Identity

by Nat Burns

  She found herMéméin the solarium, planting lemon basil plants into long wooden window boxes.

  Spying Liza, her grandmother rose and brushed her hands on the long apron she habitually donned each day.

  “Eliza, bon bebe, comment allez-vous?” She pulled Liza into a gentle embrace.

  “Bon, et tu?”

  “Bien, veritable.”

  Liza laughed. Clearly, her grandmother knew why she was there. “You’d better say you’re okay. Chloe called yesterday and said you’ve been feeling poorly. What’s going on?”

  Rosaries shrugged, “Le c’est les goutte.”

  Liza frowned. “Les goutte?Je ne comprends pas. Speak English, Grandmother.”

  Mémé frowned at Liza but complied. “The gout. Pain in the foot,” she said in a heavily accented patois. “You know I have no patience with the English.”

  Liza laughed. “And you know Pop sure doesn’t speak French at home. I’m so out of practice.” She sobered. “Is it still hurting?”

  “Non, it eases.”

  “You know it’s what you eat, don’t you? All that shrimp.”

  “Crevette? How you mean the shrimps?” She studied her granddaughter with a smile dancing about her lips. Liza, as usual, wondered ifMéméwas playing with her, pretending ignorance.

  “Too much shrimp or meat makes the gout worse. You need to stay away from seafood until it gets better.” She smiled sympathetically. “I know that’ll be hard for you.”

  “Yes, the shrimp is my favorite,” Rosaries agreed. “It will be hard but I will try less of it. The doctor says this too so I must listen. Enough of the pain. Come now and tell me about the family.”

  Liza held her grandmother’s arm close as they moved into her cozy, well-lighted kitchen.

  Placide’s Place had been built by Liza’s maternal great-grandfather, Renoi Boulanger, in the late 1800s after moving from Canada to the lower forty-eight. After his death, the house had passed down to his only daughter, Rosaries. She and her husband, Chayton Hinto, had shared it for more than forty years.

  The era of its construction and the subsequent years had given the house a worn elegance. Though built in the Deep South, it was laid out very differently from most Southern homes, which featured wide-open spaces. Placide’s Place, probably because it was built by a warmth-seeking French-Canadian, had small rooms that led one into the other or playfully skirted a logical connection. When young, Liza had delighted in losing herself in the confusing passageways and intriguing crawlspaces. She would then call out until Papa Chayton, a pure-blood Dakota Indian, would come find her. After guiding her into a main hallway, he would fold his arms and study her as if seeking answers, looking every bit the stereotypical cigar-store decoration. Liza would simply laugh and hug his legs, for his dark, leathery skin and long black hair was incongruous against his modern tie-dyed T-shirts and denim shorts.

  The kitchen was the largest of the original rooms and served as the heart of the home. It offered a huge hearth, the fireplace rigged with iron hooks for cooking in stewpots. The room had been modernized around this hearth, but upon first glance, a visitor easily could be thrust back into the nineteenth century. During family gatherings, everyone gravitated here, mostly during mealtimes, ignoring the more formal dining room less than twenty feet away. The scarred oak table was the site of many heart-to-hearts, especially as Liza dealt with the loss of her mother, Sienna, Rosaries’ beloved only child.

  As Mémé busied herself with filling the teakettle, Liza settled at the table and let her mind reminisce about those days and the talks that had been her salvation during that difficult time. The loss of Papa Chayton just months later had cast a five-year pall on the entire family.

  “Where are you going to put the window boxes?”

  Mémé shrugged. “They’re for the solarium because that plant smells so good. But for no place in fact.”

  “Particular.” Liza’s correction was so automatic that neither woman noted it.

  She glanced out the large window next to the table. From this vantage point, she could see the tree-shrouded roof of the Carson house. Her thoughts flew to Shay and their strange encounter.

  “Hey, Mémé. Have you met the people who moved in over at Carson’s?”

  “Hmm?” Rosaries lit the gas flame under the kettle and took a seat across from her granddaughter.

  “Carson place.Qui est-ce qui habiter?”

  “Pas que je sache. There’s a mystery there.” She shrugged. “From the…Blue?...this man comes and he say he looking for property.”

  They sat for some time in companionable silence, both looking out the window.

  Rosaries answered the call of the singing kettle and filled two cups before resuming her seat and her conversation. “He say he looking for private place, no persons close. Wants to know if that house so. I say yes.”

  “So, what did he say then?”

  “No more. He walk for a long time, then drive the car away.”

  “Then the woman moved in?”

  Rosaries carefully sipped her tea and nodded. “Oui. Young girl with the flame hair.”

  “A redhead. Her name is Shay.”

  “Ah, you know this woman.” Rosaries nodded sagely.

  “Well, not exactly. I met her once. Let’s just say I’m curious about her.”

  “Curiositétué les chat,” Rosaries responded.

  “Mémé!” Liza retorted. “There’s nothing wrong with some healthy curiosity.”

  Rosaries laughed. And, aware of and accepting Liza’s predilection toward women, she never missed an opportunity to tease her about it. “Especially if la femme is beautiful. This one is very beautiful.”

  Liza’s sense of humor took over. “I don’t know, Mémé. She is a redhead and you know what they say about redheads.”

  Rosaries looked confused. “No, what is it someone says?”

  “Well, it’s common knowledge,” she began slowly, “only two things are necessary to keep a redhead happy. One is to let her think she is having her own way, and the other is…to let her have it.”

  It took a moment for Rosaries to comprehend the joke, but once she understood, she chuckled into her teacup and shook an index finger at her granddaughter.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At last. Shay studied the long sheaf of paper in her hand and marveled at how heavy the thick pages felt. She looked at the note from George Madison, her lawyer back in DC. Sign these, he had written, and you’ll be rid of me finally.

  “And rid of his fees,” Shay said aloud to the empty dining room. She looked out the French doors, once again marveling at how bright southern Alabama was. And the sun kissed the earth all year long here, not just for the four months or so she’d enjoyed in DC. Although widely separated from friends and professional acquaintances, Shay decided she liked living here. The sunlight and quiet sultriness of the surrounding bayous spoke to her somehow. She was grateful to have had the funds to escape to this new and different world.

  The fight to bring Pepper to justice had cost a good portion of the inheritance left to her upon the death of her father four years ago, but overall, it had been worth it. Pepper, sentenced to five years for assault with intent to commit bodily harm, would not bother her for some time. Buying this house under an alias and through an international broker had been just one more step toward her escape.

  Her thoughts flew back to the first time she’d seen Pepper. Club Techno 12-34 had been smoky that night, but even so, Pepper’s neon blue eyes had captured Shay in a tractor beam of amused desire. Pepper moved toward her, the approach slow and meandering as she stopped to converse with friends along the way. She’d glanced at Shay now and again while smiling and laughing with her friends, as if making sure her target remained stationary. Shay hadn’t moved, although her heart beat heavy in her chest as she imagined Pepper’s hands on her.

  Gaining Shay’s side, Pepper had laughed a low, smoky chuckle of victory. She had known the effect she had on women. During the tria
l her more secretive predatory habits came to light, and Shay had been shocked anew that she was only one of the many who had fallen prey to Pepper’s special charm.

  An abrupt memory of struggling for comfort in a locked, cramped closet flashed into her mind. The vision shifted and she saw Pepper lowering her muscular, naked body onto yet another blond woman she had picked up over on Dupont Circle. They were usually palely blond and always small in stature. It was as though Pepper needed women smaller than she was to reinforce her power over them. Shay had watched them through the slatted door, God help her, unable to stop, noting how the pastel blond of both their heads blended so well. Pepper had turned to look at her many times during the lovemaking session, those blue eyes making sure that Shay was watching, that Shay had not escaped somehow, that she was still in Pepper’s control.

  Later would come the beatings…for imagined slights…for thoughts Shay had never entertained. And Pepper had infiltrated herself into every aspect of Shay’s life, turning friends away and alienating business clients with her tactless behavior.

  Sudden remembered pain in her fingertips caused Shay to clench her hands into protective fists. There was nothing quite like the singular, exquisite pain caused by clawing a door until your fingernails pulled loose from the nail beds. How many hours had she lain in that closet, beaten and terrified into submission, abandoned by Pepper, the house dark and cold?

  Shay sighed and laid the papers on the dining table. She looked at her new fingernails sadly. Someday Pepper would be free and might find Shay, no matter what precautions she had employed. Her one hope was that Pepper would be dispirited by her time in jail and would not seek out more trouble for herself. Maybe she would forget Shay existed and they could both get on with their separate, peaceful lives.

  Shay feared Pepper. She also feared her own reaction upon seeing Pepper again. Would she be drawn in just as she had before? Would she find the woman just as irresistible?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Well, there is one woman,” Liza said quietly.

  Rosemary’s ears perked like an overwrought Lhasa apso. “Oh really. Tell me more.”

  Liza blushed. “There’s nothing to tell. I only met her once, but I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  Rosemary King, Liza’s friend since sharing mischief in Mrs. Stone’s freshman class, studied her closely. This was an unusual admission from her usually taciturn compadre.

  “That says a lot, you know,” she said finally.

  Liza sighed and tapped the serving spoon she was holding against the rim of the metal chafing dish. It made a gentle, soothing noise.

  Rosemary moved away to load a baked potato for Sly Cash. She winked at the elderly man. “Hey, Sly, how’s tricks?”

  Sly, who’d been homeless the four years that Liza had worked at the mission, shared a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Sure good, Miss Rosemary. No rain. The creek ain’t rising. Guess that’s about enough for me.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Rosemary responded. “You want some of these green beans? Liza here grows them and they’re some of the finest in Alabama.”

  Liza laughed and nudged Rosemary. “Don’t pay her no mind, Sly. She’s just trying for an extra fine Christmas present this year.”

  Sly cackled spontaneously, almost upsetting his tray. Recovering awkwardly, he nodded assent to the beans. “Yes, indeed. I remember them as being mighty fine.”

  “He’s fallen off,” Liza whispered to Rosemary after Sly had moved along the line. She watched as he accepted a glass of iced tea from young Sarah Wellesly, a college student who volunteered two days a week. “Has he been sick?”

  “I think it’s just the booze taking its toll. Getting Sly to the doctor…well…let’s say he’d have to be unconscious.”

  “But Doc comes every Monday,” Liza argued. “Sly won’t even see him?”

  Doctor Clayton King, Maypearl’s general practitioner, who volunteered at the mission, was like a beloved uncle. He was Andy Griffith, for goodness’ sake! Liza couldn’t believe he intimidated Sly.

  Rosemary pressed her lips together into a line of negation as she placed a sloppy joe sandwich on a homeless woman’s plate. “Nope.”

  Rosemary paused and examined the woman more closely. “Hello, welcome to New Life. I’m Rosemary and this is Liza. I don’t think we’ve met you yet.”

  The woman smiled and Liza saw she was missing two teeth on the left-hand side. The large gap gave her smile a rakish air. She tucked her head as if self-conscious about the lack. “I’m Christine. Me and Tommy come down from North Carolina this week.” She indicated the obviously inebriated man next to her in line. He was unshaven, rail thin and missing more teeth than his companion. He wore a battered watch cap over his long, wispy salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Looking to stay warm, huh?” Rosemary studied the two with a practiced eye. She could ferret out troublemakers right away. Usually, if she suspected active substance abuse, she’d make them sober up before coming in. These two seemed harmless enough, although Tommy had definitely had a snort or two.

  Christine nodded. “That’s right. It gets cold up there this time of year.” Her voice had a distinct North Carolina twang.

  “I remember it well,” Liza offered.

  “Are you from there?” Christine asked, studying Liza with a spark of interest.

  “I was for a while as a kid. Notice I’m back here now.”

  “Well, let me tell you all there is to tell about the mission. Mealtimes are posted on the door as you come in. We generally serve for about an hour. There are beds through that door,” Rosemary added, pointing. “Men sleep on the left, women and children on the right. The bathrooms are at the end of this hall. There are hot showers and clean towels. Nothing fancy, just the basics. You need to remember that we don’t allow alcohol or drugs or sleeping in the same bed and it’s a firm rule. And if you smoke cigarettes, there’s a porch out back. Make sure you use the sand bins we have out there; there’s plenty of them.”

  She paused and took a deep breath, pondering what she had forgotten. “Oh, yes, if you have any pets, let me know and we’ll make arrangements for them. If you need anything else you just let me or one of the other workers know; we’ll take care of it.”

  “That sounds just about right,” Christine said quietly. She smiled shyly. “Thank y’all so much for bein’ here to help.”

  “We’re happy to do it.” Rosemary returned Christine’s smile, then turned to fill Tommy’s plate. Liza placed a generous scoop of green beans on Christine’s plate, and with an extra nod of gratitude from Tommy, they moved on.

  Liza looked at Rosemary. “You’ve got the rules and regs down to a science don’t you?” She laughed. “I wonder how many times you’ve said those words over the past few years.”

  Rosemary wiped her hands on the skirt of her apron. “Too many, as far as I’m concerned.” She paused thoughtfully and studied the room. “Then again, maybe not enough.”

  Liza palmed Ro’s shoulder in understanding, then took advantage of the lull to fetch more baked potatoes from the kitchen. She paused just inside, once again admiring the shiny industrial stove and oven that had been installed just a month earlier. Rosemary and her partner Kim Gilbert had worked like fiends to raise the funds so they could replace the ancient, half-functioning unit they’d had there before. Hector Thayer, of the BP gas station on Esperanza, had been a huge contributor as had Dr. King’s wife, Paula, who ran the local florist shop. They had agreed to donate ten percent of each day’s receipts for an entire month. At the end of that month, they’d raised enough for the mission to buy this electric beauty as well as the warming counter out front and some new blankets for the cots. Liza sighed to herself. Now if only they could get all the other businesses in Maypearl to follow suit, they could build a new, entirely separate mission.

  She looked around. Actually, the basement of Recognition Baptist wasn’t such a bad location. It was centrally located, was warm, had carpeting on the floor and
great bathroom and shower facilities. It was a real blessing for the homeless of Maypearl.

  “You daydreamin’, Liza?”

  Gloria Ebbe, Maypearl’s head librarian and one of several mission volunteers, was eyeing Liza while holding up a large serving spoon expectantly. She’d entered from the back storeroom and caught Liza woolgathering. When Liza didn’t answer right away, she moved toward the stove and used the spoon to stir a pot of simmering turnip greens.

  “These cooked up tender,” she commented, letting Liza off the hook.

  Liza sighed and smiled. “They were young and grown in the cool. I had some the other night with butter and salt.”

  “Mmm.” Gloria smiled. “Best bring me some to take home when you get a chance.”

  “That I will, sweet thing.”

  Liza hoisted a stainless steel bin of hot, foil-wrapped potatoes and stepped back into the serving area. The line was queuing up again so she quickly dumped the potatoes into the warming tray and moved on to peer at the other offerings. Everything was fine except the greens so she slipped back into the kitchen and brought out the heavy pan that Gloria had prepared.

  Making her way back, she was gratified to see that the small dining room was almost full. She knew Rosemary harbored the worry that many of the town’s homeless weren’t being cared for, especially the mentally ill. Liza believed that they were cared for, the direct result of Rosemary’s worry and hard work. The town wasn’t that big. It was an old argument, though, and no one, not even her partner Kim, could convince Rosemary she’d done enough.

  Liza studied the dining room with its hodgepodge of donated tables and chairs. When Liza first started helping out, right after returning to Maypearl from Montgomery, she’d assumed there would be an air of desolation among the homeless. She had expected that, because of their status in life, they would feel they were less than. She found the exact opposite to be true. The homeless were a hardy lot, used to innovation and creatively mastering difficulty in all its myriad forms. Unless mentally ill and delusional, they were usually proud of their rebellious lives, proud that they could beat “the man” at his own game. Work nine to five? Bah. Live the American dream with a Cape Cod and white picket fence? Bah.