The Traiteur's Ring

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Silly girl – wasting all of that time worrying about him getting hurt instead of worrying about his mind.

  She blushed a little at the thought. She never really worried he was crazy of course, but he certainly seemed haunted. Not just by the childhood trauma (which she still knew almost nothing about) but lately he had been haunted by new demons – demons that had hitched a ride home with him from Africa. She knew Ben hated to think of himself that way, but he really was a very sensitive person, and the psychological trauma his team had suffered together seemed to have had a terrible impact on him. Christy suspected that in his case it might be much worse, opening as it did so many doors to his mysterious past.

  But that might really be over now and the thought made her unconsciously clap her hands together in utter joy. She felt a little bouncy as she walked up the short main street of Chackbay back towards the little diner. He would pull in a few minutes from now, and she felt very strongly they would step off from here and into a real honeymoon and a wonderful life. The looming specter of deployments and the danger of his job seemed very manageable if they could kiss the ghosts of the past goodbye.

  Christy noticed her hand went again to her belly, as if by its own volition. She wondered if the certainty she had about what she felt there was based in truth or just hope. She had always considered herself a very logical realist, would in fact have dismissed this almost premonition like feeling if reported by a friend, but it felt so real and powerful she couldn’t easily let it go. Plus, a life with Ben these last few years had definitely opened her to the possibility of senses that might exist beyond simple explanation. Her pulse quickened, and she couldn’t keep in the broad smile that filled her face and eyes at the thought.

  As she arrived at the corner she looked down at the large paper bag she swung by the built-in cardboard handles, and her grin turned to a subtle frown. The junk in the bag had been meant as a joke – one Ben would ordinarily laugh about she felt sure – but now she had second thoughts. She looked inside at the stuffed alligator head with its cheap marble eyes, the “Chackbay: Gumbo capital of the world” ball cap, and the two “Ragin’ Cajun” T-shirts. They were pretty friggin’ funny, in fact, but she decided what they both really needed was to drive away from here and never look back. The gag souvenirs she had accumulated over what turned out to be a very short wait now seemed like a constant reminder that her husband probably didn’t need.

  She dumped the bag into a large green trash can – its black lid secured to its handle with a short chain – and then brushed her hands together ceremonially. Forty-five bucks wasted, but she knew she would never regret leaving the reminders behind.

  She stood on the curb and glanced in the direction Ben had driven off only a little over an hour ago. Hell, he probably barely had time to park and say boo before heading back, but that was fine with her. He sounded better, so mission complete, right? “Mike-Charlie” he would say. She felt herself bouncing a little on her toes and realized how excited she was to hug him, kiss him, and drive away together towards Destin and their future – the little ‘burg of Chackbay a dusty image in the rear-view mirror.

  I think I’ll tell him tonight. I’ll tell him how it feels like something is growing inside me.

  The big, goofy smile returned, and she giggled a little and then concentrated on wiping the give-away smile off her face.

  It would wait until tonight. By then she would really know he was okay.

  Chapter 30

  The drive to Destin felt the way a honeymoon should feel. They giggled and laughed, talked about the wedding and about Reed and Amy (Oh God Forbid!), held hands, and grinned at each other almost incessantly. Christy had seemed content with his very brief (and vague) description of his arrival at the burned out shack, his few minutes of reminiscence about Gammy complete with tears (which he did admit to actually – they were married for goodness sake), and his mental goodbye to his past. He left out any hint of supernatural bunny holes in the woods, mysterious Indians atop impossible ruins, black rivers, or special powers. He decided he wasn’t really keeping anything from his wife – he simply didn’t believe those things himself anymore. Her initial concern over his swollen lip (he had tripped over a root and hit it on the ground – that sounded better than I swooned and passed out like a damsel in distress) seemed more than outweighed by her apparent relief that he seemed okay. Truth was he did feel okay. He felt great, in fact.

  Like long drives do when shared by people deeply in love, the several hours flew by in a blur. He had as much fun as if they sat together on their porch holding hands instead of riding along the most boring stretch of highway in all of Florida in a rented car with a crappy stereo. They arrived in Destin close to dinner time (though their bellies disagreed–still distended from gumbo and Cajun sausage in Chackbay). After only a few wrong turns they found their way to the gated entry to the cluster of town houses on the almost blinding white sand beach. The guard checked their name off a clip board, gave them a punch code to work the gate after ten PM and a pink hang tag to put on their rear-view mirror which identified them as guests. Then, they drove down a long road flanked by bright hibiscus, past several tennis courts, and then saw the few dozen townhouses that made up “Hibiscus Bay – a Private community.” The town houses sat clustered in three semi-circles behind a huge, resort-style pool, a small putt-putt course (“fun for the whole family” the sign beside a barrel full of putters insisted), and a small picnic area of four tables and six gas grills (“Please don’t grill on your deck” another sign implored).

  They pulled into one of the two parking spots in front of the tiny box of a building with signs that read “Office” and “Check-In” on either side of the single-glass panel door.

  “Locked,” Ben announced.

  “Oh,” Christy said. She rummaged in her purse and fished out a strip of paper. “The lady said they were only here until five, but gave me a code to a lock box that should be….there.” She pointed to the black box on a thick post in the mulch-filled garden to the left of the door.

  The code worked, and the key to their condo was inside with a little note in cursive welcoming them and congratulating them on their wedding. It was stapled to two sheets of paper, one with rules (like no grilling on the deck) and the other a list of restaurants, an ABC store, and a grocery store nearby. A stack of brochures completed their packet, should they want to rent jet skis, go deep sea fishing, or visit an alligator exhibit. Christy stuffed all of the paper work into her purse, and Ben kept the key. They pulled the car around to the row of town houses until they found 201-D, the last unit on the end of the cul-de-sac to the left. He pulled the Charger into the short driveway and killed the engine.

  “It’s perfect,” Christy sighed as she took his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his wrist.

  Perfect was the word he would have chosen, and he thanked God for the ten-thousandth time that his wife had made the arrangements instead of him. The two-story condo smelled of cedar and salt air and looked out from its raised deck onto the Gulf of Mexico. It was only a few dozen yards from the short steps onto the white beach. Ben realized the honeymoon really had begun, and he wasted no time pulling their bags out of the trunk as his wife opened the door with the key he handed her.

  He carried the four bags up to the second floor master bedroom suite with its own balcony deck and raised hot tub while Christy slid open the wall of sliding glass doors in the living room to let the cool Gulf Breeze flow through their retreat. He tossed the bags unceremoniously on the bed and headed back down stairs.

  “They left us champagne,” Christy called out louder than she needed to since he had already come up behind her.

  “Who did?” he asked which made her jump.

  “Oh, jeez,” she said. “That was quick – what did you do, just toss them halfway up the steps?”

  “I have other things to do. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently on the back of the neck. “Much more pressing things.”
r />   Christy snaked an arm backwards around his neck and pulled his lips tighter onto her flesh and moaned.

  “Linda,” she said.

  Ben stopped and looked at her confused.

  “Who the hell is Linda?”

  “The property manager,” Christy spun around to face him, her hands now pulling at his belt and fly. “You asked who sent the champagne.” She pressed her mouth onto his as she pulled his jeans down to his knees.

  They made it from the pass through bar of the kitchen almost to the sofa before they gave up and pulled each other onto the floor beside the open doors leading to the deck. They made love with almost violent passion, their grunts and moans carried out onto the beach. Ben didn’t worry about the noise they had made until it was over, and they wrapped around each other in a sweaty pile, panting and smiling.

  “Well,” he said and wiped sweat from his eyes. “We certainly will have made an impression on the neighborhood.”

  Christy laughed and raised herself on one arm on his chest, looking out the sliding glass door.

  “No one out there,” she announced.

  “No,” Ben chuckled. “They all gathered up their kids and took them indoors until the show was over.”

  They laughed together.

  “Well, if we get strange looks at the pool tomorrow, we’ll know why,” she said.

  They lay for a while in each other’s arms until the cool Gulf breeze made them chilly. Then, they took their bottle of champagne upstairs. Christy gave a half-hearted glance in both directions before they walked naked onto their balcony and slipped into the hot tub.

  They sat engulfed in warm bubbly water, the sounds of the gentle surf a few yards away. Ben let his head rest back on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. He felt Christy’s thigh against his and her hand rested on his knee. He nearly fell asleep, awakened by the near miss as the champagne cork ricocheted off the edge of the tub beside his left ear.

  “Sorry,” his wife said sheepishly, but with a big smile.

  She poured them both a glass of the bubbly wine and then threw her legs across his lap and tossed an arm around his neck.

  “I love you, Ben,” she laid her head against him before taking a long sip of champagne. She gazed at him. “You seem so much better, baby,” she kissed his cheek. “Are you?”

  Ben thought a moment. He didn’t want to dismiss her concern with a glib answer, but he really was better. He didn’t know why a drive to the bayou, a fainting spell, and a crazy nightmare should in any way have made him magically ok, but he felt more whole, somehow. He felt like he had filled in some gap in his mental well-being.

  “I really am,” he answered honestly. He kissed her back. “Thank you so much for helping me find a way to put the past where it belongs.”

  “I don’t think I really did anything,” she laid her head on his shoulder.

  He took a long drink of lukewarm champagne. He couldn’t really explain to her how just being his wife did more than she could know. Her perfect way of guiding without leading, of encouraging without pushing, really had been the key to his being able to go to Louisiana at all, much less find closure there. He knew the peace he felt was the result of his finding his way toward her as much as away from the bayou.

  “You have no idea what your being with me does, baby,” he kissed the top of her head.

  They sat in their little nest and talked very little, each lost in content thoughts, the cool Gulf breeze letting them sit in the hot water for a very long time.

  * * *

  He tried to convince himself it was the pizza, which sat like a bowling ball in his gut, and not his creeping fear that if he slept he would dream again. Whatever the cause, he lay awake for several hours and tossed fitfully in the king size bed beside his wife. They had ordered the pizza instead of going back out for supplies, which they decided would best be left for morning. The breeze and the sound of the surf combined with the soft feel of Christy’s skin on his (no matter how friggin’ hot it felt) should have been the perfect sleeping pill. God knows he felt tired as hell – exhausted, in fact. The emotionally draining day combined with lack of rest from the night before, champagne, a hot tub, a full belly, and (yes that’s right) more sex – it should have been impossible for him to stay awake.

  Ben turned again in the bed despite all that and flipped his pillow for the tenth time, his face seeking the cool side of the silky case. He sighed and let one leg squirm out from beneath the covers seeking cool air to offset his wife’s boiling internal thermostat. He preferred the hot, smooth skin to no contact at all and pulled her sleeping arm across his chest like a security blanket and heard Christy’s contented “Hmmmm.” He wondered what dream went with the happy sound and thought for a moment about waking her from her peaceful sleep in the hope that (yet another) orgasm might release some magic hormone that would catapult him into the land beyond. He decided his wife needed her shut eye, and if sex didn’t get him to sleep the first two times, three was unlikely to be the charm.

  The moonlight streamed through the sheer inner curtains and danced across the wall, and he watched the pattern a moment and tried to think about nothing. But, of course, that was like someone saying, “don’t think about elephants – okay…start!” His elephant turned out to be Jewel rather than the myriad of other things (delusions and such, he supposed) that he could mull over.

  Ben sighed again and slipped out from beneath his wife’s hot arm and the cool sheets. He padded barefoot across the wood floor, encountered only one loud creak that didn’t evoke so much as a stir from Christy, and then went down the carpeted stairs and out onto the back deck. Just opening the sliding glass door brought a soothing fresh ocean breeze across his bare chest. He stood at the rail in his sweat shorts and stared at the gentle surf of the Gulf as it lapped softly at the beaches edge. The sparkling white sand looked more silver in the moonlight, and he felt a sense of peace flood over him as he stared out. He thought perhaps the relaxing effect would be even stronger at the surf’s edge so he hopped down the short steps to the cold wet sand and walked towards the water.

  He sat down on the shifting granular surface, arms behind him and feet stretched out to catch just a touch of the teasing water. With about every third attempt the Gulf of Mexico effortlessly tried to creep up the beach towards inland. Now and again one would make it to behind his knees and he would think about slipping back a bit, but then the next two waves would miss him completely. Satisfied with his position, he lay back and let his head drop onto the tiny pebbles. He stared up at the trillions of stars he could see in the low light of the beach despite the brightness of the moon. Not quite the carpet of flickering lights you could expect in the middle of the Iraqi desert, but impressive nonetheless.

  He thought of Jewel’s eyes. Those eyes laughed more than her mouth when he had snuggled her to his neck, and she had rewarded him with the squealing little “Gah Deh Eh!” He could almost hear the musical sound of her little toddler voice and swore he could smell the sweet little girl smell of her skin. He wondered where (and more importantly how) she was, but didn’t let his brain chase the thought too far – afraid of the logical answer.

  Those people have survived this and worse for thousands of years. Maybe she’s okay. Maybe they found a quiet peaceful place in the jungle, far from the shit heads and the cowboys. Maybe they’re happy and content and starting over.

  He looked at the stars and tried to make them into a shape, a constellation of some sort, but there were too many, and the images his imagination concocted kept over lapping.

  Maybe they don’t need a Rougarou or even a Traiteur.

  Ben knew better – and not because some Indian told him in a dream or because the dead Village Elder called to him in his sleep. He knew because he had been there and because – well, because he just friggin’ knew.

  I am well, father. I miss you, but I am well. I am home where I belong. We are waiting for you.

  He felt the tears run from corners of his eyes and
across his temples. They tickled down into his ears as he stared out into the infinity of the night sky and listened to the surf. He didn’t think he could sleep, but he did relax some. Alone on the beach he rested his tired body, watching the stars drift slowly across the vast carpeted backdrop behind the moon that seemed to tug them along, and thought of Jewel and the others.

  * * *

  He must have slept a little, because he woke up and the horizon to his left had just turned a soft peach color, and his body shivered from the heat it had lost half-naked in the cool night air with the surf lapping at his legs (and now half way up his back). Ben sat up and looked back at the town house, half expecting to see Christy staring after him, a cup of coffee in her hand and a worried scowl on her face. The deck and upstairs windows were empty – to his relief. He shivered uncontrollably and rubbed his hands briskly on both arms to try and generate some warmth. The wet sand on his back and hair, the chill in his skin, and his now chattering teeth gave him a powerful déjà vu of his weeks in BUD/s – the initial training for the SEALs –, his hands so cold he could barely hold anything with his instructor – the King of Poseidon himself – standing over him bellowing “Get wet and sandy, boy!” The memory made him smile.

  He struggled stiffly to his feet and felt the salt water from his now soaked sweat shorts run down the backs of his legs. He knew one way to get warm that might also clear his head and would provide a great excuse if Christy discovered his absence from bed.

  He struck out down the beach at a stiff-legged jog, but in no time built up to a solid pace. The spongy, wet surface cushioned the pounding of his barefoot run. His body warmed quickly (despite the wet shorts that chafed more than a little), and in no time he felt like the SEAL he was. He let his mind wander as he pushed his body harder. The pale peach smear on the eastern horizon had grown into a reddish pink ribbon, and he guessed that in another five minutes the sun would pull itself up over the water. He pushed his pace faster still, intent on getting as much distance as possible before the sun blinded him and made him turn westward back towards the town house.