Reece waves me off. His post-Katrina guilt lets me do anything.
“Sure, no problem at all.” He reaches over to pet Stinky, but my lovable cat lets out a hiss and Reece withdraws his hand.
“Sorry, he’s usually not like this.”
“It’s okay.” Reece puts his hands inside his jeans. “I’m not much of a cat person anyway.”
An awkward silence falls between us and I get the impression that Reece wants to tell me something.
I’m right.
“Look, about us…,” he begins.
I’m in no mood for another man I care about telling me he loves another. Even if Reece has only returned to his wife for the kids, I don’t want to hear it.
“No worries,” I say quickly. “Families come first.”
He looks sad and I know the turn of events have sent him reeling. We did have chemistry between us but that spark is long gone. I admire him putting the children first but not so much for letting it ruin his life, if that indeed is what’s happening here.
“Piece of advice,” I say as I prop Stinky over one shoulder — which the cat lets me do amazingly enough — and open the door to my tiny home. I drop the cat inside and he rushes toward the bathroom and food. I turn and gaze at those gorgeous Cajun eyes I have dreamed about, knowing that anything romantic will never happen. “My parents stayed together for us kids and it turned out horribly wrong. Make sure you also do what’s best for you and your wife.”
He nods solemnly, but removes a hand from his jeans pocket and lightly touches my arm. “Maybe soon we could….”
I definitely don’t want to hear the end of this sentence or feel his seductive touch. I move back and cross my arms over my chest. Stinky begins crying — no doubt because his food bowl is empty — so I blurt out “Gotta go” and hurry away. Once inside the door, I lean my head back and close my eyes.
“So, this is what comes of being angry,” I say to the hot stuffiness of my tiny enclave. “The good guys go away and you end up lonely in a potting shed.”
Stinky cries louder this time, as if he’s dying in the bathroom. Having to care for my stray feline thankfully gets my mind off self-pity.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
First things first, turn on the A/C before I die in this sweltering apartment. Then I open the cabinets to pull out a can of food for my new roommate. Staring back at me are rows and rows of Science Diet, a brand I could never afford.
“What the…?”
Stinky cries again, rubs up against my legs impatiently. I pull one out, open the can, and dump the entire contents on to a plate.
“I don’t know who brought these,” I say to Stinky when I place the plate on the floor and he begins devouring the contents. “But aren’t you one lucky cat.”
Now, that I get a good look at the kitchen, I realize there’s a new faucet, bright white caulking around the sink, and a fresh coat of paint on the cabinets accented by hip new hardware. On one hand, I’m thrilled that Reece upgraded the kitchen in my absence and someone — either he or TB — supplied me with high-end cat food. On the other, it feels like a guilt move, and I’m getting weary of the Katrina pity party. Still, it’s an improvement I desperately needed. The spray in my eyes every time I turned on the faucet was getting on my last nerve.
I sit down on the kitchen floor next to my chowing cat and admire my new digs.
“Definitely looking up, hey Bud? Although it would have been nice to have my landlord share it with me.”
Stinky stops eating long enough to wail, and it’s a deep-throated cry.
“What?”
He returns to devouring his dinner but squeaks out another cry between bites. If I didn’t know better, the cat doesn’t approve of Reece.
“Well, no worries on that end.”
I spend the rest of the night going through the box that Elijah gave me, reading about the town and lake’s history, the legends of sirens and the miracles of the spring’s waters and the German family who found it all. I explore what Lindsey gave me at Hobart’s and find years of the company paying Bayou State Transport to “dispose” of “naturally occurring oilfield waste” at a central Louisiana site. I scour the Internet for more information about all of the above and find bits and pieces, mostly a fascinating account of the springs when General Eisenhower visited during his Louisiana Maneuvers. Apparently, the good general found the waters soothing while training hundreds of thousands of men to be sent overseas.
“There’s a spiritual component to these waters,” Eisenhower relates in the Alexandria Town Talk. “With all the injustice in the world and the dark days that have befallen us, it’s comforting to retreat to a spot where we can be renewed spiritually as well as physically.”
I’m about to call it a night and watch Jon Stewart berate President George Bush on The Daily Show when Stinky waltzes in and lets out another cry. It’s not as loud as his earlier demonstration but it’s enough to get my attention.
“What now?”
He saunters over to the book TB left me, the one about Professor Emoto and his experiments with water. He pauses, then looks back at me and cries again, this time sounding more plaintive.
“What?”
I swear the cat gives me an exasperated look.
I lean over and pick up the book called The Hidden Messages in Water. It’s been one I had meant to reread since TB brought it up but I had never found the time. I gaze back at my cat who’s still giving me the stink eye, so I make myself comfortable in bed and begin reading about the power of thought and water.
TB arrives bright and cheerful just before seven and I know what lies behind that goofy smile. I offer him coffee in a traveling mug that announces an off-road attraction in the Tennessee mountains, but remind him that Elijah is cooking us breakfast.
“Then let’s head out,” he says.
I look back and Stinky’s watching us both carefully.
“Hey Bud,” TB says, following my gaze, and leans over to scratch his ears. But Stinky will have none of it, cries at the door until I let him out.
“Guess he’s got a hot date,” TB says with a grin.
I grab my purse and keys. “That, or he smells it on you.”
I lead the way to TB’s pickup and thankfully we never broach the Cookie subject. Instead, I relate all the things I had read the night before, including the ghost stories found on the Internet, Eisenhower and the Louisiana Maneuvers, and Emoto’s book.
“And, I have to admit, you were right.” I pull out the printouts on the history of Lorelei Dam. “According to this, they built the dam after a long drought caused the lake to fall three feet one summer.”
“It’s a cover-up.”
“Maybe.” I won’t travel down a dirt road unless I have a reliable map; it’s the journalist in me and yes, we do insist upon facts. “If that’s true, then the state was involved.”
TB huffs. “If Matt Wilson’s an indication, there is a long history of the state being involved.”
Matt is definitely hiding the fact that his company’s dumping on private property but whether that means the State Department of Water Quality is also guilty is another thing. And whether the state built the dam to cover up any illegal drilling back in the 1930s is another story. Still, so many questions to answer and I wish with all my soul that I was researching this baby for a story and not to eliminate ghosts. While TB quietly drives north up I-49, I visualize writing this tale and having it printed on the cover of The Times-Picayune, later winning a Pulitzer Prize. I even rehearse the acceptance speech in my brain.
We pull up in front of Elijah’s modest home an hour later and I made sure to place a handkerchief on TB’s antennae. It was Frederick’s request to do so but I’m not taking any chances, even though we’re in the middle of a middle-class residential neighborhood. There are several cars parked out front and the old coot’s may be one of them — with that gun.
“Looks like a party,” TB says.
“I told Elijah t
o bring Sirona and Old Man Frederick. He probably included Miss Bessie, too.”
TB shuts off the engine, but pauses. “Old Man Frederick? You don’t call him that, do you?”
Me and my big mouth. “Oh gosh, no.” Again, an image of that gun comes into mind. “And don’t you, either.”
We enter the home that’s a mirror of Elijah’s grandmother’s: everything in its place, no dust or dirt in sight, neat and tidy as a showroom. What’s with these lake people, I wonder, as I gaze about the immaculate house.
Sure enough, Old Man Frederick and Miss Bessie are seated at the table, enjoying coffee. I introduce TB to Elijah, who then makes introductions all around.
“Want some coffee?” Elijah asks, heading into the kitchen.
I can never have enough coffee. “Sure,” I tell him, but I head to Miss Bessie to give her a proper hug.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She hugs me back without getting up. “Heard you’re going to make these dead people go away.”
Frederick huffs. “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t listen to that old fart.” Miss Bessie pats my hand. “There’s a solution to every problem.”
Considering what’s been going on at the springs, I’m not sure there’s an easy solution to a toxic dump site, but hopefully we’ll have a place to start.
Elijah brings in plates of scrambled eggs, wheat toast, homemade biscuits and fruit-based jam, a few slices of bacon and what he calls substitute sausage.
“Is that that fancy-smancy vegetarian crap?” Frederick blurts out.
Elijah pauses in his delight bringing us a multitude of goodness and his smile sinks. He’s got that look most visitors to Louisiana have when locals shoot down their organic hospitality because it’s different from our usual barrage of fried foods, sauces, and pork products, delicious though our carcinogenic cuisine may be. I saw that look many times when volunteers arrived to help with the storms. They wanted to feed locals something healthy to revive our bodies and spirits and were greeted with raucous laughter.
Then again…I gaze over at Old Man Frederick who’s got to be at least eighty years old and living next to a toxic dump and he’s loading bacon on to his plate. But I’m not taking any chances so I happily choose the healthy options and thank Elijah for his kindness.
“So, let’s get down to business,” Miss Bessie says between bites of biscuit, a few crumbs dribbling down her chin.
I let out a long sigh and then explain what TB and I have discovered. We’re halfway through the drilling accident at Lake Peigneur that we believed also happened at Lake Lorelie, and how the dam came immediately afterwards, when who should waltz in but Sirona. I hear her apologize for being late as the front door opens and Elijah offers her a greeting, but what startles me the most is TB’s reaction. He’s staring at the door, jaw hanging open, eyes as wide as quarters. Before I can turn and greet Sirona myself, TB grabs my forearm.
“That’s her,” he whispers to me.
“Her who?” I whisper back.
TB leans in close so his lips are brushing my ear and the sensation sends goosebumps traveling through my body.
“The siren,” he whispers.
I smile at his naiveté, at how my boyish husband will believe just about anything. I start to explain that I’ve met Sirona before, that she’s as normal as I am, but when I pull back, TB’s gaze is still wide-eyed. He motions his eyes in the direction of the door, urging me to look for myself.
“We’ve met before,” I whisper to him, recalling the day Sirona and Elijah appeared on my doorstep and begged for my assistance.
And Stinky freaked out.
I don’t know if it’s the thought of Stinky’s violent reaction to Sirona or TB’s current amazement at the sight of her but the goosebumps rush up my arms. I push my chair backwards slightly and turn.
Sirona is standing in the doorway, wearing a long golden gown with the bright sunlight of morning pulsating from behind, causing a vibrant aura around her. She’s paused on the threshold as Elijah reaches her side and greets her, giving her a chaste kiss on one cheek. Once again, I’m sure there’s something between Elijah and Sirona but they mask it well, especially Sirona who appears uneasy being here.
“Oh, my God,” Miss Bessie says to my side. “She’s real.”
Now, the goosebumps are going crazy. I look back at Sirona to discern what others are seeing and realize the aura isn’t sunlight at all, but a glow that surrounds this woman and shoots out like stars. There’s a rainbow of colors too — purples, blues, burnt orange — as if her aura is taking this opportunity to show off. Upon her forehead is a star-shaped diadem. And that cheek that Elijah kissed isn’t dark-skinned or white but ethereal, as if her appearance is whatever I wish it to be, strange though that may sound.
I stand so fast my chair turns over. I hear Old Man Frederick saying something about “I told you so” and see Miss Bessie faint in my peripheral vision while TB catches her mid-fall. But I can’t take my eyes off this vision of a woman, who’s no woman at all.
Sirona Harmon is the naiad protecting Fontus Springs.
Chapter Fifteen
Everyone stops in their amazement to attend to Miss Bessie still lying lifeless in TB’s arms, and when Sirona leaves her dramatic entrance at Elijah’s threshold and rushes to help, the vision disappears. Suddenly, Sirona Harmon is just another woman in this group of Lorelei residents.
Except that most women don’t wear golden gowns and place stars on their foreheads.
Elijah springs to action and he and TB carry Miss Bessie to the couch while I run for a glass of water and a damp dishrag. We huddle around the couch placing the rag at Miss Bessie’s head, Elijah speaking softly in his grandmother’s ear, and Sirona holding tight to her hand.
Old Man Frederick remains at his seat behind us, not about to forget what just happened. “I knew she was real. I knew it.”
“Not now, Fred,” Elijah says a bit brusquely, and it’s obvious he’s known who Sirona was all along.
TB stands above us all, staring at Sirona with those enormous brown eyes. I can’t help feeling he’s seeing something about this magical woman the rest of us might have missed ordinarily. Reminds me of that Bible verse about being child-like and entering the kingdom of heaven. For not the first time, I wonder if my simple-minded husband found the keys to the universe while the rest of us learned people keep struggling to find the door.
Miss Bessie opens her eyes and looks at each one of us before landing her gaze on Sirona. Thankfully, we’re in a dark area of the living room and there’s no sunlight behind our water nymph to create her goddess persona and scare Miss Bessie back to darkness. Sirona responds by squeezing Miss Bessie’s hand and speaking in a language I’m positive none of us can understand.
Somehow, Miss Bessie does. She rises to a sitting position and, to our surprise, smiles warmly and reaches her arms out to Sirona for a hug. The two embrace, while tears stream down Miss Bessie’s face. I look over at Elijah who’s just as shocked by the gesture.
Finally, the two unwrap themselves and Miss Bessie wipes her eyes.
“We were friends years ago, down by the lake.” She looks up at Sirona who smiles in remembrance. “I was so lonely at the time, my dad working double shifts and my older brothers away at school. My mother spent most of the day cleaning other people’s laundry so she would swoosh me out the door.”
Sirona squeezes Miss Bessie’s hand and tears once again pour down the senior’s face as she utters through the emotions, “My mom said I made you up. Said you were an imaginary friend.”
“She couldn’t see me, so you can’t blame her.”
It’s the first time Sirona speaks and her tone is lyrical, like a harp played softly, and I remember how lovely it sounded the first time we met.
“Why did I see you?” Miss Bessie asks.
“Because you needed me. And you didn’t see me with the logical blocks that most adults have.”
“I have logical blocks,” Old Man Freder
ick says from behind. “But damned if I didn’t hear you at night.”
“How old were you?” Elijah asks his grandmother.
“Young. I went to kindergarten that fall.”
Miss Bessie’s eyes, once so full of light and joy, dim and I feel the sadness behind them. I’ve felt the same emotion from people who have seen ghosts but can’t convince people otherwise.
“My friends at school didn’t believe me either,” Miss Bessie says. “And after my mother said to forget you, I stopped seeking you out and once, when I was at the lake, you were gone so I believed I really did make you up.”
Sirona looks down at Miss Bessie’s hand and strokes it gently. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I shouldn’t have appeared to you in the first place, but you were so lonely that summer.”
We all turn silent pondering this information. So much to take in, a childhood friendship begun and dismissed, the fact that a water goddess is seated before us, not to mention that this tiny central Louisiana outpost with a beer-drinking beaver-nutria atop the Hi Ho is a magical place worthy of ancient Europe. Go figure.
“Can we get back to the toxic waste dump.”
Give it to Old Man Frederick to bring us back to center.
Miss Bessie throws her feet over the side of the couch, TB and Elijah help her up with Sirona still holding tight to her hand. I follow along as we regroup around the kitchen table and Elijah finds another chair.
“The eggs are cold,” Frederick says.
We all look at Frederick in disgust but Sirona laughs and the sound of her voice lures us back to a happy place and we all join in, even Frederick. Elijah grabs the platter of eggs and heads to the kitchen to heat them up in the microwave, while Miss Bessie pulls an extra plate from the center of the table and begins piling up ingredients for Sirona.
“Thank you, Miss Bessie,” Sirona says, “but I don’t eat people food.”
We all pause again, contemplating this information. Sirona senses we’re all thinking about the poor fish in the lake, so she begins asking about what TB and I unearthed. TB’s still in a trance so I repeat what we discovered at Lake Peigneur, and Sirona nods her head in agreement.
Ghost Town Page 22
