Lost in the Bayou

by Cornell DeVille

  “Damn it! Be careful with those!” Uncle Conrad screams up at him when he hears the noise.

  When I glance through the screen door and see the expression on Warner’s face, it’s a dead giveaway that he’s as shocked as I am by our uncle’s sudden reaction. It makes me wonder what that bag contains that’s so important. But I don’t ask. I’m starting to like our favorite uncle less and less the longer he’s here. An uncomfortable silence surrounds us until Andy speaks up. I can hear the nervous uncertainty in his voice.

  “I really love your car,” he says. “It’s far out, man.”

  Uncle Conrad smiles down at Andy and ruffles his hair. “Far out? Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, Andy.”

  Andy’s eyes go wide. “What secret?”

  “That’s Silver.”

  Andy furrows his brow and shifts his glance to the car. “Really? It looks white to me.”

  “Nope. Silver. With a capital S. It’s my faithful steed. Like the Lone Ranger’s white horse. Silver. You savvy?”

  It takes Andy a moment before he’s nodding. “Oh, yeah. I savvy.”

  I’m not as familiar with the Lone Ranger as Andy is. He’s the television watcher. But I’ve seen the show a couple of times, so I savvy right along with Andy.

  Uncle Conrad squats down beside him. Even though their eyes are on the same level, Conrad’s are still hiding behind the mirrored lenses. “Did you know that Silver was almost killed by a buffalo before the Lone Ranger found him?”

  Andy shakes his head. “No way!”

  “Yep. It’s true. He was. The Lone Ranger and Tonto found him and nursed him back to health.” His smile suddenly fades as he turns away from Andy and gazes toward the south where dark clouds are building on the horizon. His voice is monotone and unfamiliar when he speaks again. It’s almost a whisper, and it seems as if he’s talking to himself. “That was episode number four. I remember that.”

  Andy glances at me. I understand his confused expression, because I’m feeling a little confused myself by the strange turn the conversation has taken. Conrad spins back around and faces Andy. A nervous smile crosses our uncle’s face as he speaks. “You know what I’m thinking, Andy?”

  Andy shakes his head. “No.”

  Conrad points his claw hand over his shoulder. “By the look of that dark sky, I’m thinking we may have some bad weather in store for us later this evening. We wouldn’t want to take a chance on having a big bolt of lightning strike old Silver out there, would we?”

  Andy shakes his head again “No. No, we sure wouldn’t want that.”

  Warner is coming back down the staircase now. He’s no longer humming, and there’s a wary expression on his face. Uncle Conrad adjusts his sunglasses on his nose, and yells through the screen door.

  “I left my keys in the car, Warner. Be a good fellow and put Silver in the garage when you get a chance. And I don’t want to find any scratches on it later.”

  Warner stops for a moment at that comment. He shakes his head and continues toward us, coming slowly through the doorway and onto the porch, nodding as he passes us. “I’ll take care of it right now, Mister Conrad.”

  The screen door slams shut behind him, and he shuffles down the veranda steps. A moment later, Warner is squeezing his big body into the driver’s seat of the small car. The engine springs to life with a roar, and he drives the car toward the garage and carefully pulls it inside.

  I love Warner. He’s been with us for as long as I can remember. Some might consider him what they call slow, but he’s a lot smarter than most people realize. He just likes to take his time and think things out. And I know he loves Andy and me. Maybe not as much as he loves his old mule, Beau Diddly, but he still loves us. Especially Andy.

  It’s obvious that the disappearance of our parents has upset Warner a great deal. There’s a dark sadness in his eyes now. He tries to act like his old, jovial self, but it’s as if the joy’s been drained out of him. He’s quieter than usual, and he’s been spending a lot more time on the veranda the past few days, smoking his pipe and staring down the driveway as if he’s waiting for something. Or someone. I do that a lot myself lately—except for the pipe-smoking part.

  There isn’t a lot to talk about with an uncle we don’t really know, so our conversation dries up in a short while. Andy fills the awkward silence with his question. “Can I go look at your car?”

  Our uncle nods. A second later, Andy is off the porch, down the steps, and running across the grassy terrace toward the garage. Uncle Conrad calls after him. “Don’t leave any fingerprints on it, Andy boy. If you do, I’ll have to find an axe and chop your hands off.”

  He raises his metal claw. The jaws snap open and shut, biting at the air, and a shiver runs through me as their sharp click! echoes beneath the veranda roof.

  Andy is almost to the garage by this time, and his mind has apparently gone to that place where the minds of eleven-year-old boys go whenever a fancy car is involved. It appears he hasn’t even heard our uncle’s strange comment.

  I wait for Uncle Conrad to say he was kidding. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even laugh, like people usually do when they’re teasing about something. Instead, he just smiles at me from behind those silver mirror sunglasses, as if there was nothing at all wrong with what he said.

  A moment later, he’s rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. “That drive wore me out, kiddo,” he says. “I’d like to rest a while before dinner, if you can show me where my room is.”

  We go inside to the foyer and head toward the staircase. Neither of us speaks as we climb the stairs to the second floor. I don’t know what Uncle Conrad is thinking about, but I’m still trying to figure out why he would say something like that to Andy. As we pass the round window at the landing, lightning flashes in the dark clouds on the horizon and catches my eye. It’s still several miles south of us, over the bayou, and too far away for the thunder to reach my ears.

  It looks like a big storm, and it’s heading our way.

  Chapter Four

  Presumed Dead

  WHEN WE REACH THE landing at the top of the stairs, I point to the left. “It’s this way.”

  The heels of his leather shoes click on the hardwood floor as we head down the long hallway and toward the room near the end.

  “Here we are.”

  The brass knob turns quietly in my hand, and I open the door for him. The room is quite masculine, with nautical-themed wallpaper and heavy blue drapes on the tall windows. A large framed painting of a sailing ship on a rough sea, its pennant flying in the wind, hangs on the wall at the head of the bed. The pale blue chenille bedspread compliments the drapes, and white pillow shams add just the right amount of contrast.

  Apparently, Warner was right when he told me our uncle would be happy with the décor of this bedroom. Uncle Conrad squints when he removes his mirrored sunglasses. His pale gray eyes have a shallow look to them, and they jump around nervously as he looks down at me. His voice is almost a whisper, and it kind of gives me the creeps when he says, “Very nice.”

  After showing him to his room, I leave quickly. I’m not feeling very comfortable being around him, especially after the comment he made to Andy about the fingerprints and the axe. It gives me a queasy feeling in my stomach to think about it. So I try not to as I leave and head back down the hall.

  I retrace my steps to my own bedroom, close the door, and turn the key in the lock. Uncle Conrad is still occupying my mind. He’s irritating me, and I need to get him out of my head, so I lie on my bed and listen to my new Zenith Royal transistor radio. It’s too early in the day for Wolfman Jack’s show on the Mighty 1090, so I turn the plastic knob all the way to the left to pick up our local station. Tommy Edwards finishes singing “It’s All in the Game” in that dreamy voice of his before the disk jockey makes his announcement. “You’re listening to WTUL in New Orleans: 550 on the AM dial.”

  The news comes on. A quick turn of the other knob gives it a little more volume. A few minu
tes later, the news is over and The Four Seasons are starting in on “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” A hot spark of anger and frustration warms me. The news is over and they didn’t say anything about Mom and Dad. Again. In fact, they haven’t even mentioned them for a couple of days now. It’s as if everyone has forgotten they’re still missing. It’s not fair! And it’s not right.

  My anger moves aside. Despite what the song is saying, tears fill my eyes when I glance at the newspaper clipping taped on my wall.

  July 11, 1963—New Orleans, LA.

  No Wreckage Found—

  Millionaire Jonathan Sherwood and Wife Presumed Dead

  The sound of my radio fades slowly into the background as I stare at the article and realize how powerful words can be. Before that newspaper was printed, my parents were only missing. Now, one word—Dead—jumps off the page and screams at me from inside my head. Dead. It sounds so dark, so depressing and so final. But just because it’s printed in a newspaper doesn’t make it true.

  The article is fairly short, and it doesn’t give much detail, really, except to say that their small private plane disappeared somewhere over the bayou. It tells how the rescue team has given up hope of finding anything, and they’ve called off the search. Why would they call off the search? If I were older, I would take off and comb that bayou from one end to the other until I found them. Honestly. I don’t care if there are tons of snakes and spiders down there.

  It just makes me angry that they’ve given up. Grown-ups give up too soon when things aren’t as easy as they’d like. It’s only been a week now. Seven days. That doesn’t seem like a very long time. Then again, sometimes it seems like forever.

  The article talks a little about our family, and it mentions me. And my brother. I tried to show it to him, but he refused to look, waving me off as he hurried away. Andy hasn’t mentioned our parents, not once, since it happened. Our names show up at the very end.

  They leave a daughter, Robin Summer Sherwood, 14, and a son, Andrew Guy Sherwood, 11.

  It’s the first time my name has ever been in a newspaper. I truly hope it’s the last. I’m glad they didn’t include a picture, especially one with this kinky hair.

  Sometimes, when I read about how they’ve given up the search, it makes me want to give up, too. My heart sinks, and I think about ripping that stupid piece of paper off my wall and throwing it away so I don’t have to see it ever again.

  I look away. I tell myself that they’re gone and to forget about them. Forget about what they looked like. And how they sounded. And how they laughed. And how they always made me feel safe when they were around. I tell myself that I never had parents. A guilty feeling flows over me for even thinking such a terrible thing. I start sobbing again.

  You just can’t forget some things. They’re kept too deep in your heart to ever forget them. It’s impossible to forget your mother’s sweet smile or your father’s comforting voice. I can’t help thinking they’re still alive, and they’re trying to find their way home. And it seems like I should be doing something besides just sitting here and waiting for them to show up. But I don’t know what it would be.

  I jump off my bed and underline the word Presumed with my new Paper Mate ballpoint pen. The pictures of Mom and Dad smile back at me from the newspaper. That makes me feel better, somehow. Mom’s smile makes it seem as if she isn’t angry with me any longer, the way she was when they left. It doesn’t mention that we were having an argument just before she climbed into the plane with Dad—an argument about something that now seems really stupid looking back on it. I was so upset I didn’t even tell them goodbye. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

  I’m not ashamed to admit that the article makes me cry every time I read it, especially if my radio is turned on and Skeeter Davis is singing “The End of the World” the way she was the day their plane took off from the grass landing strip on our estate. I can’t help it, and sometimes crying it out makes me feel a little better.

  But that only happens at night now. Well…usually. There hasn’t been much time lately for crying during the day. Our house has been like Grand Central Station since it happened. Actually, it was more like a parade at first, except there was no marching band. People were coming and going from the estate every hour of the day in a solid stream, like a row of ants on the sidewalk. Most of them were what you would call official people. They’re the ones who have to figure out what to do with orphans when things like this happen.

  They all seemed very nice, smiling a lot and talking softly while they scribbled notes in their little binders. They drank a lot of coffee in the mornings, especially the police officers and detectives. And the social workers drank gallons of iced tea and lemonade in the afternoons. I don’t want to be rude to them, and I haven’t been so far, but it kind of irritates me that they keep coming back here instead of spending their time looking for Mom and Dad.

  They asked a lot of questions about our relatives, and one of the official ladies told me they needed to find someone to watch after us. That seems unnecessary, since our parents are probably going to be coming home any day now. I told the lady that, but she just smiled at me, nodding her head, and kept asking about our relatives.

  After racking my brain, the only person that came to mind was Dad’s younger brother, Uncle Conrad. I told her we haven’t seen him since he went away, but she said we were going to be seeing a lot of him pretty soon. Pretty soon turned out to be today. And it’s been a strange day so far. Maybe it just seems that way to me. I had a hard time getting to sleep last night, not knowing what the day was going to bring, and Dad used to say that your mind can play tricks on you when you’re tired. Maybe Uncle Conrad isn’t as weird as he seems.

  I’m yawning as I head back to my bed and lie down. My radio is still on and Dinah Washington is singing “What a Difference a Day Makes,” soft and slow. The next thing I know, the deep rumble of distant thunder wakes me, and the clock on my night table tells me it’s almost time for supper.

  Chapter Five

  Roast Beef and Episode 183

  Monday evening

  THE SUMMER STORM THAT’S been brewing all afternoon arrives. It starts out slow and gentle, like a love song. Before long, it’s flashing and grumbling like a lovers’ quarrel. Or like the storms they show on those spooky TV movies late at night. Usually on Fridays. The temperature has dropped noticeably, too, and the wind drives the rain against the tall windows at the far end of the expansive dining room as Andy and I enter.

  Mrs. Deffenbaugh has already brought our dinner to the table, and Uncle Conrad is lighting a fire in the fireplace with a brass Zippo lighter. When he snaps the lid of the lighter closed, a memory comes flashing back. The clicking. It was so long ago. I was only two years old, but I remember it. Uncle Conrad was leaving. We were standing on the veranda. Mother was holding me, and Dad was shaking my uncle’s hand. Conrad’s left hand was in the pants pocket of his army uniform. That’s where the sound was coming from as he flipped the lid of his lighter open and closed. That was before he got that metal claw where his hand used to be. It’s funny how things like that hide inside your head for so long and then come popping out when you least expect it.

  The dry wood sends out an angry crackle as the fire takes hold, and the rumbling of the storm seems to fade into the background. Our uncle’s silver claw snaps around another log and drops it on the fire, sending a fountain of golden sparks dancing up the chimney, and the three of us head toward the table. Uncle Conrad seems a little unsteady on his feet, and when he gets closer, the smell of liquor hits me. Andy must smell it too, because he’s wrinkling his nose when our eyes meet.

  Before I can stop him, Uncle Conrad sits at the head of the table. He should know that’s Dad’s chair, but it’s too late to say anything now, since he’s already sitting there. He appears quite large and imposing in his dark blue suit, and the bright white of his shirt is a stark contrast with the blood-red tie. The silver cufflinks match the metal claw sticking out of his slee
ve. It feels wrong for him to be sitting in that chair.

  Andy and I are on the long sides of the table, adjacent to our uncle and sitting across from each other. After filling the crystal glasses with water from the pitcher, I slip my feet out of the too-tight patent leather shoes and wiggle my toes back to life. I try to be nonchalant as I sniff the air to make sure my feet aren’t sending out any strange smells. I breathe a sigh of relief when my nose gives me the all-clear signal.

  “This is certainly a beautiful roast,” Uncle Conrad says. His claw moves slowly toward the serving fork, and I jump when it snaps closed around the handle. He raises it and stabs the sharp tines into the roast. His right hand picks up the long carving knife, and he slices off a thick portion, which he places on my plate. “Would you like more, Robin?” he asks me in his rich, deep drawl that seems a bit slower now, as he slices off another piece.

  “No, thank you,” I answer, shaking my head. I grab a warm, soft biscuit from the bread tray and reach for the butter dish. “That’s plenty for me.”

  “I’d like a lot,” Andy says.

  “Would you?” Uncle Conrad asks. The carving knife keeps moving back and forth as the slices drop onto the platter. He looks toward Andy. The smile on our uncle’s face suddenly fades and a strange darkness comes into his eyes. “You’d like a lot? Are you a greedy boy, Andrew? Don’t you remember what happened to Lobo Lawson in episode 183?”

  Andy glances at me and shrugs his shoulders. He looks back at our uncle. “No. Who’s Lobo Lawson? And what happened to him?”

  Uncle Conrad stops carving and stares up at the ceiling. It seems as if he’s talking to himself when he continues. “‘Lobo Lawson’s Greed,’ it was called.” He leans across the table, furrowing his brow as he glares into Andy’s face. “He got greedy. He got greedy, and the Lone Ranger took care of him.” The table shakes when he stabs the carving knife into the roast and a clear stream of juice squirts out of it. “You’ll take what I give you, Andy boy, and you’ll be happy about it. You savvy?”