by Elise Marion
He sighed, his jaw working as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “You’ve gotta give me something to go on here. As far as I can tell, I’m being punished for something, when all I’ve ever done is serve you ... and Him.”
“Perhaps you should stop thinking of this as a punishment,” he countered, turning his back and opening his portal. “I will come again in a few days. It’s clear you need more time to puzzle this out.”
Jack wanted to scream as the archangel disappeared through his portal back into Heaven. He wanted to curse and throw things—even though he had nothing around to throw. He wanted to beg Michael to come back and explain things to him, because, apparently, he must be too dense to figure it out himself.
Instead, he dropped back to the floor and began a round of burpees. He lost count after a while, and pushed himself beyond the limits of his usual endurance.
All the while, Michael’s question haunted him.
Why are you here?
Micah kept his eyes trained on the serpentine path of the river carrying them through the lush, green swamp. His right hand guided the airboat propelling them over the water; the left clutched a bottle of Budweiser. One might argue that he shouldn’t be driving an airboat while drinking, but he knew these woods like the back of his hand—every gator lurking beneath the murky water, every patch of moss, every blade of tall grass, every weeping willow. He could have piloted the boat blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.
Buckled into the seats in front of him, Addison and Alice held on for dear life as the lightweight vessel bounced and sped over the water. He chuckled, tipping his bottle up for a swig. He’d been told that riding his airboat was the kind of experience that made a person’s life flash before their eyes. Taking a sharp turn, he struggled to keep his composure when a wave of water splashed the girls, resulting in feminine squeals of annoyance and outrage.
Shaking his head to knock the water loose from his curls, he took another sharp turn, causing the boat to skid and careen left around the bend. Ducking beneath the low branch of a willow tree, he led them on, catching sight of their destination just around the next curve.
If he hadn’t missed his guess, the old woman who lived inside the isolated house would be finishing off a big pot of gumbo. The son who lived there with her would be stirring up a huge pot of boiled peanuts, and maybe even a second one that would simmer full of Micah’s beloved moonshine.
While he loved the bustle and clamor of the city, no place felt more like home than the bayou. His suggestion that they bring Addison here had been nothing more than an excuse for him to escape the cramped apartment he was forced to share with her. The longer they remained there together, the harder it became to pass each day. Having her around only reminded him of the person who should have been sleeping in the room she occupied. It didn’t exactly make him a pleasant person to live with.
Sure enough, when he slowed the airboat and approached the little wooden pier jutting out from the land surrounding his childhood home, he spotted his uncle on the side of the house, stirring something in a massive steel pot.
Remy Boudreaux paused, long wooden spoon in hand, and straightened, raising one arm to wave when he spotted Micah’s boat.
Micah raised his beer bottle in salute, bringing the little vessel parallel to the dock and killing the engine.
“Oh, thank God,” Alice muttered, unbuckling her seatbelt the moment the noise of the engine had died away. “I didn’t think we’d make it.”
“Wouldna made me no nevermind if you’da tipped off the boat,” he muttered, glaring at the back of her head. “I’m sure the gators woulda made a good meal of you.”
He hated that Reniel had brought Alice here. That girl could be pricklier than a rose bush, even if she looked as pretty as one. As usual, he hadn’t discovered that until after he’d already slept with her.
She glared at him, her jaw working as if she chewed the words instead of spitting them out. Alice knew him well enough to know he’d leave her in the swamp if she pissed him off.
“Need a hand?” Elian asked.
The skinny boy had left the boat and stood on the dock, offering the girls a hand up. Alice forgot about Micah and accepted the assistance, her legs flexing as she stepped up onto the dock.
Bending to pick up the rest of his six-pack, Micah followed Addison out of the vessel. Then, he took the lead, preceding them up the embankment and toward the house.
He frowned when he spotted the peeling paint and crooked shutters. His uncle was good for nothing more than making and selling his hooch, and Micah had always been the one to help maintain the old Boudreaux family house. Confronted with the evidence of his own neglect, he experienced a sharp twinge of guilt. He hadn’t visited in months.
Remy retrieved a red bandanna from the back pocket of his overalls and mopped his sweaty brow as they neared. A wide smile crossed his leathery, suntanned skin, and he set his spoon aside on a rough, wooden work table laden with mason jars, pots, and cooking utensils. Clapping his hands together in glee, he swaggered toward them.
“Where y’at, nephew?” he bellowed, chuckling as he reached up to enfold Micah in a tight embrace.
As he stood two heads taller than the man, Micah had to bend down to clap him on the shoulder.
“I see you ain’t dead yet, you old coot!”
“Weh, I’m still kickin’,” he replied with another loud cackle.
The redness of his cheeks and his lowered eyelids hinted at his usual state of drunkenness.
“Qui c’est q’ça?” he asked, indicating the strangers flanking Micah.
“This is Elian, Alice, and Addison,” he replied, introducing them. “This here’s my uncle, Remy Boudreaux.”
Everyone nodded or murmured their greetings as Remy looked them all over from head to toe.
“Woo-wee!” he exclaimed, his gaze lingering on Elian. “You’s one skinny mullet, boy! What they feedin’ you?”
Elian grimaced in embarrassment. “Um …”
Remy cackled, doubling over and slapping his belly. “Don’t pay me no mind, boug. Let my nephew git you on in that house. My Mama will fatten ya up. Git you on in that house. Jambalaya’s on.”
Micah’s mouth watered at the mention of his grandmother’s jambalaya. “Looks like we arrived just in time. Come on, y’all. We’ll eat first, then get down to business.”
He headed toward the house, but found himself brought up short when Remy noticed his six-pack. Grabbing his arm tight, his uncle halted him.
“Cho, cho!” he exclaimed. “What you doin’ swiggin’ that stuff! You turnin’ into some kind of Texian on me?”
His uncle detested beer. He had a preference for the hard stuff, thus his talent for brewing the strongest moonshine in the bayou.
“My stash run dry,” he admitted. “This’ll do in a pinch.”
“Pinch, my ass!” Remy declared, snatching his six-pack away and tossing it carelessly onto his workbench. “Go’on look in that box over there, getchu some hooch a’fore I take you over my knee.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with a laugh, striding over to the wooden trunk placed against the side of the house, where Remy stacked his moonshine jars until he could crate them up for delivery.
Taking one, he opened it and took a long swallow. A hum of appreciation burned in his chest as it traced its fiery path down to his stomach, leaving a familiar tingle in its wake.
The pain subsided a bit, and would even more, bit by bit, until he’d found his happy place—one of complete and utter numbness.
Addison stepped into his path, arms crossed over her chest. “Reniel said no more booze.”
Sneering, he lifted the jar and made sure to use an exaggerated motion as he took another drink. “Ren ain’t here, cher. Besides, I ain’t your teacher; the boy is. I’m just the chauffeur. Now come on. I don’t take kindly to anyone standin’ between me and my mamère’s jambalaya.”
Ignoring her venomous glare, he tramped toward the house, le
aving her with no choice but to follow.
A city girl, Addison had never ventured far from New Orleans, let alone into a swamp. She’d always thought of the bayou as a reeking bog filled with snakes, bugs, and rotting, ugly trees. She’d been pleasantly surprised during the airboat ride to find that the opposite proved true.
The bayou happened to be the greenest place she’d ever been, with huge, ancient trees covered in Spanish moss, weeping willows drooping their fronds over the river, and water that brightly reflected the light of the sun. She’d seen the dark eyes and reptilian heads of alligators here and there in the shallow depths, but had remained unperturbed. They didn’t seem vicious—quite the opposite, really. Long-legged birds stood near the shores, flapping their wings to escape the noise of the airboat when they approached. Even the snakes seemed calm, sunning themselves languidly while wrapped around the branches of trees.
Was it her imagination, or did Micah seem more relaxed here?
He’d been tense and silent during the long drive out of the city and to the dock where he stored his boat. By the time he’d gotten them out onto the water, he had transformed. The anger that seemed to add years to his young age had melted away, transforming his expression into a lethargic, almost boyish one. His large shoulders had relaxed and the tension causing the tendons in his neck to grow taut had vanished, and she could almost imagine him as he might have been before time and experience had turned him into a bitter drunk.
While his childhood home made a pitiful sight from the outside, once through the front door, she was struck by the coziness that enveloped her. The place had character—with hardwood floors that gleamed from being polished, ancient crown molding, and beautiful woodwork. The sort of house a person might buy just for the ‘character’ and try to fix up to make more modern. However, she preferred it this way. The untouched charm remained unhindered by modern niceties, almost as if they’d stepped back in time.
The open windows had been covered by netting to keep the mosquitoes out, but still let in the fresh air of the outdoors. The old rugs in the entryway and running the length of the hall seemed clean, probably recently swept. The walls bore countless frames, most of them old and tarnished, displaying sepia-toned and black-and-white photos. A sitting room to their left held old furniture and surfaces littered with knickknacks and even more photos. Lace doilies laid over hand-sewn tablecloths, giving the room a touch of Southern charm.
A steep staircase to their right led to the upper level, while the hallway stretching before them led back into the kitchen—from which the most enticing smells wafted.
“Remy, that you?” called the thin, gruff voice of an old woman.
“It’s me, Mamère,” Micah replied, already leading them down the hall.
He had to turn sideways to navigate it without knocking every framed photo from their nails.
“Micah?”
A small, squat woman with a mass of salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head came running from the kitchen on bare feet. She wore a floral-pattered apron over a worn yellow housecoat.
Micah surprised Addison by setting his jar of moonshine aside and squatting down to grab the little woman around the waist and lift her. Hugging her tight in an embrace that looked frighteningly crushing, he spun her in circles and laughed, kissing every inch of her wrinkled face.
Laughing, she swatted at his massive shoulder playfully.
“Leggo, you big lummox, a’fore you drop me on my ass!”
“Never, Mamère,” he declared, though he did put her back on her feet.
The old woman peered around him, her gaze falling on each of them one at a time. “Elian, Alice, Addison … y’all get on in here and get some of this here food. I made plenty ’nuff.”
Shocked, Addison turned her wide-eyed gaze on Micah.
He grinned. “This is my mamère, Emeline Boudreaux. Did I mention she’s an Oracle?”
Sure enough, as she led them to the kitchen, Emeline reached back to untie her apron, giving Addison a glimpse of the circular birthmark between her thumb and forefinger—the mark all Oracles were born with.
“Mamère, how’d you know I had an envy for some boudin?” Micah asked, crossing to the kitchen table and throwing one leg over a chair. Sitting backward, he propped his arms up on the back and rested his chin there, appearing like a little boy waiting for a treat from his grandma.
“Don’t ask dumb questions, boy,” she muttered, sidling to the ancient wood-burning stove. “I got boudin, jambalaya, gumbo, and some of them corn cakes you like.”
“Mais,” he drawled. “I suppose I could be convinced to eat all that.”
“You better,” she chided. “Y’all got work to do if you gone get that girl trained for demon fightin’. You gone need your strength.”
“Would you like some help?” Addison offered, feeling guilty about letting someone so old wait on them while they sat at the table twiddling their thumbs.
“You stay right there,” she replied, shooting a stern look over her shoulder. “Have some of them cracklins while you’re waitin’. Made ’em fresh this mornin’ from some skins Remy brung me from the store.”
Between them on the table sat the fried pork skins, which Micah immediately began attacking with relish.
At Elian’s dubious expression, he pushed the platter toward him across the table.
“Try ’em, boy,” he drawled, popping one of the crispy skins into mouth and crunching it between his teeth. “Better than any patate chips you get up North.”
Tentatively, Elian obeyed, his eyes widening in surprise as he chewed. With all the relish of a teenage boy, he went back for a handful, cramming nearly all of them into his mouth at once. Alice snacked quietly, seeming at home in the little kitchen. Addison took a few of the skins for herself, wondering idly if that wasn’t because Alice had been here before. Micah didn’t seem to be the type to bring a girl home to his grandmother.
“Where ya been, Micah?” Emeline asked as she stood on tiptoe to reach the plates stacked in a cabinet nearby. “Ain’t seen you in months.”
“A Guardian’s work never ends, Mamère.”
“So you say. Meanwhile, I got gutters what need cleanin’, and Remy ain’t no more use to me than a dog.”
Micah chuckled. “I hear ya. Them gutters’ll be clean by the time I leave today. I’ll come back later this week with some paint. House needs a fresh coat.”
Emeline approached the table with a plate in hand, laden with all the delicacies she’d cooked. She set it down on the table between her and Micah. Taking his face in her gnarled hands, she bent and placed a kiss on his forehead with a loud smack.
“You’re a good boy.”
Micah reached for the plate, but she moved it out of his reach and set it in front of Addison.
“Ladies first, scamp!” she admonished, slapping the back of his hand.
He winced and rubbed the red mark she’d left behind. For a small old woman, she certainly seemed strong.
“Eat up, cher,” he encouraged, gesturing toward her plate. “Mamère makes the best okra in the bayou.”
She took his advice and dug in, hardly bothering to lift her head as she sampled the offerings on her plate. The boudin sausage tasted flavorful, the jambalaya spicy, and the okra well-seasoned. She’d always hated okra—especially its slimy texture—but Emeline’s blew her past experiences with the vegetable out of the water. Her favorite part was the corn cakes—fried disks of cornbread that looked like pancakes. Emeline had drenched them in butter and honey, turning them into a substance as addictive as cocaine.
At some point, a mason jar filled with sweet tea was set in front of her, and Addison took a few gulps, then continued eating.
“Cho, cho, gal!” Emeline exclaimed. “You got quite an appetite.”
Her cheeks heated as she glanced up and met the old woman’s gaze.
“It’s so good,” she mumbled, her fingers itching to dig into the boudin for one more bite. “I see w
here Micah gets his cooking skills from.”
“Oh, sure,” she replied from between bites of jambalaya and sips of tea. “Him and Tracy used to spend summers up here. Micah and Remy would get out in that airboat and wander in the swamp for hours—heaven knows what they was doin’ out there. But when it would rain, his little restless behind would get to climbin’ up the walls and drivin’ me insane. So, I’d set him to work in the kitchen, peelin’ patates, boiling pistaches, and shuckin’ corn. A’fore long, he asked me to teach him how to cook. The boy done me proud, for true. Can cook better’n most women I know.”
“He’s certainly better than me,” she admitted. “I can barely make toast.”
Emeline threw her head back and laughed. “You put me in the mind of Micah’s mama. That gal was a looker, but turned all thumbs in the kitchen. Had an appetite like a horse, too, didn’t she, boy?”
Micah’s expression grew wistful and he paused between bites of food, a bit of sausage stuck on the end of his fork.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Mama could really put it away.”
“God rest her soul,” she added, gazing down into her glass.
Looking up and seeing that Addison had finished, she stood and began clearing plates.
“Mais, might as well get to work,” she said in a voice that commanded respect. “If’n you want this bread puddin’ I got in the oven, you’re gonna have to earn it. Git on, now.”
Obediently, they left the table and followed Micah through the back door and down the three wooden steps leading into the massive field stretching beyond the house. To call it a backyard would be an insult.
A small pond stood nearby, with mosquitoes flitting over the surface. A large tree close to it held a tire swing and had a large treehouse built in its boughs. An acre of land had been mowed, but beyond that, the grass grew tall, waving in the soft breeze. To her left, a clothesline held Emeline’s dresses, aprons, housecoats, and stockings. The smell of the freshly washed fabric mingled with that of grass and soil.
