Lost in the Bayou
Page 16
Oh, God! Don’t let my parents find me with a hole in my head.
My heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s, and my chest is so tight I can hardly breathe. I’m trembling, shaking, waiting for the next sound.
I hear the click of the trigger. The hammer flies forward, and the loud report of the explosion fills the cellar and rings in my ears as the smell of sulfur fills my nose.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Is he still shooting me?
When I feel his steel grip on my hair slowly releasing, I reach back. The metal claw is cold to my touch as my fingers work frantically to open the jaws and free my ponytail. The next moment, I’m scurrying across the floor toward the steps like a terrified animal, slicing my hands and knees on the jagged glass of the broken bottle, while the loud banging continues.
Epilogue
The Silver Bullet
I’m in Heaven.
IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT. I relax on my bed as my radio plays softly from my night table. The sound of the orchestra floats into my ears, and above it all, Etta James is singing “At Last” as only she can. Peace and happiness as pure and sweet as the sound of the violins is flowing through me.
Our family is back together the way it was meant to be. At last. I keep the newspaper clipping taped on my bedroom wall. This one makes me cry, too, but for a different reason.
July 16, 1963—New Orleans, LA
Jonathan Sherwood and Wife Survive Bayou Accident
Mom and Dad came home from the hospital the day after Uncle Conrad shot me. That’s been several weeks ago now. Mom’s head has healed up from the injury she got when the plane crashed, and you can hardly see any scar at all. The doctor said Dad’s cast can come off his arm next week, and Dad tells me he can’t wait for that to happen because the itching is driving him crazy.
Andy is home, too. He still has a bit of a dent in his forehead, but you barely notice it now. His scar is a little more obvious than Mom’s is, but he doesn’t seem to care about that. I think he’s actually kind of proud of it. I sometimes overhear him telling his friends about what happened that night. Each time he tells the story the rock gets bigger and the number of stitches they had to put in his head increases. I don’t think he can exaggerate it much further.
He and Warner spend a lot of time driving around in Uncle Conrad’s Corvette. Warner says he likes the powerful engine, and Andy tells me he can’t wait until he’s old enough to drive. He finally talked Warner into letting him cruise around by himself on the driveway when Mom and Dad aren’t here. I’m going to play dumb if anyone asks me about that.
Star is doing fine. I was so worried about her that night. As it turned out, it was only a flesh wound and it didn’t hit any arteries. No bones were broken or chipped. The vet stitched up the hole and she’s healing nicely, although her rear end is still a little sensitive to the touch. I still have dreams about that night. Maybe I always will. I’m just glad it turned out the way it did.
I keep the silver bullet on my shelf as a reminder. That’s what Uncle Conrad dropped in the pocket of Mom’s robe just before he shot me. Andy told me it’s a tradition that the Lone Ranger always leaves a silver bullet behind. This one’s not a real bullet, of course. Just a tin one that was painted silver so long ago that it’s flaking off and peeling like a summer sunburn.
The gun he shot me with was stolen. He had stolen it from my dad years ago. It wasn’t a real gun, though. I was so scared that night that I didn’t even notice. It was an official Lone Ranger cap pistol. Dad was so surprised to see it. He told me he had gotten it as a Christmas present when he and my uncle were just kids, but it had disappeared later that day, and he never saw it again. He also said my uncle never missed an episode of the Lone Ranger when it came on the radio, and he even had a little binder that he kept notes in while he listened to it. Weird. The noise I heard when my uncle pulled the trigger was the cap exploding from the roll he had put in it. That’s where the sulfur smell came from, too. I’ll never forget that smell.
When I asked Dad what happened to Uncle Conrad’s hand, he said that when Uncle Conrad was in the army, they sent him to Korea. There was a war or something going on at the time. He had some kind of accident with a grenade and the doctors had to amputate what was left of his hand. It sends a shiver up my spine when I think about it, so I try not to.
I’ll miss Uncle Conrad, in a strange sort of way. I feel kind of sorry for him, really. I can’t help it. The doctor at his new home told us he has a mental condition. He mentioned an inferiority complex mixed with delusions of grandeur. He said those two things are at opposite ends of the spectrum, or that one can cause the other, or something like that. He told us it could result in a condition called schizophrenia, or even a split personality.
The doctor told us that Uncle Conrad actually believes he’s the Lone Ranger sometimes. He also mentioned some guy named Walter Mitty, but I don’t know who he is. Maybe a childhood friend. I’m not sure. It all seems crazy, but I suppose that’s why they call it that. Crazy, I mean. I guess he can’t help how he is. I’m glad he didn’t die. Honestly. I wouldn’t want to carry that around on my conscience forever.
Warner is really the one who saved him, though. He told me he had a funny feeling in his old bones that night when he was at the hospital with Andy, and he called the police and asked them to check on me. That’s where the banging sounds came from. It was the police officers beating on the cellar door.
Shortly after they found my uncle in the cellar that night, they called for an ambulance, and they got him to the hospital in time. They pumped his stomach, like they had done with Andy. I also found out that Devil’s Cherries is another name for Deadly Nightshade. The first thing they do is make you lose your voice. I never knew that before. I guess that’s why Uncle Conrad couldn’t talk after he ate them. Like I said, even though he scared the bejezzers out of me, I still feel kind of sorry for him. I may visit him in his new home someday. And then again, I may not.
And that brings us to poor, dear Mrs. Deffenbaugh. Bless her heart. I still feel so terrible about what happened to her. I guess Uncle Conrad tried to talk to her when he found her in the kitchen that night. When she didn’t answer, he figured she was dead.
But she wasn’t, thank goodness. She told me later that she had awakened hungry after she went to bed, and she couldn’t stop thinking about those muffins. She decided to go back downstairs and eat just one. They were so good, she said, that she couldn’t stop until she had eaten four of them. After that, she fell asleep at the table. She had left her hearing aid in her bedroom, so she just dozed away while we were walking through the kitchen that night on the way to the cellar. She had a bad stomachache the next morning, but she’s perfectly fine now. I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned that the Devil’s Cherries lose their poisonous characteristics when they’re cooked. I’m happy about that. Very happy.
Mom and I went into town last weekend. Besides some new school clothes, she bought me some makeup. Can you believe it? And when we got home, she showed me how to put it on. It was really a surprise, but I love it. It does a great job of covering my freckles and making me look more presentable, as Mrs. Deffenbaugh would say.
While we were in town, Mom also took me to the beauty shop. They put some kind of treatment on my hair that relaxed the kinky curls and made it soft and wavy. It actually looks good for a change. In fact, I’m starting to enjoy seeing my reflection in the mirror now. Maybe this southern belle will ring someday after all.
School starts tomorrow morning. I’m excited about it. Some of my friends say high school is scary. Like they have a clue what scary is all about. They say there’s a lot of bullying that goes on. I’m not worried about that. If anyone tries to bully me this year, they’re going to be in for a big surprise.
My eyelids are getting heavy, and I’m yawning again. Bobby Vinton is singing “Blue Velvet” as Wolfman Jack does his voice-over above the music and signs off. “From the Mighty 1090 in Hollywood, we got to close it ou
t for tonight. Until tomorrow, I just want you to know. I love you so much.”
My heart flutters a bit when he says that line. It’s silly, I know, but it makes me think of Michel. I’m definitely not going to mention it to Mom and Dad, but he’s visited me a couple of times since we got back. Talk about your big surprises. The first time, he tossed a pebble at my window to get my attention, just like in the movies. I slipped down the stairs and met him outside.
When I asked him why he had come, he told me that Fabien Laveau sent him to check on me and to make sure I got home okay. Ha! I didn’t believe that for a minute, but I didn’t let on. He also said he had to come back to get the big pirogue and return it to the Voodoo Swamp. I guess that could be true. But I really think he likes me, and he just wanted to see me again. Plus, he didn’t have an excuse for showing up the second time. He is kind of cute.
Andy and I agreed not to mention anything about Fabien Laveau, or Michel, to Mom and Dad. When we talked to them about the accident, they didn’t remember anything about the Voodoo Swamp or what happened after the plane crashed into the water. I don’t know if they would believe us or not, but I’m sure they’d be really upset about us venturing into the bayou, even though we brought them home. It’s just something we figured it was better to keep to ourselves. At least for now.
The song is over, and my radio is spitting out nothing but static now. I turn it off and snuggle beneath my crisp sheets with a feeling of sweet contentment flowing through me.
The last breeze of summer rustles my curtains as a golden harvest moon climbs into the night sky. The world is asleep, and my family has come home.
At last.
About the Author
Cornell DeVille considers himself an Imagination Director. His writing leads the reader on a journey that allows them to escape the real world and venture into a special realm where anything can happen.
A member of the Baby Boom generation, DeVille was influenced by the great storytellers of the fifties and sixties, including such Hollywood icons as Walt Disney, Alfred Hitchcock and Rod Serling. His early reading included the works of Jules Verne, Edgar Allen Poe, O. Henry, and H.G. Wells. Those early memories remained with him throughout the years and continue to influence his writing today.
DeVille’s young adult and middle grade fiction includes:
A Tale of Two Hearts
Scary Night Music
Cannibal Island
Star Wishes
Skullhaven
Déjà Vu
Musa Publishing will release Cannibal Island in March, 2012. It is a turn-of-the-century steampunk adventure and the first installment in The Golden Disk Adventures, a continuing time-travel series.
DeVille grew up in the Kansas City area, where he lives today with his wife, Rosie, their bichon-poodle Hannah, and a Himalayan Persian cat named Billy. In addition to writing, DeVille is a professional musician and a nationally distributed wildlife artist. You can find him on Twitter as cornelldeville1 and on Facebook as Author Cornell DeVille.