by Anne McClane
Funny thing about Mr. Becnel. Birdie’s pay was double what Mrs. Bergeron paid. But while Birdie knew Mrs. Berge paid what she could afford—maybe more than what she could afford—Birdie suspected Mr. Becnel could afford a whole lot more.
So far, it was easy work. Mrs. Becnel stayed to herself, mostly. Birdie always checked on her, and would give her small, unobtrusive “treatments.” Mrs. Becnel always had immediate relief, but never actively sought Birdie’s care. She gave Birdie a wide berth. Birdie wasn’t sure if it was out of deference or fear, but the end result was the same—she was able to do her job as best as she saw fit, with little to no interference.
Those kids were more than Mrs. Becnel had bargained for. And too many for her to handle. She wasn’t built for it. Birdie figured she must be. Is that something? To be built for college, and built for rearing children, too? Maybe Birdie’s make-up somehow captured both.
And she liked being with those children. They kept her too busy for her mind to wander.
Lord knows, it would be easy for her mind to wander down a dark path. Of sadness, regrets, and sorrow over those who’ve gone before her.
She pulled her truck along the side alley where Mr. Becnel told her to park. He’d insisted that Mrs. Becnel could provide transportation, but Birdie assured him that though the old Chevy didn’t look like much, it was reliable, and it would all work out better this way.
Mrs. Becnel had sent a driver for her once, just once in the three months Birdie had been working for them. Her husband, Morris, had wanted to work on the truck, and Birdie knew some tinkering would be the best thing for him.
After her Momma died, she and Morris had moved down to Larose, and Morris had started working at his uncle’s car shop. But business slowed around the same time Morris got the sickness in his legs. All Birdie could do was keep it from spreading. And then start working when Morris stopped getting a paycheck. That’s when she found Mrs. Berge’s ‘help wanted’ sign a few miles down Highway 1, in Galliano.
For the two years she worked for Mrs. Bergeron, Morris could still drive, and he would drop her off. But the sickness had weakened his muscles so much that it wasn’t safe for him to drive that ten-mile distance anymore. When the Becnels approached her for a job, they not only offered more money, they also offered to provide Birdie’s transportation.
But the one time she took them up on the offer was enough for her. Mrs. Becnel didn’t come herself—she wasn’t well enough that day—and besides, Birdie wasn’t even sure if she could drive. The man who came for Birdie drove some busted up Ford older than Birdie’s truck, and talked like those folks her Momma had always told her to stay away from. And on top of that, he was late. Birdie never found out who the man was.
She just made a gentle suggestion to Morris that maybe he could work on the truck on Sundays, her one day off, while she was at Mass. Morris wouldn’t go, and Holy Angels was close enough that Birdie could walk.
Birdie pulled the truck into its spot at the Becnels and looked through the windshield. She felt a slight ping, like foreboding. She thought it was because she didn’t see Foxy. The little boy would shadow Birdie as she looked after the twins, or served lunch to the older kids. He was just at the right age to be teased mercilessly by his next oldest brother, Lionel, who never answered to his proper name. So everyone just called him “Brother.”
Foxy, always eager to escape Brother’s enmity, wanted to help with his toddler twin siblings, even if he didn’t know what to do. He was a sweet boy, gentler than his older brother. He wore his heart on his sleeve. And since Birdie’s second day coming to the Becnels, he would wait at the galley door, the one closest to where Birdie parked.
She put her car key in her bag. The air was so still that spring morning, the sound of her shoes on the driveway, paved only with dredged shells, bleached white from the sun, resounded through the narrow alley way. The sky had a tinge to it that made Birdie uneasy.
So when she felt the sharp tap at her back, her scream was a little shriller, more fearful, than it might have otherwise been.
She turned around. “Foxy! How’d you do that?”
Little Fox’s face crumbled, and a plaintive mew rose from his throat.
Birdie wasted no time. Her face broke out into a wide smile, and she scooped him up and placed him on her hip.
“Oh, child, don’t be sad. You scared me, that’s all. You must move like a cat!”
She moved the fingers of her free hand, mimicking a catwalk, and Foxy’s face relaxed. Birdie kept at it until she produced a giggle.
“There, now.” She carried Foxy through the galley door and set him down on the cedar planks. “Better?”
The little boy nodded. He gazed up at Birdie, and a shy smile brightened his cheeks.
“Good. Because we can’t have you all crumpled up. That just won’t do! Now, where’s Sister?”
Even though Fox Becnel had three older sisters, and one younger, there was only one who answered to “Sister.” Whereas Foxy and Birdie had a mutual admiration society, Evangeline was the one sibling Birdie counted on when she needed assistance wrangling the Becnel mob.
And she would need her help, since all the children were off school for the Easter break.
A young girl, tall for her age, poked her head around the corner, but didn’t enter the galley. Her unruly hair was in pin curls, and she wore a gingham jumper with bobby socks. Never one to be shy, Birdie wondered what had gotten into Evangeline.
“Hello, Sister. Your brother here gave me quite the scare when I drove up. Did he do the same to you?”
Apparently, Birdie breaking the ice was all Evangeline needed. She shook her head, took three strides into the galley, and faced Birdie, hands on hips.
“Birdie!” she said more loudly than she intended, and then lowered her voice. “Ms. Birdie, Camille is saying a big storm is going to hit, and she and Amelie got in a fight about it, and Mamere is in a very ill humor!”
“Is that so, Sister? Well, I’m afraid Camille might be right. We’ve got a storm sky this morning.”
“Well, don’t tell Amelie that. I think she thinks if she just pretends something bad won’t happen, then it won’t.”
Birdie laughed. “None of that makes any sense, Sister. Can you keep an eye on things for a bit while I go check on Mrs. Becnel?”
Evangeline nodded, serious about her assigned duty.
Birdie realized her uneasiness hadn’t gone away. It was a feeling of knowing something was going to happen, something momentous, but not knowing the particulars. Sometime after, she realized she was feeling what Momma had called the Sense.
It would turn out to be one of those watershed days. Those days where premonitions and powers and ominous signs all coalesce, and set things on a certain course from which there was no turning back.
While Birdie had no way to know that the job with the Becnels would be the last one she ever had, she would know from this day forward that there was where she was meant to be.
Mrs. Becnel had complained of a pain in her jaw, and a terrible ache in her temple on the same side. Birdie laid two fingers—with a very light touch—on her temple. Mrs. Becnel didn’t like to be touched. When she checked on her later, before the storm hit, Mrs. Becnel was sleeping soundly. A point of fact, Mrs. Becnel claimed to have slept through the entire storm.
Birdie knew to count her blessings.
Camille’s obstinacy was not among them. She was nowhere to be found, and the weather was about to take a terrible turn.
The radio in Birdie’s truck had warned her about bad weather on her way there that morning. While she’d never seen a twister before, she’d read enough to figure that when the sky was dark, and the clouds were sharpening down into a point, that had to be a sign of a tornado.
The younger children were all indoors, anyway. By instinct, Birdie herded them all into the galley kitchen. It w
as narrower than any other room in the house; all the dishes were put away, so there was little to fly about. She had grabbed two blankets and laid them on the floor in a corner. She would make it a game for the younger children, but she would need the older children as accomplices.
She wasn’t as sure about the bedroom where Mrs. Becnel slept, but let it suffice that it was at least on the ground floor.
Sister entertained the toddler twins, Foxy stood his ground against his older brother, and Amelie sulked on a corner of the blanket.
As if on cue, a terrible gust of wind rattled the window at the far end of the galley.
Birdie called Brother over to her, away from the ears of the younger children. Evangeline followed.
“Brother, please go round up Camille,” Birdie asked.
He looked suspicious at first. But he must have weighed the opportunity—here was a rare chance to torment his older sister. He bounded out the room, and they all heard heavy footfalls on the stairs, two at a time.
The wind outside quieted, and Birdie breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Though the respite was short-lived.
It picked up worse than before, and Amelie quit sulking. She began to pace small semi-circles around the edge of the blanket. Birdie grabbed one of Amelie’s hands in both of hers and forced her to a gentle stop. She pulled Amelie to the center of the circle formed by Evangeline, Fox, and the twins, Laville and Louisa.
“Who wants to hear the story of Armand the Alligator?” Birdie asked.
The toddler twins squealed and clapped, while Fox and Evangeline turned on quiet, bright smiles. Birdie looked to Amelie, a knowing glance of conspiracy and collaboration. Amelie relented.
Birdie had just gotten to the part where Armand locks the door to his alligator shack, heading out for his evening alligator stroll, when Brother appeared. Two telling things about his appearance: he was still, and he was pale.
Birdie asked Amelie to finish the story for her. The younger children sighed a collective “Awwww,” but Birdie ignored it.
Off to the side, Brother told Birdie, “I can’t find her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can’t find her. She’s not upstairs in the bedroom; she’s not in the study. I even looked outside in the garden and she’s not there.”
Birdie looked out the window. She looked at the huddle of children on the blanket. And she knew what she had to do. Amelie had stepped up to shepherd her younger siblings.
“Children, I’m taking Brother to help secure the trellis. We’ll be right back.”
A flight of panic crossed Amelie’s face, but she masked it well enough and continued Armand’s story. Evangeline shot a glare at Birdie, but quickly turned her head away when Birdie answered with a wink.
Birdie knew there was nothing she could, or should, do to secure anything outside. The safest place for everyone was indoors. And she was worried about heading out there. But she also knew that she and Brother would have a better chance of finding Camille—two sets of eyes are better than one. And Brother was the most capable of taking care of himself.
They exited the house together, onto the side patio lined with brick. The trellis was thick with the branches of a climbing rose, pink buds peeking through dense foliage. The visible horizon was clear from that side of the house, but the light all around them was green.
“Come with me,” Birdie said to Brother. “Stay close behind me.”
Birdie led him to the back of the house. There, the sky was much more ominous, a mixture of green and gray. The funnel clouds much closer than just a few minutes before.
A copse of cypress, along the bayou and about thirty yards from the house, impeded the view of the horizon. And an inkling told Birdie that’s where she’d find Camille.
Birdie broke out into a run toward the bayou. Brother struggled to keep up. Birdie found Camille, camera in hand, unaware of anything except the sight in its viewfinder.
“Camille!” Birdie yelled. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”
Camille didn’t budge. Her lens was trained on the horizon, and she seemed unfazed by the fast-approaching danger.
Brother finally caught up and grabbed Camille’s arm. “She’s gonna get us all killed!”
Camille shoved her brother with her elbow, shaking him off. Five years older than him, she was still smaller by a few pounds and inches. He came back at her and took a firmer hold.
“Stop it! The both of you!”
A gale-force wind came at them, and it took effort to remain standing.
Camille finally removed the camera from her face. “Ms. Birdie, tell him to get his hands off me.” She sounded much younger than fourteen.
The funnel cloud suddenly appeared to be less than a mile away. “You both need to run! Back to the house!” Birdie put her hand at Camille’s back, right above the waistline of her pants, and shoved. Brother needed no such cue.
The siblings broke off in a sprint toward the house. Birdie ran just a few feet behind them. She saw Brother turn his head and she pointed a finger at him. “And don’t look back!”
Without warning, a torrential downpour came down from the sky. Within seconds, the ground beneath their feet was saturated. Their footfalls sank deeper with every step, and there wasn’t a square inch of anything dry between the three of them.
Brother reached the side door first and tumbled through it. Camille and Birdie followed close behind. All three of them were out of breath, sopping wet, and wired more tightly than a drum. Only Birdie knew how to handle it.
Brother had his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He straightened, and the look in his eyes was murderous. He stared at Camille.
Birdie grabbed him by the ear. He howled and turned his attention away from Camille.
“Brother! Go grab some linens,” she said.
“Owwww. I don’t know where the linens are.”
“Of course you do. In the hall closet. Go grab enough to do the job.”
Birdie hoped Mrs. Becnel would stay to her bed today. It would give her time to wash the linens later on, and no one would be the wiser.
With the threat of Brother’s anger removed, Birdie laid a hand on Camille’s shoulder. She was fretting over her camera, gently shaking the water from the lens. Birdie’s hand was warm despite the wet chill she felt over her whole body.
“Child,” Birdie said. Camille, sheepish, looked up into her eyes.
“You have an amazing perception of the world around you,” Birdie said. Her voice had deepened an octave. “It is a gift. But you still have no sense of your place in the world. You cannot put yourself in danger like that.”
Camille nodded her head and looked at her feet. Birdie turned Camille’s face to hers again. “In the end, it wasn’t just yourself in danger. You understand?”
Camille nodded again, and a tear rolled down her cheek. It blended with the rain that still stained her face.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Birdie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you and Brother to have to come after me.”
“I know you didn’t, child.”
Brother returned with a stack of linens. He shoved a third of them at Camille, the look on his face still shooting daggers at her. But he was no longer ready to attack.
“Thank you, Brother.” Birdie took half the remaining towels from him. “Now, you both get yourselves cleaned up.”
16
San Luis Obispo, California
Current day
Lacey was running late. She remembered what Eli had said about time, and wondered if he’d be forgiving when she showed up ten minutes past their agreed-upon time.
She suspected not.
She checked her speedometer, and sped up five miles over the speed limit. The road was wide open.
Lacey and Ambrose had arrived back at the San Luis Obispo rental just seven hours p
rior. When Lacey had seen Kandace at the funeral, she gave every indication that the production would remain on hiatus, for at least another week. But Kandace called the next day and told Lacey to drop everything and head back up the coast. Something about a change of direction for the movie production and a possible new location. Eli was going to handle the location scouting, and would be in touch with where she needed to go.
She’d received a text from Eli, simply an address and a time.
Typical.
She had managed just a few hours of sleep after she and Ambrose settled back into the rental, before waking up and mapping out her route to the address. Her phone told her the address had a name: Sycamore Mineral Springs. And that she had grossly underestimated the time it would take it get there. She changed clothes, fed Ambrose, and flew out the door.
She had no idea what the place looked like, or why Eli wanted her there. Flustered, she turned at a sign that she thought read the name of the place, and found herself on a drive through a row of guesthouses. She pulled into a parking space and checked the time. 7:59 a.m. She was supposed to meet Eli at eight o’clock.
She tried calling him, he didn’t answer. She began typing a text to him, frantic to get it sent with a time stamp of 8:00 a.m. or earlier. Her armpits were wet and she wished she didn’t have a collared shirt on.
Why am I so worked up about this? Do I feel like I have to be perfect for Eli?
Lacey nearly jumped out of her seat when she heard a loud tapping on the window.
Eli stood in his standard fare of multi-pocketed shirt with cargo shorts. Lacey tried to open the door to her car, but he blocked it. She rolled down the window.
“I just tried to call you,” Lacey said.
“I know,” he said. “We need to go across the road, to the main campus.”
“Okay,” Lacey said. “I guess I probably shouldn’t leave my car here, right?”
“No. Go back out to the road, and turn in the drive opposite this one.”