Lost in the Bayou

by Cornell DeVille

  A nervous giggle floats out of me, as I think he’s teasing or maybe reciting something from the Lone Ranger episode he just mentioned. When his head snaps in my direction, the look on his face tells me he’s serious—as serious as a heart attack, as Dad would say.

  Andy is wearing a confused expression. He’s not saying anything, but his eyes are wide and there’s a question in them as he looks across the table at me and mouths the words, Lone Ranger. I shrug one shoulder in response.

  “How old are you now, Andy?” our uncle asks as he drops a small slice of roast on Andy’s plate. “Eight? Nine?”

  Andy shakes his head and looks down at his plate. The expression on his face is obviously one of disappointment as he eyes the tiny ration of meat he’s been given.

  “He’s eleven,” I say when Andy doesn’t answer. “He’s small for his age.” As soon as the words cross my lips, I realize they might be embarrassing for my brother. It’s too late to take them back, so I try to think of something positive to counteract their effect. “But he’s very smart for his size. Honestly.” After saying it, I realize I’m not helping matters. Before I can come up with anything else, our uncle is speaking.

  “Eleven?” Uncle Conrad appears surprised and shakes his head. “Well, when I was your age,” he continues as he slides several slices of the roast onto his own plate, “I was lucky to get anything. Our parents weren’t rich, like yours were, but they always seemed to have enough money to buy your greedy father whatever his little heart desired. He was older, of course, and always the favorite. They must have thought he deserved a lot more than I did, just because he was their firstborn and heir to the throne, you might say.”

  His eyes take on an unfocused gaze as his fork pushes a slice of roast around on his plate. “It wasn’t because I didn’t try.” He leans back and lets out a long breath as he shakes his head. All expression seems to drain from his face as his eyes dart from left to right.

  A moment later, he leans forward and glances from me to Andy before he continues. “I tried so hard, tried with all my might to be worthy of their love and attention. But it was never quite good enough. My efforts to please them never came close to my brother’s accomplishments in their eyes. That’s why he always got the new clothes and the new toys—all bright and sparkly. Then, when he tired of them, he passed them along to me. Passed them along and acted like I should be grateful for his old hand-me-downs.”

  He stops speaking as he concentrates on spooning the fluffy mashed potatoes on all three of our plates. When he’s finished, the serving spoon makes a loud clink as he drops it into the bowl. A strange smile crosses his face as his claw snaps closed around the handle of the gravy boat. “But I got even with him one Christmas. His six-shooter with the silver bullets disappeared that day. He never found it.”

  He’s moving the gravy boat toward my plate. I watch as a stream of thick brown sauce flows out and onto the white mound of my mashed potatoes. He’s unsteady, and I quickly position my hands on either side of the boat to guide it, being careful not to touch the metal fingers holding it. A few dribbles end up on the white linen tablecloth as he moves the boat away from my plate and heads toward Andy’s to repeat the process.

  Our uncle seems like a different person than the man we were speaking to on the veranda a few hours ago. There’s a melancholy mood about him, and his words surprise me. I almost feel sorry for him in a strange sort of way. But he’s either confused or he’s lying—at least about part of it. As he slops the gravy on his own potatoes, I recall a time when Andy and I were fighting over a toy. Dad told us we should learn to share. He said we should be grateful for our good fortune, and that he and his brother didn’t have nearly as much when they were kids. But he always shared what he had with Uncle Conrad. He told us that one year he even changed the nametags on some of his own Christmas gifts to “Conrad” instead of his own name.

  Maybe Conrad doesn’t remember it that way, or maybe he was the greedy little kid instead of Dad. It could be that he’s just mad at the whole world because he’s stuck with that metal claw instead of a real hand. He sets the gravy boat on the table, and his metal claw snaps open to release the handle. His expression has changed, and his next words are an even bigger surprise.

  “And now,” he says, “I’ve been given his two children. And what a bargain they are.” He points his claw hand at Andy. “We’ve got Shrimpboy here, who’s way too small for his size. I mean, way too small for his age. And we’ve got a freckle-faced girl who looks like Little Orphan Annie with all that kinky red hair. To be honest, I have no desire for either of you.”

  My heart sinks, but I try to hide my uneasiness. I’m fidgeting now, nervous and uncertain about where our conversation is heading. I glance across the table at Andy, who looks uneasy. I don’t understand why our uncle is saying such hurtful things. Maybe he’s teasing us, just to see how we’ll react.

  “Oh, we know you love us, Uncle Conrad,” I reply with my sweetest smile, pretending my feelings aren’t hurt while I dab my napkin on the tablecloth to collect the gravy dribbles next to my plate.

  He glares at me, and a look of sheer hatred darkens his pale eyes. His voice is slow and gravelly when he speaks. “I don’t give a hoot in hell about either one of you. It’s a shame you weren’t on that plane with your parents.”

  Chapter Six

  Drawing Blood

  AS OUR UNCLE’S DISTURBING words settle in my ears, Andy’s expression tells me he’s as shocked and frightened as I am by what we’re hearing.

  Uncle Conrad continues. “I’m sure you realize that you two are the problem now.”

  I’m becoming more confused with each comment. “What do you mean?”

  He forks a large piece of roast into his mouth. His tongue flicks across his lips before replying. “If it weren’t for the two of you, I would inherit everything—the house, the land, the stable, the orchards—everything. Not to mention all that beautiful money your parents left behind.” He throws his arms into the air and laughs. “It would be like finding the Silver Bullet Mine.”

  It sounds like he just made another reference to the Lone Ranger, but I’m not sure. I glance across the table at Andy. He must see the question on my face, even though I don’t ask it, because he shakes his head and shrugs in reply.

  “It seems only fair,” Uncle Conrad says. He gazes around the large dining room, and his eyes narrow when he looks up at the crystal chandelier hanging above the table. He’s weaving a bit in his chair. “I certainly wouldn’t mind having everything now.” He gives Andy and me a stern look. “Except for the two of you, of course.”

  My mouth feels dry, and I suddenly realize it’s been hanging open while our uncle was talking. His words are becoming more disturbing every minute, and they’re beginning to spark my temper. Maybe the alcohol is causing him to talk like this. I take a sip of my water while thinking of a reply. I have to set the record straight before he goes any further.

  “But none of this is yours, Uncle Conrad. Everything here belongs to Mom and Dad. And they’ll be home soon. Then you can go back to wherever you came from. And you won’t have to worry about taking care of Shrimpboy and Little Orphan Annie any longer.” I give him a quick and fleeting smile and a serious nod of my head.

  He stuffs another big bite of roast into his mouth and wipes the back of his hand across his chin, catching the juice before it drips onto his tie. After picking up his water glass and taking a gulp, he cocks his head at me and says, “Didn’t you hear the exciting news, Miss Smartypants?”

  “What news?” I ask, uncertain where he’s heading with this.

  He returns his glass to the table and stares at me. His eyes narrow to slits before he speaks. “You’re going to be joining your parents soon. Very soon.”

  His last words are another surprise, but a more pleasant one than what he’s been saying so far. Everything he’s said in the last few minutes fades away as I lean forward with excitement, longing to hear more. “Joining our pa
rents?” My heart races with the thought. “Did they find them?”

  Uncle Conrad laughs before leaning toward me so that our faces are just inches away from each other. He glares into my eyes and breathes his liquor breath into my nose. “Did they find them?” he says in a high-pitched, mocking voice. “Of course they didn’t find them, you stupid idiot. They didn’t find anything. And they’re not going to.”

  Andy replies before I can. “What did you mean then?” he asks, reaching his fork toward the platter holding the roast.

  Conrad’s hand moves so quickly that it’s almost a blur, slapping Andy’s wrist so hard that it knocks the fork from his grip. It lands on the table with a ringing clatter. Andy’s eyes are wide when he looks at me.

  “I mean,” Uncle Conrad says as his claw hand delicately picks up the fork and tosses it toward Andy, “your parents have bitten the bullet and ridden into the sunset. You savvy? They’re heading for the last roundup. In other words, they’re dead, kiddo.”

  His words cut into my heart like the carving knife sliced through the roast. The sympathy I felt for him earlier has faded to something darker, and I’m about to tell him how I feel. Before I can reply, Andy speaks again. I can hear the anger in his voice, just below the surface.

  “How do you know? You don’t know that for sure.”

  “How do I know? Think about it. The odds are definitely not in their favor.” His claw scrapes on the bread tray, like nails on a chalkboard, as he grabs another biscuit. “It’s been a week now,” he continues. “Even if they survived the plane crash, which they didn’t, they’d never make it out of the bayou alive. So, if you’ve been expecting them to magically show up on the doorstep, you can forget that. They’re dead!” He pauses to dunk the biscuit into the pool of gravy filling the cavity in his mashed potatoes.

  From somewhere in the back of my brain, it dawns on me what he meant by us joining them. It feels like a steel belt is tightening around my chest and I’m suddenly having trouble breathing.

  As he licks the gravy from his lips, his glance shifts from Andy to me. A strange smile slithers across his face. “They’re probably rotting away very nicely by now. Or maybe turning into juicy goo inside a big old gator’s belly.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and my anger wells up from deep inside, like a volcano about to erupt. My voice is louder than it needs to be when I speak. “Stop it! Why are you saying things like that? That sounds horrible! Our parents are not dead. So we’re not going to be joining them the way you’re thinking about.”

  He forks another piece of roast from the platter and drops it on his plate. He smiles down at it for a moment before his head jerks up and snaps toward me. “Oh, make no mistake about it. You’ll be joining them all right. I just have to decide how I want to do it. Poison is always an option. I like poison. It’s neat. And there’s no mess to clean up afterwards. Arsenic is untraceable, you know.” He shakes his head. “Well, perhaps you don’t know that, but it is. It would be quite simple. A few drops in a glass of milk would do the trick. It might be in a snack that your Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is prepares for you.” He points to my plate. “It could even be in that gravy.”

  I stare at him as silence fills the large room. Andy looks across the table at me before shifting his glance to our uncle and voicing my own thoughts. “You’re crazy.”

  I jump when Uncle Conrad’s large fist slams down on the wooden table, making the china dishes dance and clatter from the force. The next few seconds are a blur as the sharp metal claw flashes toward Andy, snapping closed on the front of his shirt and lifting him out of his chair. Andy struggles to pull away, grabbing the claw with both hands, but it’s no use. The metal hand has a death grip on him.

  My breath rushes in when our uncle picks up the carving knife with his real hand and presses the point to Andy’s chest. “Don’t you ever say that again, you little…you little pissant!” he yells before shoving Andy back into his chair so hard that he almost topples over backward. A deep rumble of thunder vibrates the chandelier, and Uncle Conrad stares up at it. “That’s what they said when I was in that…in that place.”

  Andy is breathing hard now, but he’s not crying. His eyes are wide and he’s staring down at his white shirt. A small spot of blood is visible on the front of it. I keep my eyes on it as the thunder dies away, and I’m relieved when the red circle doesn’t grow any larger. A few moments later, Andy’s breathing has returned to a more normal rhythm and the fear I saw in his eyes earlier has changed to anger.

  Except for the rain hitting the windows, the dining room is quiet now. Conrad gazes straight ahead with an unfocused expression filling his face. He blinks, and the life comes slowly back into his eyes.

  “But that was a long time ago. And I’m better now.” He pauses and nods. “I’m much better now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Save the Big Ones for Last

  ANDY IS RIGHT. Our uncle is obviously crazy, and he’s wrong about everything he said. Our parents aren’t dead, and there’s no way I’m going to let him kill my brother and me. The only true thing he’s said so far is that we’re going to be joining our parents soon—when they come home.

  My appetite has flown, and it seems as if Andy’s has, too. Our glances shift from each other to the strange man sitting in Dad’s chair. The room is silent except for the clicking of his fork on the china plate, and the rain pecking on the windows isn’t loud enough to drown out the wet smacking of his lips as he continues eating.

  Conrad slides his last bite of roast around on his plate, collecting the few remaining smears of gravy, and shoves the dripping morsel into his mouth. He leans back in his chair and loosens his tie. When he opens his jacket, the light from the chandelier shines on the red, satin lining. His real hand reaches inside, removing a thin, metal flask from the pocket. There’s a bright, metallic click when his lobster-claw hand snaps onto the lid and unscrews it. After taking a long drink and pulling the flask away from his mouth, his tongue flicks over his lips like a snake. A moment later the metal claw has screwed the lid back on and the flask has returned to his jacket pocket.

  His hand moves to his pants pocket now, and I hear the rhythmic click! click! click! of the Zippo lighter as he flips the lid open and closed. A relaxed expression flows over his face as he gives me a smile. There’s almost a friendly look in his eyes, and a fresh spark of hope flares up in me—a hope that he’s going to admit it was all a joke. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when his next words float across the table and into my ears.

  “Of course, poison is only one way to do it. There’s always snakes.”

  A shiver goes up my spine when he mentions snakes. There’s nothing in the world that scares me more. Unless it’s spiders.

  “Or spiders,” Conrad continues. “Or maybe you could drown in that big fancy swimming pool out there.” He stares at Andy. “Can you swim, Andy boy?”

  Andy doesn’t reply. He’s looking down at his shirt, watching his finger as it explores the red spot.

  “He swims like a fish!” I snap back, as the continual clicking of the lighter begins to grate on my nerves.

  “Well, good for him,” Conrad says. He raises his dark eyebrows and stares straight ahead as an unfocused look comes into his eyes. “But accidents do happen, you know. So drowning is still an option to consider.” It almost seems as if he’s talking to himself when he continues. “Or maybe…maybe you both commit suicide because you just can’t go on any longer without your dear parents. Oh, yes. I like that idea, too. The choices are endless, of course. I can use whatever method pleases me to get the job done.”

  As he’s explaining his horrible ideas, logic is trying to move my anger aside and grab some space inside my head. I consider appealing to his compassionate side, if he has one. I try to put my most frightened expression on my face and use my trembly voice when I reply.

  “You’re scaring us, Uncle Conrad. Tell us you’re teasing. Please.”

  The clicking of t
he lighter suddenly stops as he turns his head slowly and stares into my eyes. The room becomes deathly quiet until thunder rumbles through the rafters, making the chandelier above us vibrate again with a tinkling of crystal. Our uncle glances up at it before he speaks. His eyes have regained their focus, and his voice is soft and starting to sound almost normal again. He shakes his head.

  “I don’t have any choice, kids.”

  I’m getting the feeling that the logical approach may be working. At least it’s having a calming effect on him. I decide to keep going with it. “What do you mean by that, Uncle Conrad?” I ask, as I bat my eyes with my pitiful, innocent look.

  The effect I was trying to create is obviously wasted on him. He looks at me and furrows his brow. His harsh voice has returned when he speaks. “Are you stupid or what?”

  I stare back at him as I reply. “No, we’re not stupid.”

  “Well, you must be,” he snaps. “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face. You two are in the way. You’re a wrench in the gears, so to speak. With your parents dead, you’re the only thing standing between me and ownership of my greedy brother’s fine house and property. I have to kill you.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

  The next moment, he’s picking up the carving knife. My heart skips a beat, and my back presses against my chair when he runs his thumb along the edge of the blade. I’m almost expecting blood to start oozing out of his flesh, and my leg starts bouncing up and down the way it always does when I’m nervous or scared. Uncle Conrad smiles down at the knife, and the unfocused, faraway look fills his eyes again. He shifts his glance slowly toward me, and his voice is almost a whisper when he speaks.