”

  “Okay, but I have to show you which path.”

  I led him to the trailhead near the bench and pointed it out, saying he should go along it about fifty yards and then follow the banging sound. I described what he would find once he got there, but as soon as I said the word “wheelchair,” the officer broke into a knowing smile.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” I said. “This guy could have a gun. Maybe he’s not even handicapped. I had every reason to run.”

  “I tell you what,” the cop replied, “why don’t you come with me after all?”

  We walked briskly up the path, the sound of banging soon evident up ahead. When we reached the break in the trees where I had stood watching before, the cop surprised me by stepping forward into the clearing, giving a loud whistle and then a wave. The man in the wheelchair turned, surprise evident on his bearded face.

  “Stay there!” he said to us, holding up one hand. Then he returned his attention to the dog, clicked his tongue, and the dog stopped her sudden barking, though she remained balanced on the bucket watching us warily.

  “Hold,” the man said to the dog in a calm voice. “Bubba, do that whistle thing again. Hold.”