Thinking of my elderly friend with enough gusto to run her own oil company, I’m thinking she might have been the second complainer.
TB leans across the table to study the report. “The numbers aren’t good, are they?”
I get to the last page and spot technical terms I will Google later, but I know that the water quality is suffering. There’s mention of chemicals such as benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene and xylenes. Benzene I know is a carcinogen. Bioremediation, dispersants, and in some cases burns are required, the report says, to solve these “contaminant issues,” and water berms should be placed on the lake outside of the springs area to “contain contaminant area.”
“Wow,” TB says. “What do you think caused all this?”
I scan the document to find the culprit but there are pages and pages of this report. “I don’t know. Could be oil, gas or any type of chemical made in Louisiana. I’ll have to read this thoroughly when I get home and see.”
“Better yet,” TB adds, “the big question is why did this spill or whatever it was cause ghosts to appear?”
I smirk. “If it’s not all about hysterical women, of course.”
TB places his fork down and stares out the window to the Mississippi River rolling by. He’s unusually quiet.
“What is it?”
He looks back at me. “Do know that there are legends behind Fontus Springs and Lorelei Lake?”
I shrug, thinking again I should have read more of the box’s information. “Every place has a legend.”
TB crosses his hands as he leans his elbows on the table. “Not like this.”
Now, I’m leaning forward. “Like what?” I whisper.
TB glances around the room but again, no one’s here except for the server and a chef cleaning up in the kitchen. “Fontus in Roman religion was a god of the springs. They used to honor him in October with a festival and put garlands on the town’s fountains and wellheads. It all hails back, I think, to something called the Mith-rayovac mysteries.”
“Mithraic mysteries,” I correct him.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, there’s this scene where Fontus, or whatever they called him, struck a rock and water came pouring out. Water was a big thing to those people. Meant regeneration, not to mention that wells and springs were necessary for life.”
My husband’s ink-brown eyes light up as he’s talking and it reminds me of how good-looking he is, an innocent nicely-formed face beneath beautiful blond locks. He really is a cutie, would be perfect as the star of a Lifetime movie, the kind set out west where some cowboy has a baby but doesn’t know it until he moseys back to town and reunites with the heroine, pushing up his ten-gallon hat as he glances seductively down on her from his horse.
I shake my head of the image but for a moment, it’s like old times. We’re enjoying a meal, laughing or discussing some interesting subject while playing footsies under the table, arranging a love date later with our eyes. Lillye would watch us from her high chair and smile.
“Did you hear me?” TB asks.
Did I mention I’m also ADHD as hell?
I clear my throat. “Yes, Fontus. God of the spring.”
“There’s more. He was the son of Jacob, I believe.”
“Janus. And the festival was called Fontinalia.” TB turns his head like a puppy, so I come clean. “I read through some of the box. Plus, I love mythology.”
“Then you know about the naiads.”
The goosebumps return and I shiver. “There was something about naiads in that box?”
TB resumes eating but nods, then utters between bites, “Elijah must have researched them because his writing was all over it.”
Naiads go back further, to Greek mythology, a female nymph if you will who loves water. I studied them in fourth grade for a play, was fascinated. I used to wish one would appear every time we visited Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans, envisioning her a Carnival Queen with Mardi Gras beads around her neck and a tiara in her hair, rising from the waters to invite me to join her in her adventures under the sea.
I shake my head again. I had such an imagination as a child. Then again, back when I was young I also talked to the dead until social and family pressure made me force them away.
“What did Elijah’s research say?” I ask to get back on track.
“The naiads are spirits, minor but beautiful goddesses that inhabit springs and other bodies of fresh water. Pegaiai were the type that preferred springs but I have no idea how to pronounce that. They also were protectors of girls, making sure they were safe into adulthood.”
Now, it’s my turn to study the Mississippi moving like a mighty ship toward the Gulf of Mexico. Would the Mississippi have naiads? It’s a body of fresh water. But, would beautiful goddesses hang out in such a polluted river moving ships and agriculture runoff toward the ever-growing dead zone of the Gulf.
“Vi?”
I’m veering again, think about a goddess living among that beaver on top of the Hi Ho and those crazy signs on the side of the road, saying “Hey, y’all” as people enter the bait shop.
“So, saying there are naiads in the world, would they hang out in Lorelei Lake?”
I’m smiling as I say this, but TB stops eating and gazes at me with a puzzled expression. “Say what?”
“These are Greek goddesses, right?”
“Yeah, but if they live in Greece, they might as well as live here.”
The hunky cowboy scene disappears and I’m back to thinking my husband is clueless. “TB, there’s no such thing as a naiad.”
TB, on the other hand, is sober as a priest on Sunday morning. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, either.”
Touché, I think, but I offer a patronizing smile as he mops up his lunch with French bread, finishing it off with one bite that’s followed by the rest of his tea. The server who was kind enough to let us in is now at our side, anxious to remove our plates and be done with us.
TB throws a twenty and a ten on to the table. “Does that cover it?”
“Yes, thanks,” the server says, suddenly becoming more hospitable. “Can I get you anything else? Dessert? Teas to go.”
I’m about to politely decline when TB smiles his boyish grin, leans back in his chair. “Why that would be really sweet of you.”
The girl blushes and heads off to the counter.
“Aren’t you mister charming.”
TB shrugs. “I’m just a nice guy being nice.” He picks up my hand, rubs his thumb along the inside of my palm. “I wish you would appreciate me.”
“I do appreciate you. Very much.”
I’m just not in love with you.
We gather our servings of bread pudding and iced tea within Styrofoam containers — God, I hate those, see them bopping all over Louisiana’s wetlands — and head back to the cars. We reach TB’s pickup first and I hand him his share of the bounty. He stares at the containers in his hands, then looks at me with a painful gaze. I brace myself, waiting for his endless declaration of love, something I’m not able to return.
“Vi,” TB finally says, “who were you drinking with last night?”
This is not what I’m expecting and I find myself speechless. I never thought TB would catch on and question me so I don’t have a proper lie to volley back. I bite my lower lip and look down at my sandals.
“Just someone I met at the hotel. A colleague.”
TB sighs and looks heavenward, that painful look still glistening in his eyes. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
Again, this takes me aback. “Not at all. Why do you say that?”
He looks at me then, a sad smile playing. “I know when you’re hiding something. You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“I’ve never lied to you, TB. I’ve never been unfaithful.” I add, “When we were together.”
“But, you are now.”
I bite my lip again and watch a mother and her daughter cross the street. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you never look me in th
e eye when you’re not being truthful.”
I look back and realize he’s right. I’m avoiding his eyes because I don’t want to witness his pain. I know my husband still loves me but it’s not going to happen so how do I explain Eric and watch his reaction?
“And you always bite your lip.”
Half of my lip is inside my mouth, so I let it go and exhale. “He doesn’t mean anything. Just a guy I met who works with me.”
TB turns and places the container on the hood of his car, then pulls his keys from his pants pocket. He doesn’t look back.
“It’s okay Vi.”
I can’t stand leaving things this way, can’t bear the pain emerging through his voice. I grab his shoulder and urge him to turn but he opens the door and slides inside.
“You forgot your food.” I pull the items from the hood and hand them to him one at a time. Just before he closes the door, I pull a Matt Wilson and stick my hand in between. “Please don’t leave like this.”
He doesn’t say anything, just gives me a defeated look, so I let him close the door. He starts the engine, but pauses, hands planted on the wheel as he gazes off toward the tall state capitol that Huey Long built. Finally, he rolls down the window, extending an arm.
“Let me know what happens with the case. I’m curious how this all turns out.”
I touch his elbow. “Honestly, it meant nothing.”
“Good-bye Vi.”
And with those final words, my ex-husband who’s been nothing but awesome to me from the moment we met in world history class at LSU drives off into the night, heading to the interstate and our former home in New Orleans. I watch his pickup head down North Street until the brake lights are no longer visible, feeling as low as a snake’s belly in a wagon’s rut.
I pull out my own keys and look for my Toyota, half a block away. Just before I reach it, I’m approached by a capital policeman.
“Is that your Corolla?”
He’s looking at my car so I assume he’s talking to me.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I hope you’re not going far. Someone busted your window.”
The sidewalk side of my car looks fine so I walk around to the driver’s side window and find it shattered with tiny pieces of glass all over my front seat.
“What happened?” I ask the cop.
“I don’t know, I wasn’t on duty then. But one of the people in the coffee shop over there said she thought someone drove by and threw a rock at it.”
I open the door and search the seat but there’s only glass about. The sun’s still on the horizon but the nearby building has cast a dark shadow on my car’s interior. I reach my left hand down to the floor and pat the floorboards and sure enough, there’s an object large and hard enough to do the damage. I curl my fingers around the coarse object, straighten and show the policeman what I’ve found.
“Wow, do you have any enemies?”
I start to dispute that, imagine this incident as a random crime, when Matt Wilson’s face comes to mind. That and the fact that I’m holding an old water meter in my hands.
Chapter Nine
My window replacement I was assured would be forty-five minutes at best has turned into a long morning and my anger buddy has returned full force. Not only is the money I made reviewing three hotels going to Boudreaux’s Auto Shop but the man in charge speaks to me like I’m a child. I’m standing at the counter to inquire once again how long this will take now that noon is approaching but Boudreaux won’t glance my way. He’s busy filling out a form and for the life of me I’m stumped why people don’t get how one little “I’ll be right with you” will calm me faster than a shot of bourbon. He doesn’t look up and my chest gets tighter and tighter and I’m ready to reach through this window and stab Boudreaux with the pen he’s using.
Finally, I’ve had enough.
“Am I invisible or do you just like treating women this horribly?”
Boudreaux looks at me — finally — and acts like I’m crazy. “Excuse me?”
“I’m standing here at this counter and you can’t give me the time of day?”
I hear my voice rising but I don’t care. I think back on what Eric taught me, that only the squeaking wheel gets the grease, although as a writer I really hate clichés.
Boudreaux looks back at his paper. “I’m working on a client’s car at the moment.”
I’m not going down with this. No sir.
“And I’m a client who you said would have a car within an hour. Again, am I invisible? Because if I am, or that form is more important than my business, I am happy to bring my service elsewhere.”
A woman behind me applauds and says, “You tell him sister,” and Boudreaux becomes almost flustered. Almost. He sighs and puts down the clipboard.
“What is your name again?”
This sends me over the edge. I can feel myself falling into the abyss like Thelma and Louise.
“Just give me the keys,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m done with this horrible customer service and I’m done waiting. Oh, and I’m a local journalist so you can best believe I’ll be spreading this around.”
This spurs Boudreaux into action. He opens the door and walks into the lobby, looking me in the eye this time.
“I’m sorry. We’ve been very busy this morning. Give me your name and I’ll check on it ASAP.”
I shake my head incredulously. “How do you not know my name? I’ve been here for hours, constantly asking about my Toyota.”
His eyes light up and there’s a semblance of a kind smile emerging. “The broken window. It’s being worked on right now.”
“I’ve heard that numerous times already, been here since daybreak.”
He holds his hands up to placate me — that or he’s afraid I’m going to hit him. “I had to order the window from the dealership and it took a while to get here.”
“More like you guys took your time retrieving it from the dealership.”
Again, I’ve derailed the man, placing me on top of the situation. Damn, this feels good.
He sighs, knowing he’s defeated. “I’ll go check on the progress. How about we knock off fifty dollars for the inconvenience.”
I narrow my eyes and think why not keep going? “I think a hundred might do it.”
Boudreaux says nothing but nods, then hurries off to the garage.
“Wow, that was impressive,” the lobby woman with the Metallica T-shirt says.
If I was in my right mind, I might take a bow. I’m thrilled that I got my way, made this jerk notice me and correct a situation where I, the customer, was right. I mean, when does that ever happen? But as the anger slips away and my adrenaline balances out, I feel sick. Is this who I really am?
No, I command myself, I’m not backing down, not returning to easy-going Vi who takes what people hand out.
“Hell yeah!” I tell the woman, who smiles and goes back to watching Donald Trump being his own jerk on The Apprentice.
I exhale way too loudly and plop into the hard plastic chair that’s attached to the wall as if we might steal it away. As if. I’m incredibly tired, didn’t sleep much the night before and hauled myself over here first thing in the morning because I was told to by the person answering the phone. Little good it did since even though I was first in the door, other people have come and gone since. Maybe it wasn’t their fault. Maybe they really had to wait on the dealership and I’m just too damn tired.
It was a long drive home from Baton Rouge the night before. By the time I reached Lafayette I was royally pissed. My face suffered wind burns from driving the interstate without a window, even though I puttered along at the minimum speed of forty miles per hour, which turned a forty-five-minute drive into two excruciating hours. My carpet burn turned raw from the experience, making it hurt to cuss, which I did anyway. And I swore I swallowed a large bug crossing the Atchafalaya Basin swamp.
Once I reached home I grabbed my bag from the car and stumbled into my potting shed, throwin
g everything on to the floor in disgust and thinking of nothing but a hot shower. Then I remembered the pool.
I’m not supposed to use the pool unless Reece is staying at the house across town he shares with his wife and two kids. He never asked me to abstain from swimming when he was separated but now that the kids and wifey visit our property on numerous occasions, I’m assuming the potting shed girlfriend should remain off limits.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I muttered on my way to the pool, catching Reece and family through the main house’s bay windows. They were enjoying a meal together in the back gallery, the only room he managed to finish before getting back with his wife. The four of them glow in the moonlight, all smiles and perfection, and I tried to grit my teeth but the wind burn winched and I followed up with a few expletives.
I started entering the pool slowly, quietly walking down the steps, but the water felt so amazing and my body ached from leaning two hours to avoid the interstate wind. Besides, who cares if the Cormier family hears me, I thought, so I dove in and starting swimming, letting the sound of my splashes echo throughout the yard.
My frustration and anger spent, I let myself sink to the bottom of the pool and looked up at the yard lights filtering through. The cool water enveloped me like a mother and for a moment all anger dissipated and a sense of calm invaded my soul. I had forgotten how peaceful and spiritual water could be when the world goes away.
Until Reece showed his head.
I grunted, and bubbles came flying out my mouth as I headed to the surface. My landlord had interrupted my solace and my anger returned.
“I know, I shouldn’t be here,” I said too harshly when I hit the surface.
He looked taken aback. “I wasn’t here to tell you to get out of the pool.”
I headed toward the steps, trying to absorb the feel of the water one last time. “But you want me to leave before your family spots me.”
“Vi, I’m not here to….”
“No worries, Reece. I’m gone.”
I left the pool’s comfort and grabbed my towel. He took my arm, halting my drying progress.
Ghost Town Page 13
