by Will Clarke
“Yeah. Fine.” I nod.
“Look, I’m not sure what’s going on with you,” she says. “Grief is powerful. It makes victims’ families do very strange things.”
“It’s not grief,” I feel compelled to say.
“Well, whatever it is, let me be clear. If you interfere with my investigation, if you feel obliged to make up stories to keep me from finding your mother, I will prosecute you to the fullest measure of the law, grief or not.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Mary Glapion looks me in the eye. She tears up and bites her bottom lip. Why is she tearing up?
“Thanks for coming by, Detective.” Emily smiles bigger than she should. “The front door is this way.
19
The Legend of The Loup Garou
Uncle Father stands in Mama’s kitchen, not sure what to say to me, what Bible verse to give, what bromide to apply to his nephew’s lost soul. Without asking, Uncle Father ignites the gas stove, pulls a joint out of his back pocket and lights it on the burner. He takes a long, experienced dope-smoker drag, and then shoos the smoke away from his face. He hands the glowing joint to me. I wave him off. He offers it to Emily, and she folds her arms.
“No, thank you, Father.” She looks at the floor.
“Suit yourself.” He takes another long toke, exhales, and smiles. He looks so happy. So far from worry.
What does that even feel like?
I honestly can’t remember. I can’t remember what I felt like before my mother disappeared, before the Sub-Ocean Brightside exploded, before I became responsible for solving both of these unsolvable problems. I try to remember, but all I see when I close my eyes are armies of angry raccoons, clouds of dark blood swelling from the bottom of the Gulf, and the red cherries tumbling out of Yanko’s loud mouth.
I grab the joint from Uncle Father and inhale the skunky smoke.
“Really?” Emily says.
It burns my lungs, and I can’t stop coughing.
“I just need to relax,” I say.
“By all means,” she says. “Relax. I’ll be glad to take care of the boys while you are baked out of your mind.”
Emily leaves me and Uncle Father to our smoking, and the smoke swirls every care I have out of me, taking my headache and all my worries and nightmares with it. A euphoria swells inside my head, and butterflies flutter around my stomach. I am not sure if this is happiness, but I can feel every inch of a smile unfurling on my face, and for this brief skunky moment, I feel like a black kitten with a red ball of yarn, fascinated by everything, delighted for no real reason at all. I am all rainbows and unicorns, wizards with craggy staffs and happy dragons with lopsided grins.
“Ah, that’s nice.” I hear the echoes of my own voice inside my skull, and it sounds so amazing that someone should tape record it so I can listen to it over and over.
“It’s Hawaiian.” Uncle Father smiles.
My phone buzzes with a text.
*You got my matches?*
I don’t recognize the number.
*Who is this?* I reply.
*Gay André*
*Who is this?*
*I just want my matches*
*Gay André is dead*
*No I ain’t*
*Who is this?*
*Gay*
*No it’s not*
*Bartender said he saw you take my matches. I will pay you for them.*
My phone shows those undulating gray dots that indicate that whoever this is is still composing his thoughts, that his autocorrect is rearranging his letters into meaning. *$10,000* pops up on my screen and almost slaps the buzz right out of me.
I turn off my phone and pick up the blunt out of the ashtray and take a long drag.
“Work?” Uncle Father says.
“Yeah.”
“You gotta turn it off sometime.” My uncle the priest — the man who’s always dressed in his work clothes — says.
The medical marijuana is making me paranoid. I am freaking out. I try my best not to act like it in front of Uncle Father, but I am dying on the inside right now.
“You ever hear of a guy around town calls himself Loup Garou?” I finally get the courage to ask.
Uncle Father doesn’t respond. He just keeps smoking.
Maybe it’s the pot or maybe it’s the lighting, but the realization of how much Uncle Father looks just like daddy strikes me harder and faster than it ever has before. That fat Cajun nose, the suntanned skin, and the French-blue eyes with their puffy bags. Uncle Father looks just like Daddy, except in a priest collar and without the wandering glass eye and ill-fitting fake leg. Uncle Father’s name is suddenly a name that has been so obvious but now sounds strange and mysterious and messed up to me. He’s my uncle, but he looks like my father dressed up as a priest, but he’s my daddy’s father in the church. He’s all our father. This whole idea is making me seasick.
“Boy, every crook in this town calls hisself Loup Garou.”
I try to refocus on our conversation and stop fixating on Uncle Father’s strange name, and how his very presence in this kitchen, smoking his medical marijuana makes me confused and somewhat freaked out.
“You know the legend, T’boy?” He smiles, half-lidded. “The Rougarou is what me and your daddy call him. Remember the story? You don’t keep Lenten promises. You don’t say yo’ prayers. You don’t eat yo’ fish on Fridays. The Rougarou gonna git you. He got big-ass teeth and big red eyes. He got the head of a wolf and the body of a murderer. He’ll suck yo’ blood and crunch yo’ bones with his teeth. So say yo’ prayers. Keep yo’ promises. And eat yo’ fish on Fridays.”
I can’t help but laugh. Oh, the “Ruggy-roo.” That word, that silly word being uttered by any adult used to scare the crap out of me when I was a boy. I remember how Uncle Father used to tell us these horrible stories about how the Ruggy-roo comes out of the swamp and steals bad kids out of their beds so he can eat them. Used to piss off Mama when he would come over after dinner and tell us Ruggy-roo stories just before bedtime. She’d have eight kids knocking on her bedroom door all night long, begging and crying to sleep with her. Lots of times she’d let us all sleep on the floor next to her bed, all curled up together on the hardwood floor on a blanket like a mess of puppies. We didn’t care that the floor was hard so long as we could sleep next to our Mama because all eight of us knew that Mama would and could kick the shit out of any Ruggy-roo.
For this and for so many other reasons, Mama never liked Uncle Father, even if he was ordained by God, and likewise, he despised her. This was no family secret. And yet, this dislike never kept Uncle Father from being part of our family, from eating supper at our house every Thursday, sitting right next to Daddy at the long dinner table. Mama always encouraged us to bow our heads for Uncle Father’s blessings, to hug his neck and to play the fiddle and dance for him.
To Mama’s credit, she tolerated her husband’s brother and his scriptural barbs, just like she complied with her husband’s Catholic traditions and Cajun recipes. She’d cook his food, his gumbos, and his jambalayas, she’d celebrate his feasts, honor his saints, but when it came to raising her eight babies, she held fast to her gods and demons. She read to us constantly from the books that filled her bedroom. Poetry and fiction were mixed with her Hermetic tomes. We were kept clean with the Laws of the Secret Doctrine and the dark novels of Tolstoy, Hawthorne, and Mary Shelley.
“T’boy, I’m praying for ya Mama. All right?” Uncle Father ashes his doobie in the seashell ashtray that La La made when she was a little girl. “But ya reap what ya sow.”
“You think this is karma?”
“Not karma. God.” He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head.
“Same difference.” I have to look away.
“A few years back I saw her. She stood right here in this kitchen.” He points to the floor. “I was standing right there. And I saw her. She disappeared. I saw her do it, Duke.”
“She disappeared?” I
say.
“And she came back a few minutes later. Walked right in that back door. Beaten to hell. Nose bleeding. Teeth missing.”
“Someone beat her up?”
“Like how the devil likes to do to his wife.” He holds my gaze. “She sold her soul to be able to do such things. Witchcraft is a dangerous game, T’boy.”
“You watch too much TV,” I say.
“You only have one choice, Duke. Take down that neon sign. And then pray for our Holy Father’s forgiveness.”
Daddy crutches into the kitchen, with his left pant leg pinned to his back pocket.
“Ain’t T’boy’s call,” Daddy says.
“Ya reap what ya sow, Vinny.” Uncle Father takes one last toke.
“Get the hell out, Joe, talking that kind of shit before I bust ya coconut,” Daddy says.
Uncle Father crosses himself.
“Say yo’ prayers while you walk home, ya old pothead.” Daddy shoves Uncle Father to the door. Uncle Father pushes back on Daddy, causing him to stumble on his crutches, but then Daddy catches himself with skill and strength that is somewhat surprising.
“Watch the slap, Joe!” Daddy holds up the back of his hand to strike his older brother—an action that the one-legged old man can execute with deadly precision after a lifetime of slapping a house full of kids.
“Go on. Get!” Daddy shouts.
“Do not push a man of God, Vinny!”
Uncle Father backs away from Daddy, to the back door, the very back door that my mother ran out with her broom in hand.
“Duke, I’m praying for ya.” Uncle Father lingers.
“Go!” Daddy yells. “Ya goddamn couyon!”
Uncle Father slams the door, and Daddy picks up the smoldering joint from the ashtray.
He holds it out to me. I shake my head no. So he takes the last drag and coughs.
“Ignore that croute sec.” Daddy gives me a sad smile. “He’s always been afraid of pussy. Always thinking women fucking the devil. Always wanting to perform exorcisms and throw holy water on them. He just needs a good womp upside the head. Your mama was a good woman doing dangerous work.”
“What work was that exactly, Daddy?”
“She wasn’t no witch, son,” he says. “Your mama is a saint, and her work ain’t never done.”
My phone vibrates and chimes in my pocket. It’s Gary. This is his third call. My phone must have been out of range because I didn’t see his other two, back to back.
“Daddy, I’m sorry I have to take this.”
I look down at my phone and Gary has already gone to my voicemail. My phone is full of bright green bubbles—the unread text messages from him.
From the first twenty-five that I read, I patch together that Gary blew a gasket at the wrong person. He doesn’t know exactly who it might be, though. Over the past week, he yelled at a lot of people, including lots of members of Christopher Shelley’s executive team. Now Gary is nervous that he is going to be fired and wants to talk to me.
So I call him back because he’s not going to stop until I do.
“Where the hell have you been?” he says without even saying hello.
“I know it might surprise you, but I have a family.”
“I really need you in the office. We need to rehearse for our meeting with Christopher tomorrow.”
“We’re prepared, Gary. We’ve been over this like five times now. We don’t need to rehearse.”
“He’s the goddamn CEO, Duke. Plus, I need you to talk to Constanze Bellingham for me.”
“Is that who you pissed off?”
“No—like she matters—I need you to find out if she thinks I pissed off Christopher.”
“It’s late.”
“I need you to call her. She likes you.”
“And say what?”
“Find out if that new PR lady they are hiring is replacing me.”
“Is she an attorney?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then how is she replacing you?”
“Rumor is we are all reporting to her after tomorrow,” Gary says. “Grace in Drilling told me Christopher keeps screwing up in the press and people are blaming me for it. The whole company is blaming me, Duke. They’re saying this media backlash is because External Affairs doesn’t have its shit together.”
“Christopher doesn’t listen. It’s not our fault.”
“I really think he’s calling this meeting with you and me to fire us,” Gary is now whining. “He hasn’t replied to a single email of mine in almost 48 hours now.”
“Gary. Just take a Xanax. Relax. Christopher is not firing you or me. He needs us, and he knows it.”
“I want you to call Constanze like right now.”
“I’ll text her.”
“So when will you be here?” Gary says.
“I have my phone and laptop, Gary. We can just get this done over email if you need to make any changes to the presentation.”
“Well, you better believe this will show up in your performance review.”
“That is if you’re still around,” I say.
“That’s not funny.”
“Take two Xanax, and I’ll text you as soon as I know anything from Constanze.”
“So you’re calling her?”
“No, I’ll email her.”
“Call her.”
“I’m hanging up now, Gary. Try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be great.”
20
May 13, 2010
Fifty-five days since the Explosion
Gary booked the Louis XIV Room at the Ritz-Carlton on Canal Street for our meeting with Christopher Shelley. The Ritz knows how to deal with executives in crisis—how to make them comfortable and safe and pampered. The Ritz also knows how to keep a secret. Mandala security detail will whisk Christopher Shelley from the company jet to his presidential suite, and once they have ensconced the most reviled CEO in the world into this hotel, they will then quietly escort him to this beautiful room, and no one in NOLA will be the wiser.
So here we wait for him.
Gary forgot to take his Xanax, and now he’s super nervous. This mostly manifests in his stress eating. He surfs the buffet while I sip my coffee and delete old texts. He loads up his plate at the sideboard: the stinky cheeses and charcuterie, the baguettes and the smoked salmon, the marinated olives and Marcona almonds, the tiny pies, and the buttery pastries. The spread was specifically requested by Constanze Bellingham, and because of that, common sense might tell Gary to wait to eat from this buffet until our CEO arrives.
But Gary, being Gary, is polishing off three or four plates when the mahogany doors open and our CEO walks into the room. The most striking thing about seeing Christopher Shelley in person is not his marionette cheeks or the obscene amount of Pre-Raphaelite red curls on his head. What is most striking about this man is how alone he is. How small against this magnificent room, this world, this moment, he is. His image in the press is larger than life. But right here, right now, he’s just a small man standing in this big room. Just a small man who this angry world now blames for its own demise. No bodyguards. No army of assistants. No trumpets heralding the arrival of the Sun King. No orchestral strings crescendoing the appearance of the Antichrist. It’s just Christopher Shelley. A smallish man in a rather expensive suit.
“Hello, chaps.”
I stand up and introduce myself.
“I’m Duke Melançon. In-house counsel for External Affairs.”
Christopher Shelley’s handshake is strong, friendly, brisk. His eyes are surprisingly blue, boyish yet crinkled by too much time spent on yachts—smiling and squinting.
“I know who you are, Duke.” He smiles. “Glad to finally meet you in the flesh.”
“So how was the hop across the pond?” Gary licks his fingers and wipes them on a napkin. He then shakes Christopher’s hand.
Christopher smiles nonetheless.
* * *
“We have launched an investigation because I want to know
what happened,” Christopher says, practicing the talking points that our new PR agency has prepared for him. “We will be transparent. We are conducting a full and comprehensive investigation, and we will make this right. Our investigation is covering everything. It will cover everything.”
I take frantic notes while Gary plucks the glazed raspberries from his tarte aux framboises.
“The phrase ‘We will make this right’ is dicey,” I say. “You are essentially granting some kind of guarantee when you say that.”
“Well, we are going to make this right. People need to know that. We have a brand to protect here. Mandala Worldwide cares. It’s essential that the press sees that in everything we do.” Christopher sips his tea.
“I know, but it’d be safer not to use those exact words at the press conference.”
“It is very necessary that I say that I am sorry.” Christopher scowls. “People want me to be accountable and I will be.”
“I get that,” I say. “But don’t use those exact words. Better to say, ‘the Gulf Spill is a tragedy that should have never happened’ than to say the actual words ‘I am sorry.’”
Christopher squints at me. He folds his arms and sort of holds his breath. He’s making these weird little grunts as I speak. So I continue explaining how a non-apology apology works.
“The Holocaust is a tragedy that should have never happened,” I say. “The Haiti earthquake is a tragedy that should have never happened. Slavery is a tragedy that should have never happened. You’re stating the truth but not claiming legal fault. When you state a commiserating truth like that, it really has the same emotional impact as saying ‘I’m sorry.’ There are studies that back this up.”
“Listen to him, Christopher. The kid knows his stuff.” Gary tongues the yellow pudding from his tarte.
“I’m not doubting that Duke knows his stuff, Gary. But I feel that it’s important to be authentic at a time like this. The world needs to know that real people are trying their absolute best here, and confining my words to such an asinine degree serves no one. No one.”
