Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 01 - Dark Bayou

by Nancy K. Duplechain

  I looked down on this old woman, a woman who loved me unconditionally even after I turned my back on the whole family. Her eyes were starting fresh tears. I was about to break when she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me. I hugged her hard and tight, knowing that no matter how hard I squeezed, it would never make up for nearly five years of lost time.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  “It’s okay, chère,” she said, her voice soothing. In the Cajun dialect, chère sounded like shaa. We released our hug, and she started toward the chapel. “They’re in here,” she said.

  I didn’t move. She turned toward me. “Leigh-Leigh. Come.” I shook my head, no. “You’re not going to say goodbye to your brother and sister-in-law?” I remained silent and looked away. “I had them wait to say the Rosary today so you wouldn’t miss it last night and you’re not even coming in?” I could sense the anger building up in her, and I braced myself for an argument. But she just nodded and said, “Just like Lyla.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “With Miss Ya. She didn’t want to come. I’ll be in the chapel whenever you’re ready.”

  I found myself alone again, but not for long. I was soon joined by Jonathan who ran up to me with that same smile spread across his face. “We found the bathroom,” he said a little too loudly.

  “Glad to hear it,” I said and forced myself to smile back at him.

  Lucas came up behind him and grasped his son’s shoulders with gentle hands. He noticed that my mood changed. “Jon. Why don’t you go hang out with Miss Carrie for a little while, okay?”

  “Okay.” Jon ran off to find her.

  Lucas motioned to the back door down the hallway that went past the kitchen. “Wanna join me outside for a minute?” I nodded and followed him out the door.

  He took off his uniform jacket, sat down on the top step and motioned for me to do the same. I sat next to him as he draped his jacket across his knees. Perspiration was already creeping across our foreheads, and it was only 10:30. Lucas dabbed at his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t get this kind of humidity in California, do you?”

  I laughed a little. “No. Not in my part of the state, anyway.”

  “Do you ever miss it here?”

  If Clothilde had asked me that, there’s no doubt it would have been a loaded question. But with Lucas, I felt that was exactly what he meant. “Sometimes,” I answered. And it wasn’t a lie, exactly. I missed home whenever I thought of it, but I always intentionally made myself too busy to think of it.

  “Clothilde’s been a rock through this whole thing,” he said after a reflective moment.

  “And you?” I asked.

  “Me? Don’t worry about me.”

  “You and David were best friends, not to mention partners.”

  He nodded. “I’m holding it together.”

  And he was. I had been in California so long that a man crying in front of a woman wasn’t so unusual. Not that I ever minded it. But there was something to be said for the strong, silent types that breed so well in the South.

  “I’m more worried about you,” he said.

  “I’m okay.”

  He nodded again, I’m sure knowing too well that I wasn’t fine, but allowing me to be strong and silent myself. The humidity was killing me at this point, but I wanted to stay outside with Lucas. It felt good to be with someone who didn’t want to pry. I felt comfortable with him, but that wasn’t exactly a good thing. I think that deep down I wanted an excuse to leave.

  I broke the momentary silence. “What exactly happened? I mean, I know it was a car accident, but what caused it?”

  He was quiet for a moment, composing his thoughts. “They were driving home from my house. We had a barbecue and Lyla and Jon played in the new pool I got. One of those above-ground pools, but a good sized one. We had a great time. They headed home around eight P.M. You know how dark it is on highway 167. They just went off the road. No skid marks. I guess it happened so fast there was nothing he could do.” After a thought he added, “It was strange.”

  “Doesn’t sound so strange. Things like that happen all the time.”

  He glanced at me, looking like he was struggling to tell me something else. “But Lyla—”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Exactly.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows at him.

  “She didn’t have a scratch or bruise on her.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  He shook his head. “Leigh, you didn’t see that car. We had to cut it open to get David and Michelle … It wasn’t pretty. Lyla was in the backseat, crying and screaming …” He stopped, visibly shaken from the memory. “I was the first one on the scene because it was so close to my house. As soon as I heard it on the scanner, I didn’t even want to wait for the sitter to come. I grabbed Jon and left. When I got there, I told Jon to stay in the car. I ran over to the culvert their car smashed into and managed to get one of the back doors open. Lyla wouldn’t stop screaming. I reached in and felt for a pulse for them, hoping for one, but knowing they were already gone. I’ve seen enough of those accidents to tell. I got Lyla out, brought her to my car just as the ambulance was getting there and a couple of other squad cars. I held her, and they examined her. No blood on her, not even David’s or Michelle’s. I’ve never seen anything like that. She should’ve … she should have been dead, too, but she was fine. Physically, anyway.”

  “What are you telling me? It was some miracle of God or something?”

  “That was my first thought, but something else happened.” He struggled again, but harder this time. I thought for a second that he wasn’t going to tell me at all and, later, I deeply wished he hadn’t. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but you deserve to know everything that happened that night.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  He licked his lips and stared down at the sidewalk that led up to the steps where we sat. “I had the ambulance take Lyla to the hospital to get her x-rayed. I went back in my car to follow them to the ER. When I got in, Jon wanted to know what happened. I told him there was an accident with Uncle David and Aunt Michelle. And he asked, ‘But Lyla’s okay?’ I looked at him and said, ‘Yeah.’ Then Jon looked out the window toward the wrecked car. He said, ‘Who’s that man, Daddy?’ I looked where he was looking. I thought it was one of the guys cutting open the car. I told him that. He said, ‘No. The dark man behind the trees.’ I looked over and didn’t see anyone there.”

  “Okay. So you’re telling me that there was some angel or something that saved Lyla?” I was very skeptical.

  “Not an angel. Jon said that the Dark Man was looking at David’s car and smiling. Look, I’m not much of a holy roller or anything, and I’m not superstitious, but when Jon said that, it gave me a chill. Even now, I want to shiver thinking about that night. And Jon has been having nightmares just about every night since, always about the Dark Man.”

  “So, it’s the devil—?”

  Lucas smiled. “I knew you’d think I’m crazy.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s a little hard to swallow.”

  “I know. But you have to admit that Lyla not having a scratch on her is pretty miraculous.”

  “Yeah, but things like that have happened before. Jon was probably just traumatized from seeing the accident. And Lyla being okay … it’s just luck.”

  “Luck,” he echoed, looking defeated. “How long are you in town for?”

  “I’m leaving tonight.”

  He looked both shocked and hurt. “Aren’t you even going to spend the night?”

  “I think it’s for the best if I leave after the funeral.

  “You not going to see Lyla?”

  “I don’t think she wants to see me.”

  “Well, that’s your decision, but I know there’ll be an awful lot of people upset if you don’t stay for a visit.”

  I was quiet, and he took the hint.

  “Let’s go back in,” he suggested. He st
ood up, put his jacket back on and held out his hand for me. I took it, and he helped me up and held the door open for me. A well-bred Southerner indeed.

  2

  The Funeral

  I kept my distance from the chapel. I tried to hide from all the mourners who wanted to express their condolences, but every time I turned around, there was someone to say how sorry they were and, my personal favorite, “such a tragedy.” Lucas, Carrie and Jonathan stayed by my side through it all. Clothilde was busy with the mourners. She knew everyone there. She sat in the chapel, near the caskets, and greeted everyone who paid their respects. When it was time for the Rosary, Carrie excused herself to the chapel to find a seat in the packed room. Lucas and his son stayed with me.

  “You can go in if you like,” I said to Lucas.

  He shook his head no. “I’ve already spoken to God.”

  I refrained from making a snarky comment but couldn’t help thinking, Where was God when they died and left their ten-year-old daughter alone?

  “Is it time to pray, Daddy?”

  “Yeah, but you and I are going to stay out here with Miss Leigh.”

  “You two go. I’ll be okay,” I said.

  “I want to hold the necklace,” said Jon.

  “Beads,” Lucas corrected as he pulled a small, brown rosary from his pocket. I recognized it as the kind our high school gave out to the juniors every year at the confirmation ceremony, when they were blessed by the current bishop. He handed it to Jon, who carefully clasped it in his hands as though it were a rare treasure.

  “You still have that old thing?” I asked.

  Lucas nodded meekly. “Nothing wrong with this one, so why get a new one?”

  “Please. The two of you go in. I promise I’ll be here when you get out.”

  He hesitated and then said, “Okay. Come on, Jon.” They entered the chapel, and I was alone in the lobby. I headed to the kitchen for some coffee and smiled as soon as I saw what was on the counter: doughnuts and boudin, funeral food staples. I hadn’t had boudin in years, but I was always fond of the delicacy, which consisted of ground pork and rice in a thin sausage casing. I’d been raised on it.

  There was one aspect of Cajun culture I simply could not ignore, no matter how much I tried, and that was the food: chicken gumbo, seafood gumbo, hen gumbo, sausage gumbo, crawfish étouffée, rice and gravy, boudin, cracklins, and my favorite, boiled crawfish. If I traveled out of state or even to northern Louisiana, the food never tasted the same. Everything was so bland compared to the spicy dishes I grew up on in Acadiana. It was only a couple of weeks after arriving in Hollywood that I was craving gumbo. I learned to make it and would cook it sometimes, but it never tasted the same, because the meat was different from the wild game flavor of Louisiana gumbo. I lost a lot of weight that first year of living there and soon grew used to the boring flavors of the local cuisine.

  I wanted to grab a couple of pieces of boudin, but knew I would just be forcing myself. I wasn’t hungry. Instead I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the small table near the fridge. As I sipped, I could hear the rosary start. I listened to the familiar recital of prayers: the Hail Mary, the Our Father, the Glory Be. How many times had I said those very prayers in school and church? The English rosary eventually gave way to the French rosary, as was customary in Acadiana.

  Acadiana comprises several parishes in the south western and south central part of the state with Lafayette being the biggest city. It never felt big to me, though; it always felt small and confining, and I was often embarrassed by the Cajun citizens. I refused to have a Cajun accent, opting for a generic tone, rather than the flat, thick assault of syllables and the occasional French word thrown into a perfectly English conversation. I often claimed my German heritage over the French. I refused to take French in high school. What little of it I did know was what Clothilde taught me and that was when I was about eight years old.

  I heard Clothilde leading the French rosary and was taken back to when I was still a little girl, helping her make biscuits for her coffee parties, when she would teach me how to say each prayer in French. At the beginning of the coffee parties, Clothilde and her lady friends would begin with the rosary, and I was so proud to join them in my new-found language.

  Today, I hid out in the kitchen, drinking coffee, until I no longer heard the group prayers. I heard the shuffling as the guests left the chapel and went out the lobby doors. I peeked out of the kitchen and down the hall. There was only a handful of people in the lobby, including Carrie, Lucas and his son, and Clothilde, who would be the last to leave, save for the funeral director and his assistants. I joined them in the lobby just as Clothilde was thanking the last guest for coming.

  “I have to go. I’m leading the procession with my cruiser,” said Lucas, as he put on his jacket and buttoned up. “Jon, Miss Carrie will bring you to the cemetery, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  Carrie took hold of Jon’s hand as Lucas leaned in to kiss Clothilde and give her a hug.

  “Thank you, cher,” she told him. “If I don’t get to talk to you over there, I’ll see you at the reception.”

  Lucas noticed I had joined them in the lobby and, probably figuring this would be the last time he would see me, hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, too. His kiss lingered a little longer for me than it had for Clothilde, and I just knew Carrie caught it and would read way more into it than I did. No doubt she would pump me for information later.

  Carrie hugged me and Clothilde and left for the cemetery with Jonathan. I was left alone with Clothilde. “Are you coming to the cemetery?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She nodded, again a hint of argument building up in her. “What about the reception?”

  “Where is it going to be?”

  “At Miss Ya’s. Lyla will want to see you, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You do what you want.” The anger was starting to come out now, but she showed considerable restraint. “I’m in one of the lead cars in the procession, and I’m sure everyone’s in their cars, waiting on me. I’ll either see you later, or I won’t.” And with that, she left me alone in the lobby.

  The funeral director stepped out of the chapel. He was tall, lean, and entirely too tan for his line of work. “Would you like to come in before we close the doors?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. He started to close them. “Wait,” I said. He opened them, and I walked to the threshold. I looked across the chapel, to the left, and saw the two coffins side-by-side in front of the altar, surrounded by more flowers than I had ever seen in one place.

  “I’ll give you a couple of minutes,” he said, and walked over to the lobby desk to take care of the guest book and other paper work.

  I entered the chapel and gently closed the doors behind me. It was very quiet and a little chilly in the room. The stained-glass windows decorated the dark green carpet with colorful patterns. I walked very slowly toward the coffins. They were closed. It must have been a really bad accident for it to be a closed-casket funeral. Now I was even more relieved that Lyla hadn’t come.

  Out of habit, I knelt at the little pew in front of the coffins, not really intending to pray. I didn’t believe in an afterlife. I didn’t believe that our spirits or souls, or whatever, go on after we die. After Mom died, everyone kept telling me that she would come to me in my dreams, but she never did. They told me that if I prayed really hard, she would visit me in spirit form. Despite working myself into a frenzy of prayer for countless hours, I never saw her again.