by Angie Sandro
Her lips are slightly parted, and a beetle crawls across her teeth, which are straight and pearly white, not a tooth missing. She’s definitely a townie. A swamp girl her age would have a couple of missing teeth, given she appears to be a few years older than me. Her expensive-looking sundress has ridden up round her waist. Poor thing got all gussied up before she killed herself.
The deep vertical cuts still pinking the water on both of the girl’s wrists makes my stomach flip inside out. I double over, trying not to vomit. It takes several deep breaths to settle my gut before I can force myself to continue studying the body.
Long hair fans out like black licorice around her head, and her glazed blue eyes stare sightlessly at the heavens. Faint sunlight glistens on the flecks of water dotting her porcelain skin. I’ve never seen such a serene expression on anyone’s face, let alone someone dead, like she’s seen the face of God and has found peace.
After seeing her up close and personal, I can’t stomach leaving her floating in the foul water. Flies crawl in her wounds, and midges land on her eyes. Slimy strands of algae twine through her hair. Soon the fish will be nibbling at her. Unable to bring myself to touch her clammy-looking skin, I take a firm grip on her dress and drag her onto the bank—high enough above the waterline that she’ll be safe from predators while I get help.
I’m halfway across the stretch of land between the bayou and my house when a shiver of foreboding races through my body, and I slow my pace. Shit! I took the wrong path. Usually I avoid traveling through the Black Hole. It’s treacherous with pockets of quicksand. Cottonmouths like to hide in the thick grass, beneath lichen-smothered fallen trees. Those natural obstacles are pretty easy to navigate if you’re alert. What makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle is the miasma that permeates every rock and rotten tree in the clearing I cross to get home. A filmy layer of ick coats my skin and seeps in through my pores until it infects my whole body with each step. I feel…unclean. I’m not big on believing in the whole concept of evil, but if there’s any place I’d consider to be tainted ground, I’m walking across it.
Instinct screams that I’m not alone. I’d be a fool to ignore the warning signs twice. If I listened to my instincts earlier, I never would’ve found the body. I stretch out my senses like tentacles waving in the wind. Nothing moves…chirps, or croaks. A strange, pungent odor floats on the light breeze, but I can’t identify it. My darting gaze trips and reverses to focus on the Bad Place. I swallow hard and yank my gaze from the dark stain on the rock in the middle of the circle. Mama said our slave ancestors used this area for their hoodoo rituals because the veil between the living and dead is thinner here.
It’s always sounded like a whole lot of bullshit to me until I stumbled across the blood-stained altar and shards of burnt bone scattered across earth devoid of grass or weeds—salted earth, where nothing grows. Mother Mary, it creeps me out.
’Cause what if I’m really not alone? What if something stands on the other side of the veil, close enough to touch, but invisible? Watching me.
Whatever’s out here can go to the devil ’cause I’m not waiting to greet it.
By the time I burst out of the woods that border our yard, the sun has started its downward slope in the sky behind me. I double over, hands on my knees, to catch my breath after my half-mad run. Our squat wooden house perches on cinder-block stilts like an old buzzard on top of the hill. The peeling paint turns the rotting boards an icky gray in the waning light, but it’s sure a welcome sight for sore eyes.
With a final glance over my shoulder to be sure I wasn’t followed, I dash beneath the Spanish moss–draped branches of the large oak that shades our house, dodging the darn rooster running for me with tail feathers spread. I brush it aside with my foot, avoiding the beak pecking at my ankle.
“Mama!” My voice trembles. I really wish my mother had come home early. But the dark windows and empty driveway tell me otherwise. I track muddy footprints across the cracked linoleum in the kitchen to get to the phone.
Ms. Dixie Fontaine answers on the first ring. “Sheriff’s Office, what’s your emergency?” The 9-1-1 dispatcher’s lazy drawl barely speeds up after I tell her about the dead girl. “All right, honey. I’ll get George on over. You be waiting for him and don’t go touching the body, you hear?” She pops her gum in my ear.
A flash of resentment fills me, but I’m careful to keep my tone even. “Don’t worry, I know better, Ms. Dixie. I only touched her dress—to drag her from the water.”
“That’s fine, Malaise, quick thinking on your part. Bye now.”
“Bye,” I mutter, slamming the phone in the cradle. I breathe out a puff of air, trying to calm down. I’m antsy enough without having to deal with Ms. Dixie’s inability to see me as anything but a naive kid. I’m not an idiot. How can she think I’d make a rookie mistake like contaminating the crime scene? I’ve been working with her now for what? Nine…no, ten months. Hell! What does it take to prove myself to her? To the rest of the veterans at the sheriff’s office who remember every mistake I’ve ever made and throw them in my face every chance they get?
Disaster. That should’ve been my name. Instead, I’ve been saddled with Malaise. Well, whatever. I stomp into the bathroom, slip off my muddy T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts, and take a scalding shower. I scrub hard to get the scummy, dead-girl film off my skin. It takes almost a whole bottle of orchid body soap to cleanse my battered soul and wash the tainted, dirty feeling down the drain with the muck.
The whole time, three words echo in my head. Deputy George Dubois. My heart hasn’t stopped thudding since Ms. Dixie mentioned his name. The towel I wrap around my heaving chest constricts my rapid breaths like a tightened corset. Hopefully, I won’t do an old-fashioned swoon like those heroines from historical novels when I see him.
It’s a silly reaction, but George comes in third on my list of People I Want to Impress the Most. It’s not that his six feet of muscled, uniformed hotness tempts me to turn to a life of crime just so he’ll frisk me and throw me in the back of his patrol car. Nope, that pathetic one-sided schoolgirl crush passed after we graduated and started working together. I’d be as cold as the dead girl if I couldn’t appreciate his yummy goodness, but the last thing either of us need is for a romantic entanglement to screw up our professional relationship.
George epitomizes everything I want to become when I “grow up.” He graduated from Paradise High School my freshman year and went to the police academy at the junior college. Once he turned twenty, he got a job at the Bertrand Parish Sheriff’s Office.
When news of a part-time clerical position floated around town, guess who stood first in line for the job assisting Ms. Dixie with the data entry of the old, hardcopy crime reports into the new computer system. It’s not always what you know at BPSO, but whose ass you kiss to get hired as a deputy. The recession left few open positions, forcing rookies to compete against seasoned officers who were laid off at other agencies. I don’t have family to pull strings for me, but I’ve made job connections with people in positions of authority while obtaining practical experience working for the Sheriff’s Office. I refuse to leave my future to the fickle whims of fate.
My last year at Bertrand Junior College begins in two months. I’ll graduate with an Associate of Arts degree in Criminal Justice. I haven’t decided whether to transfer to a larger university for a BA, but if not, I will definitely enroll in the police academy next summer. One year. I just have to survive one more boring year, and I’ll finally get to start living out my dream of becoming a detective.
Calm down, Mala. I fuss with my thick, russet curls for a few minutes in the bathroom mirror then give up and pull it back in a high ponytail. My hair’s a lost cause with the darn humidity frizzing it up. I finish dressing in my best jeans and a lavender T-shirt. Rocks pop beneath tires traveling down the gravel driveway. Instead of remaining barefoot, I slip on my rain boots, not wanting to look like a complete heathen or worse, reminding the higher-ups at t
he crime scene of my true identity—the prostitute’s bastard.
Rumors about Mama’s choice of occupation have been whispered about since before my birth. You’d think being the daughter of the town whore would be humiliating enough to hang my head in shame. Then add in the fact that most folk also think she’s a broom-riding witch. The kids in school were brutal, repeating as gospel the stupid rumors they overheard from their parents, who should’ve known better. It boggles the mind that people in this day and age can believe ignorant stuff like Mama can hex a man’s privates into shriveling if he crosses her. The only good thing about being the witch’s daughter is it keeps most boys from straying too close. I don’t have to deal with a bunch of assholes who think I’ll blow them for a couple of twenties and an open bar tab like Mama.
With one last rueful glance at my face in the mirror, I shrug. This is as good as it’s gonna get. I run onto the front porch and freeze halfway down the steps. The patrol car I expect to see in the drive turns instead into a good view of Mama on hands and knees beside her truck with a flowerpot stuck under her chin as she pukes in the geraniums. Crud! Georgie will be here any minute. I’ve got to hide her in the house. She can spend the night heaving up what’s left of her guts in the toilet without me babysitting her.
Mama senses me hovering. She rolls onto her backside and holds out her hands.
“Don’t just stand there gawkin’ like an idiot, help your mama up,” she says.
With a heavy sigh, I trudge to her side. I grit my teeth and lift her to her feet while she flops like roadkill. Upright, she lists sideways. A strong wind would blow her over. The vomit-and-stale-beer stench of her breath makes my nose crinkle when she throws her skinny arm around my shoulders.
“What you been up to today?” She tries to trail her fingers through my ponytail, but they snag on a knot I missed. She jerks her hand free, uncaring that it causes me pain since she’s purposely deadened her own feelings with booze. Mama can’t cope with her life without a bottle of liquor in one hand. It’s like the chicken-and-the-egg question. Which came first? Was her life shitty before she became an alcoholic, or had booze made it worse? I can’t see how it could be better, but maybe I’m naive, or as stupid as she always calls me.
I rub at the sting on my scalp. “Why are you home so early?”
She sways. “Can’t I miss my baby girl?”
“Missing me never slowed you down before. What makes tonight any different?”
“Why you so squirrelly? You act like you don’t want me here.” She pulls back far enough to look me over. “Expectin’ someone or you all dressed up with nowhere to go?” She cackles, slapping her leg like she’s told the funniest joke ever.
“Georgie Dubois’s coming out.”
“Why? I know the deputy’s not comin’ to see you.”
I grit my teeth on the snappy comment that hovers on the tip of my tongue. “Found a dead girl floating in the bayou.”
Mama pulls her arm back and strikes cottonmouth quick.
I end up flat on my back with stars dancing before my eyes. My cheek burns. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, then focus in on the shadow hovering over me with clenched fists. “God damn it! Are you crazy?” I roll over and stagger to my feet. She steps forward again, fist raised.
“Don’t you dare, Mama!”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Or threaten me.”
“I haven’t threatened, yet. But I swear, you hit me again, I’m out of this rat hole you call a house. I’ve earned enough scholarship money to move into an apartment.”
“Why you sayin’ such things, Malaise?” Tears fill her eyes.
Money. The only thing that still touches Mama’s fickle heart.
“You just backhanded me, Mama! What? Do you expect me to keep turning the other cheek until you break it? Or accidentally kill me like that girl I found…”
Mama’s mocha skin drops a shade, and she sucks in a breath. I don’t think it has to do with any feelings of regret. No, it has to do with the girl. She hit me after she heard about George coming out for the body.
“Why do you look so scared?” Suspicion makes my voice sharp. “What did you do?”
Mama staggers toward the house.
“Don’t walk away from me,” I yell. “What’s going on? Georgie will be here any minute. If I’ve got to cover for you, then I need to know why or I might let something slip on accident.”
Mama makes it to the stairs and collapses onto the bottom step. She buries her face in her palms. Shudders wrack her body. “I need a drink, Mala. There’s a bottle in my bottom drawer. Bring it out to me.”
“That’s not a good idea…”
She lifts her head. Her dark brown eyes droop at the corners, and I see the faint trace of fine lines. Strangest of all, her eyes have lost the glazed, shiny appearance they held a few minutes earlier. The news shocked her sober.
“I’m not askin’ again, Malaise. Get in there if you want to hear the story.”
Chapter 2
Mala
Trigger Happy
I scramble up the stairs. It doesn’t take but a minute to find the bottle hidden under her nightgowns in the dresser drawer. The seal on the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red remains intact. She must’ve been saving it for a special occasion. That doesn’t bode well for the direction of the conversation we’ll be having in a moment. I don’t bother with a glass. Mama always says, “Don’t need one for beer. Don’t want one for liquor.” I ease down the staircase. She doesn’t even look up, just holds out a shaking hand.
“Want a swig?” she asks, opening the bottle with a deft twist. A slight smile dances on her lips. “No? My, my, such a good girl I got. Funny thing is, girl, I was just like you at your age. Thought I was better than my mama. Thought she was trash.”
Silence fills the space between us, but I twitch first. “That’s not how I feel—”
“Don’t lie. I see it in your eyes. You’ll learn different when your time comes.” Her chapped lips purse. She takes a long drink and sighs. “Come on over here. Sit by me, cher.”
I shuffle forward then stop.
She stretches out the arm not holding the bottle. “Come on, I won’t bite.”
When I sit down beside her, she pulls me close, and I lay my head on her shoulder. For a long minute, we sit in silence, staring out toward the woods. The sun has almost reached the tips of the moss-draped trees, and the clouds have turned crimson and gold. Day and night. Love and hate. One can’t exist in the world without the other. They come together at twilight—the perfect symbol for my chaotic feelings for Mama because, as much as I hate how she treats me when she’s drunk, I still love her.
“Mama, I’m sorry I cursed you,” I whisper, head tilting to stare into her pensive face.
She squeezes my shoulders. “Don’t worry, cher. I won’t be around to hurt you much longer.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I had my death vision and I’m gonna die. Soon. I’d hoped to keep the news from you for a while yet, but I need to set my affairs in order before I pass.”
I snort and pull free of her embrace. “That’s silly, a death vision.” The wellspring of anger reserved just for her crazy shit has been tapped, and it bubbles up again. “The drink has you hallucinating.”
“Wish that was the case, Malaise. The day’s comin’. I’m not sure exactly how or when, but it’s tied to that girl you found. I dreamed about her.” She takes another drink then burps. “S’cuse me.”
I shake my head. Mama, the epitome of a southern lady.
“I don’t believe in dreams that foretell the future.” My arms fold across my chest with a chill that caresses my spine like an accordion being played by a zydeco master. “You’re just crazy—”
She rolls her eyes at me then shakes her head. “Sure, I’m crazy. I know I am, but it’s those dreams that done drove me nuttier than Ida Jean’s fruitcake, not the other way around. After I die, the visions will pass on to
you like mine came from my mama and hers from her mama, and so on, all the way back to mother Africa. Then you’ll sit on my grave and beg my spirit to teach you how to control the horrors you see.” She takes another drink. “Maybe I’ll have forgiven you by then and will help you out.”
“I’m not sitting on your tomb. That’s creepy. And I’m the one who should be forgiving you,” I say, voice rising. “Why you always got to turn things around and make yourself the victim?”
“Talk to my bones and find a bottle of whisky. Both’ll be your best friends. Helps ease the pain of dreaming of deaths you can’t change.”
I roll my eyes, careful not to let her see. No use arguing when she refuses to listen. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Long black hair? Blue eyes to match her fancy sundress?” Mama sits the bottle between her legs. “A spoiled, rich brat from town.”
“Yeah, I guess. You met her before?”
Red and blue flashing lights and a siren drift from the end of the long driveway leading to the house. The patrol car’s wheels had rolled over rain-filled puddles that splattered the sides with mud during its close to thirty-minute journey through unpaved woodland.
Mama reaches for the railing and uses it to pull herself to her feet. “I’m going to bed. You tell little Georgie Porgie to tell his daddy hello for me. We go way back, me and Dubois senior. He’ll remember me.”
Does that mean Georgie’s dad and Mama did the nasty back in the good ol’ days? Eww. “Yeah, sure,” I drawl. Thanks, Mama. Scarred for life with that image.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shove the thought of Mama dying into the farthest recesses of my mind. As much as she drives me crazy, I love her. The idea that she won’t be around forever terrifies me.
George parks his patrol car and steps out with a scowl. My gaze travels over his body. I compare the change in his appearance. It’s been a month since he went to the graveyard shift, and the beginning of a Dunkin’ Donuts belly stretches his starched, tan uniform shirt, but he still looks mighty tasty.