Broken Bayou

by Rhonda R. Dennis

  I giggle while shaking my head. “Good night, Romeo.”

  “Sweet dreams, Juliet.” He offers one final wave before leaving, and I’m overwhelmed with everything that has happened.

  A glass of wine, a long soak in the tub, and soft music help me to relax as I replay the events of the day. Did I have a set back today while in the French Quarter? I don’t think I did. In fact, I’d almost be willing to classify it as a breakthrough. The one thing that plagues my thoughts even more so than my growing attraction to Cal is the fortune teller’s warning. Cal’s right; she was probably trying to pique my curiosity so I’d pay for a reading, yet the phrase she spoke continues to haunt me.

  As soon as I’m dried off and in my oversized t-shirt, I pick up a notebook and pen from the end table in the living room and sit down to write. You’ve survived it once; you’ll survive again, but only if you live without sin. The boy in black, the girl in red, the lady in white, the man who prays—beware, beware, beware. Don’t go their way. Don’t run from the past, just let it go. Hold onto it, and you’ll welcome a foe.

  I stare down at the paper for about five minutes before I fold it and tuck it away in the book closest to me. Peeking out into the courtyard wasn’t the smartest thing to do before going to bed. As soon as I turn off the dim porch light, the eerie branches are softly lit by beams of moonlight. Lacy curtains moving in the next house catch my eye, and I’m quick to close the blinds. Cal is right, privacy means nothing to Agnes Thibodeaux, plus I dread seeing the little girl in red anymore. I’m happy living in ignorant bliss if she does happen to roam the night. She stays in the courtyard, and I stay in my apartment. Still a little spooked when I curl into bed, I reach for my ear buds and let the soothing voice of the person narrating my audio book lull me to sleep.

  Upbeat music plays in the background as I search my bedroom for something to wear. It’s not until I open my closet that I realize I’m not only dancing, but I’ve been singing along, too. Is it the move? The new job? Cal? A smile crosses my lips. Of course it’s Cal. Whether we remain friends, or we get brave enough to take the plunge into something more in the future, he’s a good person to have in my life. I trust him implicitly; my gut tells me to do so.

  I pull my long black hair into a simple braid that falls across my shoulder. Though it’s fall, the weather is crazy. One day it’s freezing, the next is hot as sin. Today is one of the warm ones, so I choose to wear a long flowing skirt along with a simple off the shoulder top and sandals. It’s exactly ten thirty when Cal raps at the door.

  “Hi, wow you look nice,” he says so quickly that it almost sounds like one word.

  “Thank you. Is this going to be okay for our trip? I can change if…”

  “No. It’s perfect.”

  Smiling, I nod. He opens the car door for me, and as usual, our audience supervises. He offers a quick wave upwards as we leave the property. Not surprisingly, it isn’t returned.

  It takes about half an hour to get to the plantation home, and the ride is spent with Cal showing me some of the highlights of the area. I learn that there are loads of seafood restaurants, and though many of them look like shabby holes in the wall, Cal insists that they have delicious food. He also points out some more familiar places, basically franchises that are available everywhere. There’s something comforting about knowing they’re around.

  My jaw drops when we travel down the windy gravel drive to get to the main house. Plantation homes in pictures are fabulous, but to see one in person is absolutely breathtaking! An older woman rises from one of the many rocking chairs on the massive front porch, and eagerly waves as we approach. As soon as Cal stops the car, she races down the steps with open arms and a huge smile.

  “Cal! How I’ve missed you, my sweet boy!”

  “Mrs. Milly, how are you, sweetheart? You look just as lovely as ever.” He gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek which causes her to flush.

  “Oh, you’re such a darling. I’ve been doing quite well. With whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

  “This beautiful lady is Miss Cheyenne Douglas of the Oklahoma Douglas’. She’s recently come to her senses and has joined us as a resident of this great state.”

  “Better late than never, dear,” Milly says, giving me an approving nod. Listening to the banter between the two makes me feel like I’m trapped in an episode of The North and the South. It’s odd, yet fascinating. “Welcome to Belle Aline, Cheyenne. This house has been in my family for over one hundred and fifty years, with the namesake, Aline, being my great grandmother. Will you join me in the parlor for some coffee?”

  I look to Cal and he nods. “We’d love to, thank you,” I answer.

  The outside of the house is amazing, but the inside is spectacular. It’s as if time stood still inside of Belle Aline. Huge and elaborate chandeliers decorate the grand foyer, along with intricate wood work that graces the twelve foot high ceilings. She leads us to a room on the right, and before we’re seated, a woman, slightly younger than Mrs. Milly, sets a silver tray before us. Ever the gracious hostess, Mrs. Milly asks how I take my coffee first, then Cal, and finally takes a cup for herself.

  “Cheyenne, Cal tells me that you teach with him at the university. I think that’s lovely. Are you enjoying your new position?” She daintily sips from her china cup.

  “I love it. I’m very glad I accepted the position.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear. And Cal, have you finished that book you’re writing?”

  I raise a questioning eyebrow in his direction. “Book?”

  Cal wriggles in his seat. “Not yet, Mrs. Milly, but I’m still working on it. It’s just something that tells the history of the area. No big deal.”

  “It absolutely is a big deal, Callahan Gage. If you don’t immortalize the history of our area, who will?”

  “I understand, Mrs. Milly, but some aren’t as willing to share their stories as you are.”

  She begins to mumble under her breath. “Fiddlesticks. You have some who want to pretend that they are holier than thou, that their families never did anything dishonest, deceitful, or treacherous. Please, every last one of these families has skeletons in the closet, and they best quit worrying about unleashing them and just do it! People already know the stories for goodness sake. It happened, it’s over, it’s in the past, and most of the participants are dead and gone. Let it rip, I say. Spilling the family secrets is fun. Everyone should do it.”

  I look on stunned, while Cal wears a full grin. “That’s why I adore you, Mrs. Milly. If only everyone shared your opinion.”

  The older woman puts her cup on a saucer. “I won’t profess to know it all, but if Mr. Lee from Azalea Downs won’t fess up, come see me. I have a lot of dirt on that family from the days before the most recent tragedy. Everyone knows about that one. I’m talking about the other terrible things that occurred there.” She makes a tisking sound with her teeth.

  “Tragedies?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” she proclaims, as she picks up her cup once again. “Lots of people have died in that house. Some from illness, some were killed in awful accidents, and some were murdered. One of the murders happened just a few decades ago. It’s the one I was referring to as the most recent tragedy.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Indeed, it was extremely horrific. We were all very fearful for a long time after those murders. Surely you’ve heard of them; they were quite infamous and newsworthy at the time. Some criminologists still study the case to this day. Have you heard of the Nuit Rouge murders?”

  “I’ve heard them mentioned, and I know it was in Louisiana. That happened in this area?” I ask.

  “Yes, unfortunately they did,” Mrs. Milly is silent for a moment then quickly makes the sign of the cross before continuing. “Nuit Rouge, Red Night, is what they called it because of all the blood that was spilled during the massacre. People who have done work in the house report that some floor boards are still saturated with the blood of the victims. There
was no way for them to remove them all. They’d have to tear the house down and start again.”

  My breath catches. “How many people were killed?” I ask.

  “Eighteen.”

  My gasp is louder than I intend, and Cal picks up the story where Mrs. Milly left off. “They were having a dinner party when a group of robbers came in and slaughtered them. The police caught up with the assailants as they were leaving town. It was a group of drugged up misfits who were making their way across the country by busting into peoples’ homes, holding them at gunpoint, and robbing them blind. No one knows why they chose that house, or why it escalated to murder that particular time. I guess no one ever will.”

  “What do you mean? Surely one of them confessed once they were caught? What about the evidence?”

  Mrs. Milly speaks up. “Times were different, dear. The police apprehended them, but they all died of mysterious circumstances once in custody.” She shoots air quotes around mysterious circumstances.

  “They were murdered before standing trial?” I ask.

  “No dear, they died mysteriously,” Mrs. Milly gives me an exaggerated wink. “I believe one hanged himself, one had a seizure and never recovered, one asphyxiated because he choked on his food, and it seems to me the last one fell out of his bunk and hemorrhaged internally.”

  I shake my head. “I’m shocked.”

  “Imagine how we all felt. Cal, you were knee high to a grasshopper during that time. Do you remember the adults being on edge, or were you too young to remember all that mess?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I remember some of it. Dad didn’t really share much with me directly, but I overheard others talking about it.”

  “Shame your daddy had to work so much,” Mrs. Milly remarks.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cal answers.

  “Enough of this morbidity. Let’s move onto a more cheerful topic. Would you like to see the rest of the house, dear? I assure you that no tragedies have befallen this bountiful estate, and any deaths that occurred here were the result of purely natural causes.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I say with a slight smile. “I’d love a tour.”

  “Wonderful!” she exclaims. “Cal, would you mind doing the honors? You’re familiar enough with the estate. Be sure to show her the children’s room and the old kitchen, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”

  “Very well, I’m off to the hairdresser. Make yourselves at home, and if you need anything, Judith is in her quarters. Very lovely to meet you, Cheyenne. Please promise that you’ll visit again.”

  “It was nice to meet you, too. I look forward to visiting again.”

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Milly says as she wraps a scarf around her stiff hair. Cal gives her parting kiss on the cheek, and while giggling like a school girl, she disappears through a door at the opposite side of the parlor. I’m amused that Cal has such an effect on the geriatric woman.

  “Ready?” Cal asks, leading the way through the same door from where we entered. “Forgive me for sounding like a tour guide, but here it goes. The house was built by Mr. Lionel Doucet for his bride, Aline. He came from a family of wealthy sugar cane farmers, whereas she was the daughter of a very wealthy judge. They had six children; sadly, all but two died before the age of seven because they were a sickly bunch. The house has remained in the family, and now Mrs. Milly is the second to last heir of the Doucet family.”

  “Who is the last?” I inquire.

  “You’re looking at him,” Cal replies.

  “What?” I ask with surprise.

  “Nah, just kidding, but it would be cool, right? Who wouldn’t want to live in a place like this? Mrs. Milly has a daughter who lives in Dallas. She’ll likely sell the place once Mrs. Milly’s gone, so I’m doing my best to document the history before it falls in the hands of someone else. She’s helped me a lot with information gathering for my book. Now, we’re good friends.”

  “That’s really nice,” I say. “It’s obvious she enjoys talking with you and sharing the knowledge she has.”

  “It’s a symbiotic relationship. She gives me info; I give her an ear to fill.” He assumes the tour guide tone again. “Now, if you follow me upstairs, you’ll see that the banisters are hand carved with intricate scrollwork that was done by the very gentleman who did the ceilings. It took him four years to finish all the decorative woodwork in the house.”

  Each new room he shows holds an intriguing story, and I’m basically awestruck during the entire tour. After we finish up with the inside, he leads me out a screen door and onto a massive gallery. Beyond it are row after row of gigantic Magnolia trees and past that, oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Separate smaller standalone buildings dot the grounds, and I’m curious to find the purpose of each. Cal catches me eyeing one of the closer structures.

  “The kitchen used to be separate from the house. It helped keep the heat out the main house, plus if a fire broke out, it was easier to contain, and there was less risk of the whole place going up in flames.”

  I nod as I peek into the mostly brick interior. “What are the other buildings?”

  “The overseer’s cabin is still standing; it’s over there. The carriage house was torn down many years ago, but a greenhouse was put in its place.” He points to a glassed-in building at the far right of the property. “Obviously, it’s very much neglected,” he mentions, referencing the thick layers of dirt that make it impossible to see inside.

  “This is unbelievable. I love it here. Thank you so much for bringing me.”

  “Wait, I promised you a picnic. Are you still game?”

  “Here? Of course!”

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, slowly jogging towards the front of the house. “Take a load off,” he yells just before rounding the corner and disappearing from sight.

  I take a seat on one of the many forest green rocking chairs that line the gallery, and breathe in deeply the fresh air that’s perfumed with a myriad of fall scents. Despite the telling of the harrowing story from earlier, I’m completely at peace.

  “Come with me,” Cal calls as he returns with a wicker basket.

  “Kind of fancy for a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches,” I quip when I catch up to him.

  “Nothing but the best, baby,” he teases while lightly patting the basket. I follow him past the run-down greenhouse to a trail that whittles through the oak trees. It suddenly opens into a clearing with a beautiful white and green gazebo that flanks a large pond. As we get closer, I notice a table with several wooden chairs inside the gazebo. Cal whips out a checkered tablecloth, and after dusting off a few leaves from the flat surface, he drapes the table. He shakes off a chair, and offers it to me before taking a seat himself.

  The first thing he pulls from the basket is a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. I give him a questioning look. “I ran out of juice boxes,” he explains. I playfully shake my head. Next comes a fruit and cheese tray, and again I give him a look. “It’s just a few leftovers I need to get rid of.” Finally, he pulls out a dessert tray with chocolate covered strawberries, mini brownies, and dainty petit fours. This time I smirk, and he shrugs while taking out plates and silverware. “I have no clue how those got in there.”

  “It looks like the only thing you DON’T have in there are ham and cheese sandwiches,” I remark.

  “Are you disappointed?” he asks. “Cause I can run down to the store and get you a sandwich.”

  I laugh. “No, thank you. This is perfect.”

  The smile on his face is broad when he pours a glass of wine and passes it to me. “I’m glad you came with me today.”

  “I’m glad you invited me. The history is fascinating, and the way you tell it… I’m almost jealous that I can’t be in your classes. Your students are lucky to have you.”

  “As are yours. I’ve been hearing lots of good things. News of good teachers and bad teachers travels very quickly around campus.”

  “That’s reassuring to hear. I often wonder if
I’m getting through to them, especially with the difficulties I had after…”

  He places his hand on top of mine. “Hey, you’re doing excellently. No need to worry about that.”

  “Thank you, but there are a few students who are still struggling. For the most part, they are receptive to my suggestions about extra help, but there’s still that one I can’t seem to get through to.”

  “The strange one? What’s his name?”

  “Billy Thibodeaux. Yes, him. I have no idea what I’ve done to warrant the malicious looks and disgruntled behavior.”

  “Still? That’s really odd. Should I have a talk with him?”

  “No, he’s not threatened me. He hasn’t even held a full conversation with me. Usually he communicates with looks and grunts. I’ll give it some more time before I pursue it. Maybe he’ll stop if I simply ignore the behavior.”

  “Please let me know if you ever feel threatened or in danger.”

  “I will. Thanks. Other than Billy, teaching here is a dream come true. I love everything about the area: the sights, the weather…”

  “You won’t be saying that come summer,” Cal interjects.

  “We’ve been known to have some scorchers in Oklahoma,” I say, popping a grape into my mouth.

  “Dry heat is nothing like sub-tropic heat. All I can say is thank God we have air conditioning. I can’t even imagine how sweltering it was for our forefathers… and the mosquitoes. Pure misery. Let me shut up before I say something to run you off. Okay, go on with the things you like about the area, please.”

  “No worries. I’m pretty sure I’m here to stay. Things I like… Let’s see, I enjoy the sights, the weather, the food, the people…”

  “Let me stop you right there so we can discuss that further, if you don’t mind.”

  “Discuss what?”

  “Your fondness for the populace. Would there happen to be one particular person in this generalization whom you find yourself more fond of than the others?” He takes a swig from his wine glass, yet his eyes never leave mine.

  “Perhaps,” I tease though I’m starting to get a little apprehensive as to where this is going. I want this, but then again, I don’t.