by Kathi Appelt
She admires their clever ability to hover on the bottom, to lurk beside the banks, to lunge at unsuspecting prey. She respects their sturdy jaws and their ruthless grit. Alligators have always been her special pets.
Major Bay knew this. He waited for Miss Celia to give Achsah and her girls a fresh change of clothing. Then he took the old garments, shredded them, coated them with blood from a slaughtered rabbit, and dragged them upstream along her banks. When he reached a hidden cove, he set the clothes and the rabbit right at the water’s edge.
Bait.
For her alligators.
By the time the dogs got there, the handler tugging on their long leashes, whistling to them with his shrill call, all they found were bits and pieces of bloodied clothing, alligators resting on the banks. Alligators love hounds, so it was good that the handler called them off. He stood as close as he dared, pulled his hat from his head, and held it across his chest.
“God have mercy,” he said, and lowered his face and wept.
Zorra
HOUSTON, TEXAS
MONDAY
The famous artist Salvador Dali kept an ocelot. He called her Babou, and he took her everywhere. To restaurants, to the theater, on the train. She was a beautiful creature, and he knew it.
But Babou did not belong in sidewalk cafés and movie houses and glamorous hotels. She belonged in the rain forests of Brazil and Uruguay. She needed to be in the ravines and canyons of Mexico and Baja California. Not in Paris or Rome or New York City.
She was a wild thing.
Zorra too is wild. She does not belong in a wooden cage with an empty metal bowl for company. She needs to return to her Laguna Atascosa with her cousins. She needs food. She needs water. She needs for someone to open the door of her cage before it’s too late for her.
Oh Zorra, gato bonita.
Where is the angel of ocelots?
Does he even know you’re here?
Cade Curtis
HOUSTON, TEXAS
MONDAY
Cade wakes up wishing he could redo the night before. Of all the excuses to give to Soleil, he used his assignment in Mrs. Franco’s class in order to leave the church and skip out on the party. Aarrghh!
He is fairly certain she could see that he was lying. She isn’t stupid.
And he can’t stop thinking about her. Her soft hand and the disappointed look on her face when he lied to her.
But ringing in his ears like a chant, he is also thinking about what Paul said: If only we could find one of those, it would be the last one we’d ever have to steal.
A knot forms in his gut as he recalls the article from the night before.
It was dated 1945. That means that for a good part of a century, more than eighty years, the statue has been missing. It also means that in that same time span, someone else might have already found her. Maybe she was in somebody’s attic or garden or garage, maybe she was wrapped in a tarp and tucked out of sight. It was possible.
She might even be in a museum somewhere. Again, possible.
It could also be that she is like the mystery of the Twin Sisters—a pair of famous cannons that a group of Confederate soldiers buried only a few yards from the edge of the bayou in a copse of pine and oak trees, just as the Civil War came to an end. The soldiers did it in order to keep the cannons from being sent to a foundry and melted down. They—the cannons—had been important weapons in the victory at the Battle of San Jacinto, the decisive battle that ended Mexico’s hold on Texas.
Years later, during the Civil War, they were used again in the Battle of Sabine Pass. The soldiers loved them too much to let them be turned into church bells or plowshares. So, in 1865, they stole them from the arsenal where they were stowed, burned the wooden carriers that held them, and buried the guns in shallow graves. As they covered the ground with leaves, they marked the trees nearby, to signify where they were. But years later, when one of the veterans returned to uncover them, he saw that the trees had grown, the banks had shifted. Despite repeated efforts to find them, the Twin Sisters are still, to this day, missing.
How does Cade even know about them? He remembers reading about them in his seventh-grade Texas history class, a class every single seventh grader in Texas has to take. Who doesn’t know about the Twin Sisters?
It’s also possible that, like the cannons, the statue is still hidden along the banks of the Buffalo Bayou. At least once every six months or so, someone comes by Walker’s Art and Antiques with an object that they’ve found in or around the bayou, things the bayou has kept for years and years, and then, for whatever reason—usually a flood—has given them up and tossed them onto her banks.
More often than not, the objects are coins. Cade has seen coins from every era and from dozens of different countries, all discovered along the bayou. There is a small display of them in the front jewelry case, along with a cache of old guns—derringers, Colts, a tiny pocket flintlock with gold finish.
Clients have also dropped off other odd objects—hand-blown glass bottles, rusted tools, pottery, even a carved wheel from a horse-drawn wagon. Aside from a few rare coins, however, none of the bayou’s gifts have been particularly valuable. Most of them fall into the same category as the Dutch windmill salt and pepper shakers. Sentimental, but not worth much.
Cade also knows that it’s highly probable that the statue is at the very bottom of the bayou, covered with several feet of silt. By now, it might even have made it to the Gulf of Mexico.
Nevertheless . . . what if? What if?
The article said that the churchyard was in the Sixth Ward, which meant that if the water had been able to push the statue off her pedestal, it should be downstream from there, which would put her . . . where?
The Buffalo Bayou is long and winding. There are big stretches of it that are wide open. Then again, there are stretches that are completely grown over by the thick underbrush and vegetation that tropical Houston nurtures. It is tame and wild and tame and wild. Take a canoe and float down it. You will see vines as thick as your arm, and grass as neat as a lawn. You will float right through the middle of downtown, next to the glittering arts district, and then past the old industrial alleys of railroads and warehouses. You will hear birdsong and traffic and wind and peepers and sirens and machines and automobiles.
Where on the Buffalo Bayou should Cade start?
Paul is still snoring. Cade knows his dad was puzzled last night when he called to come pick him up so soon after dropping him off, but when Paul asked what the deal was, Cade used the same excuse he told Soleil: “I forgot, I have this assignment due.”
Paul just shrugged and said, “Okay, Li’l Dude,” which Cade realizes he is pretty tired of hearing. What is he, three?
And just as he asks that question, his gaze falls upon the old baby stroller folded up in the corner. Paul never stashed it, never moved it out of their bachelor pad. According to Paul, for almost half a year, Cade slept in that stroller, until at last he outgrew it.
Cade stands up and walks to the window, careful not to wake his father. He should tell Paul about the article, about the possibility of finding a Luc Bel James statue, one that might be worth half a million dollars.
He should.
And maybe he will, but not now. Now, he wants to do this on his own. After all, he’s sixteen, almost seventeen, the same age his dad was when their shared history began. Now it is Cade’s turn, and he knows exactly where to start. He looks through the slats of the blinds. It’s a clear fall day, a perfect day to hunt for an angel.
He should tell his dad. But he doesn’t.
Zorra
HOUSTON, TEXAS
THURSDAY
Zorra dreams of the jacaranda tree, its branches loaded with purple flowers. She dreams of cool water from a tiny branch that flows to the pond. There is a dream of wet sand beneath her feet, between her toes, and a blazing hot sun that warms her thick spotted coat.
Zorra dreams of marsh hares and the hidden eggs of the bobwhite’s nest. She
dreams of thunder and the sweet howl of her coyote.
Dream, Zorra, the river haints sing.
Dream through the night.
Dream through the day.
And Zorra, her coat stiff from the bayou’s mud and silt, her eyes half-closed, her body limp from hunger and thirst, dreams a thousand dreams. What else can she do?
Soleil Broussard
HOUSTON, TEXAS
SUNDAY NIGHT
What is the truth?
Cade told her a lie.
What, what is the truth?
Cade held her hand between his. Her hand. His hands.
What else is the truth?
Their hands.
Seriously the truth?
Foolish. She feels foolish.
What is the truth, anyways?
He held her hand.
He told her a lie.
And both of those things are true.
Achsah
HOUSTON, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
1845
Achsah, she held tight to Juba’s small hand. In the bitter darkness, the only sound they could hear was the dip-pull, dip-pull of the oar punching into the quiet bayou as the barge approached their spot on the bank.
Major Bay stood next to them. Achsah thought that if Major Bay wasn’t right there, she’d run back to the hidden basement and grab Mary Ann up in her arms. She’d carry her all the way to Mexico.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Major Bay whispered into her ear. “You got to go. The boat won’t wait, and she’s too sick now.”
But that wasn’t what Achsah wanted to hear. All night, all day, in the tiny basement, lit only by candles, her Mary Ann had slept, her body burning like the sun while the yellow jack coursed through her tiny self.
Reverend Phillips had prayed. Miss Celia had prayed. Major Bay had prayed. And all Achsah could do was wash her baby’s face with the cool water from the small barrel.
“You got to go,” whispered Major Bay. “Another boat won’t come for weeks now.” Plans had been made. The boat was coming—it was only yards away. Achsah and Juba would climb aboard the cotton barge and duck between the bales. Then, in Galveston, they’d board a tall ship, which would take them to Costa Chica, to Mexico, to freedom.
The boat drew close, so close. Achsah tightened her grip on Juba’s hand. She should turn around. She should hurry back to Mary Ann. She should . . . But the river haints were having none of it. While the trio stood there, the fog rose up and made a blanket around them, cover for their escape.
Achsah, they sang.
Achsah heard them. But she didn’t want to. All she wanted was to hold her baby girl. What would happen to her? Would Mrs. Morgan find her and take her away? Then she gulped. What if she never saw her again? Like her own mama, Happiness, torn away from her? Achsah had never stopped missing Happiness. Now, here she was, leaving her own baby. How could she even breathe without her girl? She took a step backward.
Major Bay gripped her arm, just above her elbow. “You got to leave now. Got to catch this boat.” Achsah nodded, then nodded again. She grasped Juba’s hand even tighter. Stepped onto the edge of the bank, felt the water come up over their shoes, felt the fog haints swirl all around them, felt her hot tears stream down her face. Even the water said her name: Mary Ann. Mary Ann. Mary Ann.
Achsah, cried the haints. Achsah.
She heard their song, she listened, she reached into her pocket, felt the tiny figurine. She pulled it out and handed it to Major Bay. She knew he would give it to Mary Ann, just as the tall boy had given it to her. But as soon as she dropped it into his broad hand, she felt a piercing stab in the middle of her own palm, as if the figurine had been ripped from its skin. She gasped, but resisted taking it back. Instead, she watched as Major Bay tucked the tiny carving into his own pocket. Safe.
“I’ll give it to her,” he whispered.
And then the boat bumped against the bank. One bump. Two. And just like that, back it sailed into the very middle of the bayou, Achsah and Juba curled up into a tight cocoon between the bales of cotton.
Achsah, the bayou will never forget you.
And she never has.
Juba and Mary Ann
HOUSTON, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
1845
“Mexico means freedom,” her mama told her. But to Juba, freedom didn’t sound right without Mary Ann. As she held Achsah’s hand, there on the edge of the bayou, she looked back over her shoulder. In the darkness, she could barely make out the outline of the Lady, the marble statue. She saw the black shadows of the brush arbor with its drapery of wild roses and yaupon bushes. Underneath, in a small, dark basement, her sister burned with fever.
Mary Ann! she wanted to cry out. All her life she, Juba, had been so quiet, as quiet as a stone. But now, she wanted to make a giant noise, to let the water and the trees and the ink-black sky know that she was calling for her sister.
Instead, she held herself as still as the Lady herself, not making a sound. But the haints, they heard her, the humming she made just underneath her breath, her sister’s song, so low, so sweet.
In her deep, burning fever, the refrain played in Mary Ann’s head, over and over, “. . . and who shall wear de starry crown, Good Lord, show me the way.”
Cade Curtis
HOUSTON, TEXAS
MONDAY
Cade leaves the house before his dad wakes up. That isn’t unusual. Paul loves to sleep in, and since Mrs. Walker is usually the person who opens up the shop, there is no hurry for him to get there. Unless she has something special for him to do, Paul normally wanders in around ten or so. Cade learned years ago to get to school without Paul’s assistance.
Because he knows that Martin might wonder where he is, he sends him a quick text.
Hey, back in bed. Stomach flu.
That’s all he needs to say. Sure enough, in less than a minute:
Stay home see u L8r.
After toasting and eating a pair of cherry Pop-Tarts and gulping down a glass of orange juice, Cade grabs his backpack. In it he puts a bottle of water, a hand trowel for digging, a small pick, and on an impulse, he throws in a box of Raisinets. Don’t go anywhere without them, Paul always quips. You never know when you’re going to need them.
In his wallet, Cade has seven dollars and some change, enough for a burger and a Coke if he gets too hungry. He’s realistic enough to know that even if he finds the statue, he’ll have to come get his dad to help move her. For a split second, he thinks about taking the stroller to put her in, but of course he realizes it is not built to carry four hundred pounds.
He checks his phone: 7:19. He has all day. Even if he doesn’t make it back before four thirty or five that afternoon, no one will realize that he is gone. Besides, he isn’t actually going that far. Less than a mile, to be exact.
He steps out onto the landing of the garage apartment and hurries down the steps. The cool air of the morning feels good against the bare skin of his arms. He shivers. Maybe he should grab a hoodie?
He looks up at the rising morning sun.
Nah. It will warm up soon. This is Houston. He steps forward, walks past the antiques store, and bounds down the street—in the opposite direction of Henrik Brenner High School. He stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and when he does, he thinks about Soleil’s soft hand between his.
The memory of it settles on his fingertips, circles his palms. He wants to hold that hand again. Thinking about it makes him pick up his pace.
If he can just find the Lady, there will be nothing to hide. He and Paul and Mrs. Walker could get out of the angel relocation business. A half million dollars would be more than enough.
They could say adios to the Cowboy.
All he needs is a statue carved by a onetime slave named Luc Bel James, a statue last seen more than eighty years ago, in 1935.
He picks up his pace again until he is practically jogging. As he nears the intersection to the trail that will lead him to the bayou, he slows down. The bayou is beauti
ful this time of day, with the early sun gleaming on her silver surface.
The bayou. She is like an artery, pumping through the very heart of Houston. Cade pauses for a moment, catches his breath. He has seen her change a million times. But right now, she poses no threat. Even though the water is a bit higher due to the recent rains, it is nothing like she was after the hurricane. He’d never seen her run that high, broiling mad, hissing past the bridges, tearing limbs from trees and hauling cars and even eighteen-wheelers down to the river and all the way to the ship channel. Cade rubs his arms and speeds up. When he gets to the bridge, he takes his bearings.
From where he stands, if he looks directly across the bayou and to the right, he should be gazing at the southernmost boundary of the Sixth Ward. So if he crosses over and makes a U-turn in that same direction, by his reckoning, if the statue was pushed downstream, she very well could be in the area just beyond the bridge.
There is a wide swath of grassy parkland, but Cade figures that the park area has been shoveled and leveled so many times that it is highly unlikely that she would be there. But there is also a thick stand of old trees and brush that grows along the banks. It will be difficult mucking around in there, but it seems to him like it’s a good place for something to hide, a good place to start.
He pulls his pack up tighter on his back and heads across the bridge. As he crosses, he stays inside the narrow bike lane while dozens of commuters rush by. As Cade walks over it, he knows that thousands of bats, Mexican free-tails, are roosting under his footsteps right now, a thought that makes him smile.
Once on the other side, he makes the U-turn that takes him into the underbrush. It isn’t that far from the water, but it’s steep. Instead of going directly down, he veers south toward the wooded area. He pauses. Can he even get in there? He takes a deep breath, and with both hands, he pushes aside a web of vines and steps forward.