Bayou My Love: A Novel

by Faulkenberry, Lauren

  “I thought you weren’t worried about that any more.”

  “Well, I’ve still got to sell the house as soon as possible. I want to be done with my father, and that can’t happen until I’ve paid him back the money he used for all this.”

  “Oh.” He stood then, walking to the other side of the porch.

  “Could you ask him?”

  “Yeah,” he said, the word clipped. “Fine.” He slid his fingers along the banister rail, staring off into the yard.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He turned and whistled for the dog.

  “Clearly it’s something. Just tell me. Do you think Buck won’t want to do it? Should I not ask him?”

  “No, Enza. He’ll do it.”

  I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He went inside and let the screen door slam behind him.

  ~~~~

  I found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. He didn’t look up.

  “Jack,” I said. “Talk to me.”

  He shrugged. “I just thought you were going to slow down. Take your time finishing now.”

  “The sooner I finish, the sooner I can pay my father back. And then I can move on.”

  He turned to me, his eyes sad. “Move on where?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t do anything until I’m square with him. He won’t wait long for me to pay him back. He’d take me to court just to make a damn point.”

  “I don’t want you to hurry up and finish. I’ve been trying to stop counting days, to stop picturing you driving out of here. I feel terrible about it, but I’m not entirely unhappy when something else goes wrong in this place so you have to stay a while longer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hate the idea of you leaving.”

  I walked over to him and placed my hand on his arm. “I know. But I have to finish. I owe him a lot of money. More than I have.”

  He sighed, sliding his hand around my waist. “But I’m crazy about you, cher. I want you to stay.”

  “I know you do.”

  “You can’t tell me you don’t feel something here.”

  I bit my lip. “That doesn’t change anything.”

  “Of course it does. Stay with me.”

  “I can’t, Jack. And the more you ask me, the harder it’s going to be.”

  He looked at me like I’d slapped him. It sounded easy, the way he said it. Stay. As if I could forget about my house in North Carolina, forget about my debts, forget about my father. I thought I loved Jack, but what if this was just something that felt like love? What if I left everything behind, stayed here, and it turned out to be a disaster? People didn’t relocate after month-long flings. Did they?

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, sliding my fingers along his cheek.

  He turned his head and said, “So much for simple and uncomplicated, I guess.”

  “We both knew this wasn’t simple. But I still don’t regret it.”

  He scoffed, brushing past me as he walked outside onto the porch and into the yard.

  I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I’d never met a guy like Jack, never felt this way about anyone before. It was easy when I kept relationships casual. If I didn’t let men get too close, then it didn’t hurt so bad when they left. And they always left. Sometimes I wanted them to. But with Jack, it had been easy to let him in close, and being close meant I let myself feel things for him I had never felt before. But being close meant being vulnerable. As long as I thought of us as casual, then I’d be able to walk away when I was finished.

  But it was getting harder to convince myself that was true. Unlike the men before him, I didn’t want to fix him and send him on his way.

  ~~~~

  For the rest of the day, I tried to keep myself busy so I thought less about this battle between my brain and my heart. There was no longer any need to leave the living room in its decrepit state, so I started filling trash bags with anything that was damaged beyond repair: remains of the curtains, lamps with stained glass shades, books with blackened pages. We’d had the sofa, chairs and coffee table hauled away to the dump after the fire, but we’d left everything else in place. Some of Vergie’s things had been on the bookshelves in this room, but most of their contents had been Jack’s. I put anything that looked like it was his in a cardboard box and set it aside.

  Jack came back inside just long enough to get a bucket of paint from the sitting room and to change his shirt. It was scorching outside, but he’d said he wanted to replace a few of the bad shingles on the front of the house. Probably because it meant he could put a few walls between us and not have to talk to me. I knew I’d hurt his feelings earlier, but I didn’t know what to say to him now. So I focused on cleaning out the burned room and let him concentrate on the outside of the house. The wood shingles were pale blue, shaped like the scales of a fish. It was a pain to replace them, but Jack had removed one himself to use as a pattern. He’d cut them out with a jigsaw, getting the curve just right, and painted them to match the house. When I’d peeked out the window earlier, he’d been sanding them a little, so they wouldn’t look brand new next to the old ones.

  Jack went back outside without saying a word.

  I hesitated, then poured a glass of water and joined him. Jack stood on a step ladder, nailing the shingles back into place. He pulled one from the pouch tied around his waist, took a nail that he held in his teeth, and hammered it into place with three solid hits.

  “Hey,” I said. “Looking good.”

  He’d replaced a dozen or more already, in two separate areas by the windows. He pulled another nail from his teeth and drove it in with three strokes, heavier this time.

  “I thought you might be thirsty,” I continued.

  He glanced at me, pulling another shingle from the pouch. “Thanks. Just leave it by the sawhorse.”

  “I wish you’d talk to me. Let me explain something.”

  Another shingle. Another nail. Three hits with the hammer.

  “Can you come down for a minute?” I asked.

  “I think you made yourself clear already.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “I could explain it better.”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” he said, driving another nail in.

  I waited a short while, but when he placed another shingle and plucked another nail from his apron, I gave up. “OK, I’ll be inside.”

  ~~~~

  Vergie’s room was the only one left to paint. I was saving it for last. I opened the trunk at the foot of the bed and took out the hat box Jack had given me. I’d left all of the letters and journals inside like he found it. I’d only peeked at a couple of the letters from my mother, addressed to Vergie.

  They felt heavy in my hands. I might never learn everything I wanted to know about my mother. Maybe it was better that way. I didn’t need to know everything, but I needed to know something about why she had left me. At last I untied the ribbon holding the letters I’d been too afraid to read a few days before. Each envelope had the same oddly slanted handwriting, and most were dated the year my mother left us. I shuffled them into order and pulled the top letter from the stack. My pulse quickened as I opened it.

  There were fourteen letters in all. I read them in order but still only had a glimpse of whatever had driven my mother away. She talked a lot about me, which was surprising. She told Vergie about the games we played, about how she was teaching me to cook, how she’d tried to sew a patchwork quilt for me and failed. She’d been so frustrated over not finishing that she made it into a pillow just so she had something to show for her efforts. She mentioned a vacation we took to the beach, playing in the ocean. She talked about being homesick for Louisiana. The only thing she mentioned about my father was that they “continued to grow apart.” I read the letters twice, trying to decipher something that lay between the lines, something that might indicate an affair, or fighting, or some other event that would have m
ade her want to leave. But there was no mention of any single incident. She often talked of feeling trapped, like she was in a life she was not meant to live, but she didn’t elaborate. I could tell she was unhappy, even as she wrote about the daughter she loved. She often asked Vergie, What should I do? And I imagined her alone, frustrated and scared—pretending to be happy in a life she didn’t like.

  In the last letter, she said she’d come to a decision and knew what she had to do to live the life she wanted. She wrote that she would see Vergie soon and that she looked forward to coming back.

  Had she come here all those years ago? Had she come back to live with Vergie in this very house? Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of my mother, here, in this room and in all the others, feeling the same way I felt about this house, this land. Feeling like it was a sanctuary, the place that would let her be the person she so longed to be.

  Why hadn’t she brought me with her?

  I loved my father, despite his flaws, and I couldn’t imagine how different my life would have been without him. But I also couldn’t imagine why my mother chose to leave me behind. With her gone, and now Vergie gone, I might never know.

  And now, as much as I hated her for leaving, I was doing the same thing. Why was it that when things got complicated with Jack, my first instinct was to walk away?

  I hated that we had that in common.

  I pushed the photographs aside and pulled the small brown journal from the bottom of the box. The ink had bled and faded on some of the pages, but the handwriting was still legible in most places. Vergie’s diary. The first entry was dated twenty-three years before. When I flipped to the last page, I saw that it spanned three years. Vergie clearly wasn’t a daily writer but perhaps one who recorded the most important events in her life. This would have been before my mother left me, but I wondered if there still might be some insight in these pages.

  I’d made it through a half a dozen entries when there was a light knock on the door.

  From the doorway, Jack said, “I just got called in. I may not be back until late.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking at the clock. It was after eight.

  “I tried to call Andre, but I can’t get him on his cell.” His voice was still cool. “If you want I could call Buck to come over, or you could go over to their place. They’d be happy to have you.”

  “It’s OK,” I said, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”

  He sighed. “I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said.

  He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll worry about you all night.” His eyes were sad and dark. Because of me.

  “OK,” I said, giving in. “I’ll go over to their house.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I’ll just get a few things together and head over there. I won’t be far behind you.”

  “OK,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He turned to leave.

  “Jack, wait.”

  He paused. “What?”

  “I was hoping we could talk later. About this morning.”

  He slid his hand along the doorframe, avoiding my gaze.

  “Please. There are some things I need to tell you.”

  He nodded. “OK. In the morning. You should plan to spend the night at Buck’s. If I finish in time, I’ll join you over there.”

  “Break a leg.”

  He walked quickly down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, and out on the porch. And then he was gone.

  I turned back to the journal, just to read a few more entries before I left. Reading Vergie’s words, I saw a whole new part of her that had never existed for me before. It made me wonder if there were other journals in the house, packed up in closets, stashed in trunks, hidden on the bookshelves between her paperback westerns. And what about my mother? What if she’d kept journals here and I hadn’t found them yet? There were so many secrets here, I wondered if I could ever stay long enough to untangle them all.

  The next time I looked at the clock, it was nearly ten.

  “Shit,” I said. I hated to call Buck and Josie that late. Jack would be furious at me if I didn’t go over there. Downstairs, I found my phone lying on the kitchen table, the ringer turned off. There was a voicemail from an hour ago, plus two other missed calls.

  I pressed the play button. It was Josie.

  Hey, sweetie, she said. Jack called and said you needed to come stay with us while he went to work. I just thought you’d be here by now, so I wanted to make sure everything’s OK. Call me when you can. We’ll be up.

  She’d be worried about me by now. Bella whined, scratching at the door.

  I called Josie back, and she answered on the second ring.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told her. “I was doing some cleaning and lost track of time. Is it all right to come now?”

  The dog barked, pacing.

  “Of course,” she said. “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Bella barked again, and I opened the door. She bolted across the yard.

  “Thanks, Josie.” I shut the door and flipped the bolt.

  I left the phone on the table, and fished my keys and wallet out of my messenger bag. Then I hurried upstairs and threw my toothbrush and a change of clothes into my duffle bag. I took the other journal from the hat box, skimmed a few pages, and put it in with my clothes. Now that I’d started reading, I couldn’t stop. I took a quick look in Vergie’s closet and the back sitting room to see if any stray journals were lying around. I hadn’t checked the bookcases yet, but I’d go over every square foot of that house to be sure my mother hadn’t left a notebook somewhere. I made a mental note to comb through the books when I got back. Something told me I’d find more of Vergie’s journals sandwiched between her novels.

  Glancing at the clock on the dresser, I cursed under my breath. I had to get over to Josie’s—it had been twenty minutes already. An idea popped into my head, and I checked the trunk in the upstairs room Jack had left as a study. But I didn’t find anything more. Defeated, I grabbed my bag and went downstairs.

  I stopped on the bottom step. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

  In the time it took for the smell to register, I saw the figure by the front door and felt a surge of panic.

  Remy stepped into the light from the kitchen, plucking a cigarette from his lips.

  “Going somewhere, darlin’?”

  Chapter 24

  I froze, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Remy Broussard stubbed his cigarette out against the kitchen doorframe, blowing a stream of smoke in the air between us.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked, dropping the duffle.

  A sly grin touched the corners of his mouth. “Back door was open,” he said. “I called, but there was no answer. I was concerned for your safety, so I let myself in.”

  The kitchen door was most certainly locked. But it had glass panes.

  “What do you want?” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “I just figured it was time we talked. About these little outbursts you seem to have, and this propensity of yours to slander me in public places, in front of civil servants.” He cocked his head. “It’s really a nasty habit.”

  He was blocking the front door. I glanced toward the kitchen, thinking of knives and frying pans, but I was too far away. He would easily cut me off.

  I couldn’t outrun him. He was twice my size. I needed another tactic.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I was just upset.” I leaned against the newel post at the stairs. “I’m sure you understand.”

  He took a step toward me. “Ah, so this is just a misunderstanding.”

  I tried to sound pleasant, to smile, even. “I didn’t mean any of those things. I’m sorry.”

  “You said that already.” He stared at me, his eyes dark. “What’s the matter, darlin’? You’re shaking like a kitten.”

  “I feel ba
d about all of this,” I said, swallowing hard. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything that night with the sheriff. I’ll talk to him. He thought I was crazy anyway.” I laughed a little, like I might shrug it off.

  His eyes narrowed, and I felt the hair on my neck rise.

  “Let me make it up to you,” I said. “Can I fix you a drink?” I nodded toward the kitchen.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  I eased past him, and he followed me into the kitchen, eyeing me closely as I pulled two glasses from the cabinet and poured the bourbon. There was a knife block at the end of the counter, just out of reach. He could easily overpower me if I made any sudden moves, and I shuddered thinking of what he’d do to me.

  I handed him the glass, willing my hand to stay steady. His fingers brushed over mine. Behind him, I saw the broken pane of glass in the door but quickly looked back to him.

  “How about we start over?” I suggested, holding my glass to his. “I gave you a second chance, right? Now I’m asking you to forgive my bad manners.”

  He raised one eyebrow, as if that was a fair statement. As I took a sip of my drink, he knocked his back with a flick of the glass. His eyes rested heavy on mine.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Ever since that night at the bar.”

  “Is that right,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question.

  I took another sip of bourbon and lay my hand on his chest.

  His eyes rested on my hand.

  “We could have fun together, you and me,” I said, sliding my finger along the buttons of his shirt. As long as my hand was moving, it wasn’t trembling.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he said.

  “How about you let me make this up to you?”

  He grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard. “You’re a terrible liar, darlin’.” His face hardened as he leaned closer to me. His other hand came around me quickly, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I yelped as my glass hit the floor and shattered.

  “Come with me,” he said, his lips brushing my ear. He twisted my hand behind my back and shoved me against the wall. His body pressed hard against my back, holding me in place.