Sissy

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  "I'm impressed that you remembered Milton's name so easily." I reached for Susie's purse and gave it to her. "I remember him. He came to your house after Josh died."

  I called Mr. Milton that evening. He was disturbed to hear about the shooting and said he wanted to fly to New Orleans to see Susie and help us set up something so we'd have cash flow for expenses. I think Susie was touched that he cared so much.

  *

  "He asked me whether I was attached." Marianne took a long sip of coffee. We were sitting in a booth in the hospital cafeteria. "I didn't know how to answer him. And I couldn't take my eyes off his; I mean, he's gorgeous."

  "Do you mean Warner? What did you tell him?" I was surprised that Marianne seemed interested in a man, especially a real He-man like Dr. Warner.

  "Yes, Warner. I told him, no." She blushed, and it made me laugh. "He said his name is Donato and that his parents are from Florence, Italy but he was born in New Jersey." Marianne was eager to tell me about her date with the dreamy doctor. "We went to a place called Jacques, a cafe about a mile from the hospital in his two-seater sports car that I learned later was an Audi, a German brand I'd never heard of, which made me feel like a small-town girl in a big city."

  "Do you like him?"

  "It's way too early to say yes or no to that, but I think he's interesting." She took a sip of coffee and put her cup down. "He might be a bit self-absorbed, because he ordered red wine without asking me what I liked. I prefer white. He asked me about Susie and Rodney being a mixed-race couple, which he said was not unusual in New Jersey."

  "What did you tell him?" I stirred more cream into my coffee.

  "I told him it was very unusual in Toussaint Parish and that I thought that was why Rodney had been shot." Marianne paused and looked past me as though thinking of something confusing. "He asked me whether they'd caught the people who shot Rodney and I said I wasn't sure whether anyone was looking."

  "I'm looking!" I was serious, but Mari burst out laughing.

  *

  Marianne and I met Mr. Milton at the New Orleans airport on Wednesday afternoon. He was fifty-ish, with grey hair at his temples and over his ears. He wore a fedora, which he removed when he shook our hands and introduced himself.

  "It's such a pleasure to see you both again. I think the world of Susie, you know." He smelled of Old Spice aftershave and fresh toothpaste, as though he'd brushed his teeth in the men's room as soon as he got off the plane. He winked in a fatherly manner, and we made our way to my car in the parking garage.

  Mr. Milton was genuinely concerned about Susie and Rodney, almost like a dad or favorite uncle, and it made me wonder about my own dad, who didn't seem as worried about Susie. Mr. Milton flew from New York City for two days, visited Susie, Rod, and Lilly, and helped Marianne and me make financial decisions. He told us we could call him anytime if we had questions or needed advice.

  Milton drew up papers that Susie signed, giving Marianne power of attorney in the state of Louisiana, which meant that she could manage Susie's funds and make purchases for her family. Susie was especially concerned that Marianne should take care of Lilly, who would enter LSU in a few weeks.

  Lilly said she wasn't going off to college as long as her parents were invalids, but we all knew her life had to move forward, regardless. Marianne and I talked to Susie about it and agreed Lilly would be ready when the time came.

  Marianne and I took Mr. Milton to see the house we'd found, and he approved. He told Marianne where to send all the receipts for purchases, and she didn't seem put-off at the subliminal suggestion that she might not be honest with Susie's money.

  "I'll keep her honest, Mr. Milton," I laughed and pushed my elbow into Marianne's side.

  Marianne didn't ride back to Jean Ville with me on Saturday after Milton returned to New York, because she wanted to stay with Susie and Lilly, and Lilly refused to go anywhere. We arranged for Rodney's dad and mom to drive Marianne's Datsun to New Orleans that week.

  I headed home and stopped in Baton Rouge Sunday night.

  *

  Miss Millie sneered at me as I stood in front of her sliding glass window Monday afternoon. She buzzed Robert Morris.

  "He's busy right now. Do you want to wait, or leave a message?" She put the phone receiver on the hook and looked up through the window that she slid open a crack.

  "I'll wait. Thank you." I found a magazine and sat down. I thumbed through the pages, not thinking about what I saw. The copy of the police report was folded in my purse, which I put on the chair next to me.

  I'd had a helluva time returning the original report to the file in Mr. Borders’s office. I’d sat in my car across the street from the DA's office and waited several hours, watching the front door. At about two o'clock, the receptionist I'd tricked about my drivers license walked out of the door with a file under her arm. She crossed the street and climbed the steps on the outside of the courthouse. That told me two things: she wasn't at her desk, and Borders must be in court and needed a file.

  I walked as quickly as my short legs would take me, trying not to count my steps, which would divert my focus from the mission I was on. There was no one behind the front desk, and I walked past it and through the door that read "Private", as though I belonged there. The file was in the same stack on the table, untouched, which told me Borders hadn't given the case another thought. I slipped the original police report into the file and walked back out of Borders's office.

  I thought about how close I came to getting caught when I got in my car and saw the receptionist walk back across the street to the door I'd just walked out of.

  *

  I waited about twenty minutes in the AG's waiting room, trying not to stare at Miss Millie's beehive hairdo that had a barrette with a butterfly sitting precariously over one ear.

  "Hi, Abigail." Robert Morris came into the waiting room with his hand extended, a typical politician.

  "Please, call me Sissy." I shook his hand and smiled.

  "That's right, Sissy. What can I do for you?" He put one hand in the pocket of his slacks. He wore a light blue Oxford shirt with and pink-and-purple tie, the knot loosened, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned.

  "I have the police report." I put my purse strap over my shoulder and tucked the bag under my arm.

  "Follow me." He led me down the hall to his office. We sat at a small, round table that had four chairs. "How'd you get the report? I've gotten the runaround from the Toussaint DA's office. They said the case was closed."

  "I know. Frustrating, huh?" I pulled the copy of the report from my purse, unfolded it and tried to iron out the creases. I pushed it across the table to Morris. "It's a copy. I hope that's okay."

  "Where'd you… never mind. I probably don't need to know, right?"

  "Probably not." I smiled my most charming smile and sat back in my chair. "Judge DeYoung said that if you had the report, you could reopen the case and have the state police investigate."

  "That's right." He glared at me as though he couldn't figure me out.

  "So, what else do you need?" I glared back at him.

  "A list of witnesses would help." He reached for a legal pad on the table and took an ink pen from his shirt pocket. "A place for the investigators to start."

  "Oh, I have that list." I pulled another sheet of paper from my purse with the list I'd made of the people who might have seen something: Rodney, Susie, Marianne, Lilly, Jeffrey, and Joe Franklin. I had their addresses and phone numbers beside their names. Also on the list were the names of the paramedics and the volunteer firemen who were at the scene. I'd gotten their names from the emergency room supervisor who was on duty that day, who had graduated from high school with Susie. The names of the police officers were on the report, and I’d written their contact information on my sheet of paper.

  "This is perfect." He read the list and made notes beside some of the names.

  "I also thought you might want the names of Rodney an
d Susie's doctors." I handed him Dr. Warner's business card and a slip of paper with the names, Bernie Cappel, MD and David Switzer, MD, and the phone number for Jean Ville Hospital.

  "Yes, this is good." Morris got up from the table and went behind his desk. He picked up the phone and punched a number. "Have Detective Sherman step in my office for a minute, would you, Millie?" He sat back down at the table.

  "How are they? Susie and Rodney? I'm going to try to get down there to see them this week."

  "They are improving. There's a lot going on in New Orleans. Marianne is getting Lilly ready to come up here to attend LSU. We rented a house near the hospital." I filled him in on the salient facts while we killed time waiting for the man named Sherman.

  "Lilly's coming up here to school?"

  "Yes. In a couple of weeks. She'll be a freshman." I watched his eyes dart around as though he were trying to process something.

  "Who's Marianne?"

  "She's our half-sister—my dad's daughter with another woman. Marianne's a nurse, a good one. She's been with Susie since the shooting. First in Jean Ville, now in New Orleans."

  There was a knock on the door, and a man entered wearing a grey suit. He was mostly bald with a rim of hair around the sides of his head, and he wore glasses. He sat in one of the chairs at the table. Robert Morris introduced him as Detective Sherman then delved into the case. He gave Sherman the police report and went over the witnesses.

  "Can you tell me anything about what these witnesses might know?" The detective looked at me then down at the paper. I told him what Lilly and Marianne had told me and he took notes.

  "There's something strange on that report." I pointed to the names of the city cops who were listed as being at the scene. "Joey LeBlanc. I know him. He wasn't at the church."

  "That’s strange." Detective Sherman made a note on his notepad.

  "What about the victims, uh, Mr. and Mrs. Thibault?"

  "You should interview them." I folded my hands on the table and smiled. "Maybe you can help them remember. Both are recovering from brain injuries, so their memories are sketchy. Rodney can't talk, and although Susie is improving, she still struggles to make sentences."

  When I left the AG's office I felt I had accomplished something. At least there would be an investigation.

  *

  Maple trees were turning gold and red as I drove into Jean Ville after a week in New Orleans and decided to take Shortcut Road from Highway One to Jefferson Extension. James lived in a nice brick house in a beautiful pecan grove that few people knew about; in fact, I didn't know about Shortcut Road until he moved there and told me how to get to his house.

  I was driving slowly because it was a winding, narrow road. I thought that if James's car was home, I'd stop to say 'Hi' and tell him how things were going with Susie and Rodney's recoveries, and ask whether he'd made progress on the case. Parked in the driveway of James's house was an old blue pickup truck that seemed familiar to me. I crept by, and just before I passed his house the front door opened and someone walked out. I stopped my car in front of the house next door and watched as a familiar looking guy with scraggly dirty blonde hair that hung in strings past his ears, walked out of the house and turned back towards the front door to speak to James, who was standing in the doorway, holding the screen door open.

  I looked at the truck again. There was someone with dark curly hair sitting behind the wheel, and I could tell the engine was running because there was smoke coming from the exhaust. The license number was 37L402. I knew that number—I’d seen it on one of the papers in the folder in James's library. I tried to remember what else was in the file: the names of Tucker Thevenot and Keith Rousseau, and some other numbers that had dollar signs.

  I didn't want to be seen, so I drove on and made a circle, turned on Smith Street, and doubled back. The truck went by, going towards Jefferson Street as I returned to James's house. I saw the driver more clearly, and I realized it was Keith Rousseau. The scraggly guy was Tucker Thevenot. I knew them. They were Warren's friends, the ones who'd done lots of questionable things that I didn't want to remember.

  I drove up in James's driveway and got out of the car. The front door was closed, so I knocked and said, "Yoo-hoo, James. It's Sissy. You home?" I opened the door a crack and hollered again. I heard footsteps coming towards me from the back of the house, and James appeared in the living room just as I opened the door fully.

  "Hey, what are you doing here?" He seemed surprised, almost like I'd caught him zipping up his pants.

  "I'm just getting back from a week in New Orleans and thought I'd stop by and give you some news." I walked through the door and let it shut behind me. It was dark in the house, and we stood staring at each other as though he couldn't understand why I was there. "I mean, what's so strange about a sister dropping in to see her brother. I saw your car in the driveway, so on impulse, I pulled in."

  He just stared at me as though trying to figure out what planet I was from.

  "Long drive. Can I use your bathroom?" I didn't wait for an answer and went directly to the bathroom in the hall off the living room. When I got back, he was sitting on the back porch drinking a soda.

  "Want something to drink?" He pointed to an ice chest between the two chairs, and I grabbed a Coca Cola from the dense ice.

  "You always keep drinks iced in a cooler on your back porch? Don't you have a refrigerator?" I wiped dirt off the chair with a Kleenex from my purse and sat down, then used another tissue to wipe the top of my Coke can.

  Fall had dissipated the extreme Louisiana summer heat and replaced it with cool, brisk air. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  "I'm having a party tonight, that's why the ice chest." He didn't elaborate, nor did he invite me to his festivities.

  "So. Do you want to know about Susie and Rodney?"

  "I guess you’re going to tell me, whether I care or not.” He stared straight ahead as though talking to the tree in front of him.

  "She's your sister."

  "Yeah. Well. We aren't close." He took a long sip of his soda that smelled like it had whiskey in it.

  "Okay. Then I won't tell you that she's doing better. She's been moved to the rehab floor and is walking with a walker, talking better, and actually forming sentences."

  "Good." He lit a cigarette and took a huge amount of smoke into his lungs.

  "When did you start smoking?" I had never seen any of my brothers smoke. I'd seen them drink beer, but that was about all. Of course, three of the four were older than me, and probably hid things since they thought I was a Squirt, their nickname for me growing up.

  "A couple years. I don't smoke often." He took another puff.

  "Rodney was moved to the neurology floor; no longer in ICU. And he's forming some words. Susie is his number-one therapist and is teaching him how to feed himself. They are amazing together."

  *

  I thought about what I'd witnessed in New Orleans the week before. I'd walked into Susie's room and she was pushing a walker, a physical therapist holding a strap around her waist.

  "Bravo!" I clapped my hands, and Susie smiled.

  "I want to get out of here," she told me. "That way…can be a reg-lar visit-or and sit with Rod long…er." Her speech was a little slow, and some of her words slurred, but she sounded much better. The physical therapist was funny. He said, "Not so fast, Mrs. Thibault. Dr. Warner said you have to remain on the Rehab floor for another couple weeks." He was a small Asian guy in his late twenties with eyes that almost closed when he smiled, which he did when he spoke.

  Susie said, "I know. But…sooner I…walk, sooner I'll be out," and she took a few steps towards me. "I tried, uhm, convince Andy…let me walk, uhm, hall. Maybe you can help…sense into him." She smiled at Andy, and he laughed at her.

  "Maybe tomorrow, huh?" Andy patted Susie on the back as he helped her into her chair on the side of her bed.

  "I'm glad to see that spunk back," I was h
appy that my sister's determination and tenacity were intact.

  *

  I took a sip of my Coke and watched the side of James's face. He looked strange to me. "Rodney can't speak, and he has no feeling in his legs and feet. Did I tell you Susie rented a house in New Orleans?"

  "Probably a good thing. She doesn't need to live here. Unhealthy." He drank three big gulps from his soda can, then belched. It was strange watching my brilliant older brother, an esteemed attorney, vice president of a bank, act so weird—drinking and smoking, pensive, almost guilty about something.

  "Did you know that the state police are going to investigate the shooting? The attorney general said he would reopen the case." I stared at the side of his head.

  "No. I didn't know that." He turned towards me with a jerk. "You need to stay out of that, Sissy."

  "I'm only trying to find out who shot Rodney and injured Susie. Don't you want to know? You said you'd help me. What have you found out?"

  "Nothing. And you need to leave it alone." He got up and walked quickly down the steps into the backyard. He just kept walking towards the back fence, as though on a mission.

  "But you said… Well, if you aren't going to invite me to your party, I'll leave you to get ready." I spoke loud enough that he could hear me, even though I was yelling at his back. I let myself out the front door, got in my car, and drove to my dad's house.

  *

  "I just had the strangest conversation with James." I was sitting on the front porch with Dad, he was in a rocking chair and I was on the swing.

  "Why was it strange?" Daddy rocked and let his eyes drift side-to-side.

  "Because I mentioned that the state police were investigating the shooting and it seemed to disturb him."

  "Stay out of it, Sissy." Daddy turned and stared at me with an even, angry expression.

  "That's exactly what James said." I stood up and looked down at Daddy. I felt like I had missed something important that both James and Daddy were trying to clue me in on "I'm not involved. The attorney general has taken over the investigation because Mr. Reggie closed the case without even trying to find the culprit."