Secondhand Sister

by Rhett DeVane

  She had surely died and lifted off.

  Julie refilled the water glass before it was half-empty. No needful glance required. Mary-Esther ate in gluttonous bliss. Licked the sheen from her lips and fingers. So what if she looked like a cretin.

  “May I ask you something?” Mary-Esther said when Julie produced the check a few minutes later.

  “Sure, hon. If I don’t have an answer, I can always make something up.”

  Humor and honesty. Mary-Esther immediately warmed to the server. “Noticed the ‘Help Wanted’ sign. What are you looking for?”

  “Little of everything, really. One of our short-order cooks had to have surgery, and we’re down a server. Mr. Bill will take either, but it would be nice to find someone who might be able to float.”

  “I’d like to apply.”

  Julie hesitated a beat too long. Gave Mary-Esther the once-over. “Mr. Bill does all the hiring. Won’t be in this evening, but you can catch him first thing in the morning.”

  Mary-Esther wiped the grease from the corners of her lips, threw a couple of bills onto the table, and slid from the booth. “I’ll come back for coffee in the morning. It’ll save me from drinking my own.”

  The server motioned toward the checkout counter then led the way and took Mary-Esther’s money.

  A model of a ’57 Chevy caught her eye on the way out. Mary-Esther stopped in the narrow foyer to check out the display. Husband number two had one like it, the real deal not a tiny metal replica. Only it was red, not turquoise.

  “Elvina, you okay, hon?” Mary-Esther heard Julie ask the old woman who was still watching her. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  *

  The East Bank Campground had everything Mary-Esther could ask for, and more. Only two other campers shared the deep shade on the banks of Lake Seminole, a deal at less than twenty dollars a night. She claimed a choice waterfront spot.

  After getting set up, Mary-Esther took advantage of a long, hot shower. The soft, mineral-filled water poured over her aching body. She washed her hair three times. Whisked a week’s worth of stubble from her underarms and legs. The steamy water beat down on her shoulders, a true luxury when most of her baths had consisted of swiping the important spots with a soapy rag.

  Since the evening temperature had dropped into the fifties, she dried her hair with a compact blow dryer and slipped on a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of worn sweat pants.

  Clean skin and fresh clothes went a long way.

  She’d take comfort any way she could.

  Next, she walked the grounds and found enough dry wood to start a small campfire in the metal fire ring by her site. Once she had the embers burning steadily, she untied a folded aluminum chair from the rack on top of the van and settled down to gaze into the flames. In ancient times, fire meant food, safety, and solace from the encroaching darkness. Funny, since she had so little, it didn’t take much to fulfill the same needs.

  It wasn’t all bad, this fate-imposed poverty. Certainly, she had nothing anyone would care to steal. Freeing in a hobo-existence sort of fashion. No mortgage. No bills.

  Mary-Esther heard a faint mewing noise and peered around in the darkness for its source. A low form hunkered down at the edge of the firelight circle. Raccoon? Possum? The shadow shifted and she discerned the outline of a small rounded head and two pointy ears.

  “C’mere,” she cooed in a soft voice. “C’mon. I won’t hurt you.”

  Mary-Esther rose slowly and moved to the van, returning with a slice of bologna. The first pieces, she tossed into the darkness beyond the animal. It moved and knelt down to eat. Bit by bit, she coaxed it forward into the dim firelight. The kitten looked barely weaned.

  “You’re only a baby,” Mary-Esther whispered.

  Like the wicked-woods queen baiting Hansel and Gretel with gingerbread, Mary-Esther used snippets of bologna to draw the cat nearer. She extended a hand and stroked the soft fur between its ears. Startled at first, it regarded her with wary yellow eyes that matched the buttercream stripes across its skinny body. Mary-Esther settled back in the chair, careful not to make sudden movements. She held the last piece of bologna in her fingertips.

  The kitten hesitated, studying her. Hunger overcame reticence and it stood and walked over to snatch the meat.

  When the tabby finished eating, it glanced her way once before indulging in a long, drawn-out bathing ritual.

  Mary-Esther understood. Being homeless was one thing. Being dirty was another. Just because you were one, you didn’t necessarily have to be the other.

  The kitten curled up in a clump of leaves and fell asleep.

  When the embers died down, Mary-Esther banked the hot coals and retired to the van. The cold snap had eradicated the mosquitoes, so she left the back door slightly ajar to enjoy the fresh air. A bungee cord stretched between the door handle and a metal loop on the van’s inner frame. Anyone trying to break in would make enough noise to awaken her. Didn’t matter she was in the woods. City habits were hard to break.

  With her stomach filled with mullet, her skin and hair scrubbed clean, and her soul warmed by the fire, Mary-Esther’s spirit flew on the night winds to hover over the narrow corridors of the French Quarter.

  In sleep, Mary-Esther found escape.

  Tonight, she dreams of her grandmother’s house. Everything rushes back: the scent of gumbo, Nana Boudreau’s bosomy hugs, and the rays of the setting sun as it descends on a city with so much spirit it never sleeps.

  The sensual low moan of a saxophone travels to greet her. She ambles along a narrow sidewalk and the aroma of night-blooming jasmine fills her nose. Sounds mute, but colors shine with neon intensity as she passes one favorite haunt after another.

  She stands in the grass in front of her grandmother’s house. The bushes stir with a slight land breeze. Inside, the solid shadow of Nana Boudreau shifts against the backdrop of yellow light.

  Mary-Esther can’t make her feet move. She settles cross-legged onto the grass, content to sit and watch. A little cat brushes up against one leg and she reaches to pet it. The kitten’s purr grows and grows until Mary-Esther can no longer hear the night noises of her old street.

  She slips into a peaceful, dreamless oblivion.

  In the morning when Mary-Esther opened her eyes, the blonde tabby kitten regarded her with drowsy eyes, yawned, and curled beneath the covers next to her heart.

  She named him Boudreau.

  Chapter Eight

  Hattie threw up one hand when she entered the therapy room at the Triple C Spa and Salon. “I know, I know. Don’t say it. I’m in sad shape.”

  Stephanie Peters placed an herbal heating pad into a compact microwave and set the timer. “I can tell by the way you’re bracing your left arm.”

  A healer seldom took the time to treat herself, but the shoulder had issued an ultimatum. Hattie’s body showed the signs of age, though she didn’t like to think about it. Wrinkles webbed her eyes, and she grew another chin hair every week. And those were just the surface issues.

  She glanced around the space, similar to hers but with a different personality. A restful shade of pale blue covered the walls, and a thick, wheat-hued rug spread out beneath the electric lift therapy table. Soft, ambient music, a combination of harp and flute, emanated from a compact disc player.

  Stephanie motioned toward the massage table, nodded, and closed the door on the way out.

  Hattie knew the drill, and it didn’t take long to strip naked and snuggle between the sheets. A sheepskin pad cushioned Stephanie’s table. Warmth radiated from an electric heating blanket. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. By the time she heard Stephanie’s double tap, Hattie had nearly drifted to sleep.

  “I’m going to start out on your feet, Hattie, while the heating pad warms up your back.”

  The weight of the herbal pack settled over Hattie’s tender upper back and shoulders. “Umm . . .”

  “Feels marvelous, doesn’t it?” Stephanie’s voice slipped into th
e gentle, even cadence of a healer.

  Stephanie kneaded and pressed acupuncture points on Hattie’s feet and ankles for several minutes before removing the herbal heating pad. “You are really tight, sister.”

  “Sorry I’ve brought you such a mess.”

  “Don’t worry. I love a challenge.”

  Hattie concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. Some points around her shoulder blades referred lightning jolts of pain down to her elbow and fingers. When Stephanie depressed one spot, a memory appeared so vividly, Hattie jerked.

  Her hands, those of a four-year-old girl, reach out for a stuffed bear. The bear is pink and wears a tulle skirt speckled with velvet hearts.

  “Do you want a crumpet, Miz Sarah?” Hattie moves imaginary sweetbreads to a tiny china plate and pretend-pours steeped tea. Sarah is a name she heard her daddy say once when she listened at her parents’ bedroom door.

  “What’d you call that stupid bear?” Forced to play with her, Bobby sprawls in the chair beside the bear, whittling on a stick.

  “Sarah.”

  His gaze flicks toward the end of the porch where their mother rocks, shelling peas. “Never, ever say that name.”

  “How come?”

  Bobby leans over and whispers, “Just don’t.”

  “But who is Sarah?” Her voice is loud.

  Their mother’s head pivots their way. Bobby’s mouth falls open. Her mother jumps to her feet and runs inside the house.

  “Now you did it, twerp. You made her cry.”

  Hattie stands, nearly toppling the table. When she steps toward the door, Bobby stops her. “Leave her alone.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Sarah was our sister. And she died, okay?”

  Tears seeped from Hattie’s eyes and dampened the u-shaped pillow. She had witnessed emotional releases with her own massage clients but had never experienced it herself. By the time she rolled over for the final half-hour, she had managed to push down the sadness.

  “Take your time getting up,” Stephanie said. The door shut with a soft click.

  Hattie rolled on her side, swung her legs over the edge of the table, and sat up. Her shoulder still throbbed, but her neck felt less tense. What was up with the stuff from early childhood?

  Stephanie tapped on the door in a few minutes. “You decent?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  Stephanie entered. “How’s your body feel?”

  “You did a fantastic job, but my shoulder still aches like I’ve been beaten up.”

  “I’m not supposed to diagnose—by law, you know—but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you didn’t have a tendon or muscle tear. You don’t have range of motion at all on the left side. The right side is busy trying to compensate.”

  “Welcome to the aging process, eh?” Her eyes stung. Tears, again?

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Stephanie paused. “The body sends messages to us. The back is about support—the upper back being emotional support. The neck area corresponds to flexibility—stubbornness, the inability to see another point of view.”

  “Animal totems and mind/body connections. You are so cosmic.” Hattie stepped over and gave her friend a one-armed hug.

  “Bottom line: Hattie needs to take care of herself.”

  “If life will only cooperate.”

  *

  When Hattie passed the reception desk, Elvina Houston waved her over. “Hey, gal. Did you enjoy your massage?”

  “Yes. Only now I’m positive I have something major wrong with my shoulder.” And what about obsessing over my dead sister? That’s nearly as worrisome.

  “Wait ’til you get to my age and you worry if you don’t hurt. I’m so far over the hill, I’m back on level ground.”

  They laughed.

  Elvina would never fill her aunt Piddie’s bejeweled slippers, but she certainly gave it an earnest effort.

  “I’m going to see a doctor soon, Elvina. I promise.”

  Elvina’s phone chimed and she checked the incoming text message without missing a beat. “Have you heard anything about that new woman?”

  “I know this town is small, but you don’t really expect me to know each and every person.”

  “Figured someone might have mentioned her to you.” Elvina’s eyebrow crooked up.

  “Why?” Hattie tilted her head.

  Elvina wavered then she answered, “I’ve seen her with my own eyes. Joe has seen her too, couple of days ago when she first came through. Now it seems she’s back, maybe to stay.”

  “It’s not like we’re overrun with people.”

  Elvina chewed on the tip of one nail before frowning and snapping her finger from her mouth. “I really have to stop that! I’ve had two touch-ups already this week. Being well-groomed is such a bother.”

  “You were saying . . . ?” Hattie prompted.

  “Ah, yes.” Elvina paused. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, so I’ll come right out with it. The woman I saw, and understand is now waitressing at Bill’s, is the spitting image of your dear departed mother. A younger version, mind you. Late fifties, maybe. But the same face and smile. Even her hair—the part that’s growing out from an unfortunate perm—is the color of Tillie’s at that same age.”

  “Oh.”

  “Didn’t mean to upset you, Hattie dear. I felt it my duty to let you know.”

  Maybe the hawk messenger was on target.

  Chapter Nine

  Mary-Esther rested in the folding chair with Boudreau purring in her lap. The sun dipped low on the horizon across Lake Seminole, reflecting brilliant streaks of scarlet and gold. A small campfire snickered in front of her, now an evening ritual.

  With a minimal source of income and a place to return to at the end of a day of slinging platters of fried everything, Mary-Esther felt content. One day, she might live somewhere like this. She doubted she would ever make the kind of money to afford a view like the one she now enjoyed, but at least close to water.

  The scent of moisture in the breeze rejuvenated her as no drug or alcoholic beverage ever could. Years ago, she and first loser husband Ricky had lived in Vegas for a time. Though the city teemed with ponds and fountains spewing arcs of water, the air was the life-sucking arid of the surrounding desert. Beyond the flashy strip and suburbs, the terrain blended into mile upon mile of flat, treeless monotony. Where were the moss-draped oaks and towering cypress trees? The scrim of algae and duckweed? She needed green, green, green.

  Her swamp-rat skin had begged for moisture. Her cuticles cracked and her eyes felt raw. Her sinuses rebelled with frequent nosebleeds. Her hair stood out at odd angles and refused to be tamed by a brush or blowtorch.

  “Get me out of this God-forsaken place,” she had admonished her new husband after less than a month.

  When that relationship tanked, she had never ventured to the desert again.

  But Chattahoochee? Mary-Esther could see herself living here. The people were, for the most part amicable, though more than once she had caught them openly staring.

  The wide Apalachicola River rushed southward in swirls past the Jim Woodruff Dam. When she had driven by the main landing, she spotted lines of people with cane fishing poles. A cement boat launch bustled with activity. Here, above the dam, Lake Seminole sprawled out in front of her. According to her creased map, it licked Gadsden and Jackson counties in Florida, before reaching its fingers into southern Georgia and the three rivers that gave it life.

  Mary-Esther trained a flashlight on a small self-published book about the area, one she had found crammed beside the cash register at Bill’s. In the river’s heyday, paddlewheel steamboats and barges carried passengers and goods upstream. For years, the Corps of Engineers kept the Apalachicola bottom dredged of silt, forming wide sandbars with the cast-off, changing the river’s course and biology. She had overhead a couple of diners discuss the war between the politicians and the environmentalists who fought to rescue the mighty, brown waterway.

  A door slammed an
d she glanced up. Two days prior, a lone truck camper had pulled into a spot near the waterfront: a pick-up with a plywood slide-in. Mary-Esther took careful note of her new neighbor. In her section of New Orleans, lack of vigilance could get you robbed, or killed, or both.

  The man looked to be in his late seventies. An aluminum johnboat tethered to a cypress stump bobbed in the shallow water in front of his site. He left early each morning and returned near dark, a line of fish dangling from his gnarled hands. At a makeshift cleaning table fashioned from scraps of board, he scaled and gutted the catch.

  More than once, Mary-Esther had to call Boudreau away from the overflowing pile of fish guts in his trash bucket. Couldn’t really blame the kitten. Raw fish innards had to taste better than Meow Mix. But if a gator decided to join the dinner party, a kitten might make a good appetizer.

  The rumble of a car engine silenced the crickets. Mary-Esther craned her head to see who might be checking in; usually, the campers pulled in well before dark. A sheriff’s car parked beside her van and an officer got out. Her heart beat wild when she recognized the man.

  “Permission to enter your camp, Miz Louisiana?”

  Mary-Esther noted the way he pronounced the state’s name—Lah-ooosee-ann-ner. Cute.

  Boudreau complained when she stood and settled him back onto the chair. “Permission granted. And I told you to call me Mary-Esther.”

  “Well, then, Mary-Esther it is.” He sauntered toward her, his gun belt leather squeaking. “Seems I never properly introduced myself. Jeremiah Blount. Folks call me Jerry.” He stuck out one hand.

  She shook it. Strong and warm. The unsettling flare of interest sparked, again. “What brings you out to my homestead, Jerry?”