“I’ve been working on a property near here,” he begins. “Hurricane Rita ruined this lady’s roof and the scumbags that repaired it did a horrible job so Big Joe — you know the guy I’ve been working for through Fred Richard’s brother — hired a bunch of us to replace the section over her kitchen because it’s been leaking horribly.”
Did I mention he also travels to Alaska before getting to the point?
“She has this adorable Acadian-style home. You would love it, Vi. Slopped roof, big front porch.”
I love front porches, always wanted the wrap-around kind, but my patience is wearing thin. “What’s the big reveal?” I ask a bit too harshly.
TB’s smile fades as if I stole the joy from his story. “I’m getting there.”
I put my purse on the counter and plant my feet so I’m comfortable. “Sorry.”
His smile returns. “Anyway, I’m admiring her house and see through the front window that she has one of those old Victrola’s, the kind you have to wind up to play. You remember how my Uncle Buzz had one down the bayou?”
We’re probably in Wyoming by now but I just nod and take a deep breath.
“I tell this nice lady — her name is Miss Smith, if you can believe there’s actually a Smith living in Cajun Country.” He snorts laughter and it’s all I can do not to laugh back, because it’s TB that’s funny. “The Victrola was her granddad’s and he bought it from a traveling salesman back in the day when this area was so rural they didn’t have but small grocery stores. Definitely no Walmarts.”
TB laughs again and we’re now in Seattle, so I veer him back on track. “This is what you wanted to tell me?”
He sobers. “No, but it’s related.”
A bell rings at the door behind me announcing an incoming tourist so TB pulls me aside while the counter woman greets them. I give TB an inpatient look mainly because I’m starving and I’m ready to head to the restaurant before it closes. TB gets the message and starts up again.
“Miss Smith invited me into her house because she wanted to show me her other antiques. She has a house full.”
My stomach growls. “And?”
“And,” TB smiles broadly, “there was this picture on the wall. Apparently, Miss Smith has lived in the area her whole life and she was a witness to what happened.”
He pauses because, even though TB takes his own sweet time to tell a story, he knows how to prepare you for the grand reveal. “Okay, I bite. What happened?”
TB keeps smiling as he grabs my arm and leads me to the back of the gift shop where an oversized photo hangs next to a couple of newspaper articles. I figured this is what he wants me to see so I look deeply at the black and white photo. It appears to be the lake outside our back door but without water. There are boats left listing in the mud while debris is scattered everywhere. At the top of the photo the owners have marked “The drilling disaster of Lake Peigneur.”
I turn to TB for information.
“Miss Smith had a similar photo.” He leans in close to make sure I hear every word. “They drilled into the salt mine underneath the lake.”
I shrug. I’ve heard of salt domes occurring throughout Louisiana. The region used to exist beneath an ocean at one time so salt deposits were created. In fact, places like Jefferson Island are not really islands. The land around the salt deposits eroded so the domes protrude above the landscape making them appear as islands. I learned this visiting Avery Island, where Tabasco is made. The McIlhenny family produced the hot sauce using salt unearthed from their underlying salt dome.
“So, there’s a salt dome here?” I ask TB, knowing well the answer.
“Yes.” TB points to the accompanying news articles. “And in 1980 they drilled into the dome and punctured the roof.”
A shiver runs through me because I’m finally getting the point. I look back at the photo and realize why the lake is empty. Behind me I hear TB say, “They sucked the lake right into the salt mine.”
Chapter Fourteen
We stare at the expanse of Lake Peigneur, watching as the waters glisten and wink at us.
“Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
I turn to TB, still amazed at how my clueless ex-husband might have solved the mystery of Lorelie Lake.
“All of this disappeared?”
He grins, slipping his hands inside those tight jeans smudged with pits of dirt and paint. “All of it.”
I have so many questions, not to mention so much to share, but TB grabs my arm and pulls me toward the restaurant which — we’ve been warned by the lady in the gift shop – will be closing soon. Just as well because I’m starving; been a long time since breakfast. And yes, I tend to skip breakfast to the detriment of my well-being.
The place is empty so the waitress sits us at a prime spot with massive windows overlooking the lake. I gaze out and watch a lone man cast his line off a small boat. Just before the waitress leaves after handing us menus, I grab her sleeve and ask for bread and an unsweetened iced tea.
“Carol in the gift shop said the special today is chicken fricassee,” TB reports from behind his menu, “but the gumbo’s to die for.”
I give TB a questioning look when he lays the menu down.
He shrugs. “I’ve been coming here for lunch for weeks now.” He pulls his napkin into his lap and makes himself comfortable. “The bread pudding’s great, too.”
Gumbo sounds divine so I place my menu on the table. “How many jobs have you had over here?”
He turns to look at the lake and the side of his mouth twitches, a sure sign he’s hiding something.
“TB?”
“A few.”
I suspect he’s been taking these jobs in Acadiana to be closer to me — and to offer the hotel stipend so I won’t starve to death. I wonder if I hadn’t been so hell bent on moving on from Katrina, on following Eric’s lead in the art of bitching, I would have noticed TB’s kindness and allowed him to help me. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy but I don’t want to think about that now. I’m too excited about the day’s revelations.
“So, explain to me how this drilling accident caused the lake to disappear.”
TB leans forward on his elbows, eager to share the story. He explains how in the fall of 1980 a Texaco oil rig accidentally drilled into the salt mine beneath the lake. What followed was akin to someone pulling the plug in a bathtub. The lake waters poured into the enormous caverns on the third level of the mine which had been emptied of its salt.
“Not only did the lake waters disappear but the drilling platform, barges, docks, boat, and other items fell into that hole, not to mention all the fish.”
I gaze back on that fisherman and imagine him being sucked into a vortex.
“And the canal that connects into Vermilion Bay flowed backwards,” TB adds.
The waitress arrives with a large basket of bread and my iced tea that I immediately gulp down. Did I mention it’s frickin’ hot here in summer?
“Are y’all talking about the lake accident?”
TB’s eyes light up. “Were you here?”
The waitress is pushing twenty at best, so even if she were alive in 1980 I doubt she remembers. But I leave it alone.
“My parents worked here at the time,” Chelsea Leblanc answers. (It’s on her name tag.) “They say the back flow created the largest waterfall in Louisiana history.”
“What?” TB asks incredulously and the waitress laughs.
“Did anyone die?” I pipe in, always the journalist thinking of the grim details.
“Three dogs.”
Chelsea’s face remains serious so I suspect she’s not messing with me.
“The workers in the salt mine got out okay,” TB interjects. “And I think the crew on the drilling rig got off before it went under.”
The waitress changes the subject to food and TB and I both order the gumbo. Lucky for us, the restaurant’s closing soon so Chelsea offers us free bread pudding since the dessert made from day-old bread has pushed its limit on
stale and won’t keep.
“It’ll just be thrown out,” she says and leaves, bringing the menus with her.
I lean across the table. “Three dogs?”
There are so many times TB doesn’t get my jokes and, I must admit, it’s the kind of dark humor best served in a newsroom full of equally cynical and overly educated human beings. Today, he finds her comment funny as well and we both break into laughter.
Once the gumbo arrives and my iced tea glass is refilled, we get down to business.
“So, if I’m not mistaken, this is what happened at Lorelie Lake,” TB begins. “Someone was drilling for oil or natural gas and punctured the salt dome underneath.”
“If there is a salt dome underneath the lake.”
TB smiles that adorable boyish grin, the one that got me into his dorm room bed after the LSU-Alabama home game. And a few times after that, which led to Lillye. I must admit, it’s making me pretty hot right now so I take another gulp of iced tea and clear my throat.
“I called the geology department at LSU and spoke to this professor who studies salt domes.” TB pulls a small paper from his back pocket and glances at some scribbles he made there. “He said there’s a small salt dome on the side of Lorelei Lake, not too far from Fontus Springs. Gave me the coordinates, and when I checked the map, it looks like it’s right where you said the bad smells were coming from.”
Chelsea places two bowls of gumbo before us and I inhale the delicious smells of roux, crabmeat, and shrimp.
“TB, the Lorelie Lake incident was in the 1930s. The smells started last Easter.”
TB’s already breaking off pieces of French bread to dip into the dark soup.
“I know, Vi. The thing is, that piece of property was once part of the original Fontus Springs homestead but it’s far away from everything. On the map, it appears to be the back part of the resort. I think no one went over there, knew what was happening.”
I break off my own piece. “So, what are you thinking?”
He easily pushes that large piece of bread soaked in roux into his mouth and swallows and for not the first time I wished I had his metabolism. The man will eat anything and never gain a pound.
“I’m thinking that whoever owned the property in the 1930s allowed someone to use that section drilled for oil or gas and the company hit the salt dome. It wasn’t directly beneath the lake like this one so only half of the water disappeared. Maybe the accident made that land unusable so now it’s a dump site.”
I look back at the lake, so serene and blue in the sweltering heat. “Makes a lot of sense. And I suppose the state knew about this and made people think it was their imagination as they were building the dam.”
“Or, they built the dam because of it.”
Now, we’re heading into conspiracy theory landmines.
“Let’s not veer into Fox News and stay with Walter Cronkite.”
TB pauses in his enjoyment of gumbo, mouth full of bread. “Huh?”
“We have to stick to facts. I’ll do some research into when they actually planned the dam and when they actually built it.”
TB continues eating but manages a few words between bites. “What news did you want to tell me?”
I smile because finally the pieces are fitting together. This time, I lean across the table in excitement. Through the gumbo, and then bread pudding, I explain how Hobart Industries has been paying Matt Wilson to dump oilfield waste at Fontus Springs. At least, that’s what the financial paper trail suggests. We agree that Matt or someone working for Bayou State Transport spilled something on Easter weekend to produce a smell discernible to residents, particularly Old Man Frederick.
“Still doesn’t explain the ghosts,” I add.
TB orders a coffee and turns pensive.
“What?”
“You can’t drive up there tomorrow alone. And not in your car. It’s not safe.”
I had thought about that. “I’m getting a rental.”
TB stares into his cup, stirring the sugar ‘round and ’round with his spoon. That adorable boyish attitude has turned into a sulking child. Normally, his retreat into childhood annoys the hell out of me, but today, not so much. I really want the company. I really want his company.
“If you’re not working tomorrow, do you want to go with me?”
He looks up, those brown eyes searching. “Do you want me to?”
Like I said, these circulative conversations used to burn up my spine and yet, at this moment, I understand why he acts this way. He loves me and I haven’t loved him back in quite some time. TB wants me to throw him a bone so why wouldn’t he behave like a pensive dog?
I take his hand. “Yes, I want you to come.”
He gives it a squeeze and his countenance shifts. I was wrong in my assessment. TB isn’t sulking at all, just being cautious to my feelings of separation.
“It’s okay, Vi. I understand how you want your space. I just wanted to make sure.”
This is new. “Honestly TB, I’d love to have you with me.”
He smiles but it’s half-hearted. He’s not waiting for a bone at all. He leans back, coffee cup in hand, and drinks it slowly down. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, then stares at the tablecloth lost in thought, fiddling with his fork. I can’t remember when I’ve seen him this serious.
Finally, he speaks. “I do understand, you know.”
“Understand what?”
His gaze meets my eyes and there’s a new man looking back at me.
“We married so young, didn’t have much time to sow our wild oats. Most parents never survive the loss of a child, and for us, well….”
He looks back at the table and Chelsea arrives with the bill and a coffee pot. “Take your time,” she tells us. “I have to refill the condiments and stuff.”
TB pulls out his debit card and hands it over before I have time to object. Chelsea heads off with the bill and TB pours me another coffee. I want to say the three glasses of tea are about to blow up my bladder but I’m curious where he’s going with this talk of wild oats.
“Anyway,” he says, “I understand.”
“Understand what?”
He looks up and a shiver runs through me.
“Understand your need to move on, to try on new shoes.”
It hits me like a sledgehammer.
“You’re seeing someone?”
TB’s lips edge up slightly but it’s not really a smile. “Seeing isn’t the right word.”
“Wow.” I can’t help it. This is the last thing I expected, although I don’t know why. My ex-husband is a sweet, good-looking man that any woman would be lucky to nab. What’s surprising is how this never happened before. Still….
“She’s someone I met at one of those real estate open houses. I go to those on weekends to get designer ideas for the house.” He shrugs. “And the free food.”
I can’t help it. The last bit, plus the surprising pain invading my heart, causes a laugh bubble to rumble through my gut and out my mouth. TB smiles, because it seems like he, too, is finding this whole conversation uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I go for the cookies.”
We both start laughing at this point, but it doesn’t feel good. I worry a cry lingers at the other end.
Chelsea returns, I take a detour to the ladies room, and we head out. I pause at my car while I retrieve the keys, tears lurking too close behind my eyes. I avoid his gaze while asking if he wants to come back to my place.
“Unless you want to see Cookie instead.”
“Who?”
I know if I look his way we’ll only start laughing again which will most definitely produce other emotions. I’m grateful he gets the joke.
“Uh, yeah. I didn’t know you were coming home today.”
“It’s okay, TB.”
“Really, Vi, if I had known….”
I do look this time and he’s the old TB, smiling at me like he cares. Does he still love me? And why, all of a sudden, does it matter? Maybe it’s Lilly
e, I reason. He’s the one person who understands, the remaining evidence that she once lived on this earth, the person who shares the memories of our child. Maybe it’s just been a roller coaster ride of a summer, full of frustration and anger. TB has every right to move on and sleep with whomever he wishes, like I have with that asshole in Biloxi.
I cringe. Suddenly, being with Eric and driving that anger seems so far away and useless now.
TB touches my arm because, apparently, I have once again wondered off to lala land.
“I’ll meet you at your apartment in the morning.”
I nod.
“What time?”
I’m still thinking about some well-dressed real estate cookie, the kind with perfect makeup and heels, toying with TB’s blonde hair, asking if he wants another glass of merlot while they relax on her chaise lounge by a pool. I hate merlot, so of course this bitch will have a bottle.
“Vi?”
I inhale, look up, and smile as if nothing’s the matter.
“Sevenish. Elijah said something about breakfast.”
TB nods and bends down to get a better look at my face. I keep offering that fake smile, then wave him off, turn, and unlock my car door.
“It’s sweltering out here. See you in the morning.”
He’s still hanging around the parking lot as I drive off toward home. I spot him in my rear-view mirror standing there, watching me leave. That is until the vision blurs.
“Damn,” I say to no one and wipe the moisture from my eyes with the back of my arm. It’s summertime and I’m naturally wearing short sleeves so the snot goes everywhere. “Damn,” I repeat.
I reach my potting shed around four and calculate I have an hour to check emails and pitch story ideas to editors. I need to push all these insane emotions aside and get back to work. Who should be waiting for me at my doorstep but two other adorable men: Reece Cormier and Stinky. I pick up one and hug him close and step up to the other, who’s dressed in a Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt, jeans — clean and spotless, the opposite of my husband, — and a tool belt.
“I heard you drive up,” Reece says. “Is that your cat?”
I scratch Stinky behind the ears and the purring begins. “He is now.” Then with an afterthought I add, “Is that okay with you?”
Ghost Town Page 21
