by Rhett DeVane
“Suppose I can forgive you.” Elvina pursed her lips.
Jerry shook his head. “Mary-Esther has no idea?”
“I had planned on telling her in person.” Hattie’s eyes watered. “Now I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”
Jerry’s chest constricted. Too bad men couldn’t openly emote in public, especially those in uniform. “We have to focus.” Jerry pulled out a pad of paper and pen. “If we can piece together details from Mary-Esther’s life in New Orleans, it might provide a lead.”
Hattie curled her shoulders forward. “New Orleans is such a big city.”
“Not to mention, half of it has been wiped off the map,” Jake said.
“If Mary-Esther is there, I will find her.” Jerry’s voice echoed resolve.
Hattie dabbed her eyes with the ragged napkin. “You’d go looking for her?”
“Soon as I can get off my shift,” Jerry stated. “I’ll call in some favors, get another officer to cover my zone for a few days or however long it takes. Now, think people. Names of little clubs she might have mentioned, street names, anything.”
Julie stood. “I’ll go grab a fresh pot of coffee. And yes, Miz Elvina, I have some decaf teabags for you.”
Chapter Thirty
Hattie stared at the television, her face as motionless as the rest of her. Sadness, a sucking black hole of it.
“You’re watching Jeopardy.” Holston picked up the remote then frowned. “And you didn’t even try to wrestle me for the control. I’m worried.”
“I don’t care what’s on.”
“You despise Jeopardy. It makes you feel dense and uneducated.” Holston sprawled on the couch beside her. “Sarah’s out like a light. Want to talk.”
“Talk?”
Holston toggled the volume control and the game show proceeded sans noise. “Ever since you found out about Mary-Esther leaving town, you’ve barely said a word.”
She shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He slipped his arm across her shoulders. “What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know how to put it into words.” Hattie inhaled, then let the air out slowly. “I feel like I did after I lost Daddy, then Mama. I barely have the energy to breathe.”
“I was concerned you might be getting too attached.”
Hattie closed her eyes. “I knew about the baby Mama lost when I was a kid, but not a lot of details. Mama didn’t talk about her death. What I know, I learned from Aunt Piddie when I was in college.”
Her eyes watered. “When I was little, I had this fantasy about my big sister. How she’d be my protector. My best friend. Someone I could confide my deepest secrets to. Someone who would love me no matter what.”
“You had Bobby.”
Hattie pinched her lips together. “That’s different. He tormented and kidded me mercilessly, like a brother will do, I guess. Then he got married and moved out. I went my own way too. After he started drinking heavily and divorced, our relationship got downright nasty. My friends hated to come home with me if there was any possibility of bumping into him.”
Holston gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You and Bobby have put the past behind you, now.”
“True. Losing Mom, Jake’s assault . . . brought us together again. Yet there’s always been distance between Bobby and me. It is better, much better, since he sobered up and married Leigh. Still, I think twice before I say certain things to him. Lately, I get the sense his mean part is still there, waiting.”
Hattie pushed a stray hank of hair over her left ear. “Thanksgiving’s coming up. I had this whole scenario in my mind. I would pull out Mama’s china. Her good linen tablecloth, the one with the gold embroidered edges. I’d make Jake help me polish the silver. He loves that.
“We would all sit around the big table: you, me, Sarah, Mary-Esther, Bobby and Leigh and Josh. And Joe and Evelyn. Jake and Shug. Elvina always comes. Maybe Margie and John if they don’t go to one of their kids’ houses.” Hattie gestured with her hands as if she placed people around a long table. “You would be here, at the head. Carving the turkey.”
Holston listened.
“I’d make Mama’s dressing. The giblet gravy, nice and thick, without the lumps I usually get. Mashed potatoes, or maybe scalloped potatoes. Leigh would bring the green beans and turnips. She’s a wiz with vegetables. And desserts, yes desserts! Jake’s hummingbird cake and my pecan pie. Shug would bake a pumpkin pie. That’s his favorite.” She touched his hand. “You could make one of those deep dish apple pies, your mom’s recipe.”
She jabbed one finger upward. “And rolls. Shug makes those delectable homemade yeast rolls. Elvina would bring one of Aunt Piddie’s casseroles. No matter which one. They’re all great.”
“My mouth’s watering.”
Hattie gave a little chuckle. “I’ll have to pull Joe aside and plot with him so Evelyn doesn’t try to cook. Every time she brings food, I find globs of it secreted in every potted plant within close range.
“Mary-Esther would ring the bell.” Hattie looked toward the door. “She would be carrying a pot of something. I don’t know what. Doesn’t matter. She would be wearing this brilliant smile, the kind that stretches from one side of her face to the other, the way Mama’s did. Maybe Jerry would be with her. That would be nice.”
Hattie slouched back into the couch cushion, deflated.
Holston cupped Hattie’s chin and turned her face to his. “You can count on me. I know I can’t take the place of a sister.”
Hattie brushed his lips with hers. “The way I think of you, Holston Lewis, that would be weird and sort of incestuous.”
“Good point.” The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
Hattie snuggled into his arms.
“Anything I can do to help cheer you up?” He nuzzled her neck.
Hattie’s lips slid into a weak smile. “Maybe.”
Holston stood and pulled her to her feet. He led her to the bedroom. For the next hour, she let him love away some of the sadness.
*
Elvina, Wanda, and Mandy turned to see Evelyn dashing into the stylist salon, her cheeks flushed.
“Has anyone seen my pinking shears?” Evelyn said between gasps for air.
Mandy gave Elvina a conspiratorial wink. “Sure, Ev. I decided to try them out to do those fringe bangs that are all the rage.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Evelyn rested her hand over her heart. “I can’t seem to keep up with anything, here lately.”
Mandy spritzed cleaner on the counter and herded stray hairs into a soft cloth. “I was kidding. I haven’t seen your pinking shears.”
“Oh great.” Evelyn frowned.
“Try the front desk,” Wanda suggested. “Everything seems to end up there.”
Evelyn snorted and speared Elvina with the stink-eye. “I hope you haven’t been using them for one of your projects, Elvina. Cutting paper with my good shears makes them so dull, they wouldn’t even slice warm butter.” She twirled around and sped off in the direction of the reception desk.
“That’ll be a fight,” Mandy said to Wanda. “Way to go, hon.”
“What’d I do?” Wanda hosed hot water over a stack of cleaned combs and brushes. “She wanted to know. And everything does end up there.”
“No worries,” Elvina said in a whisper. “I hid them in the bottom drawer. I’ll slip them back into her room later.”
“I swannee, Elvina, you two go at each other like Evelyn and Piddie used to,” Mandy said, then to Wanda, “You don’t need to provide them with any ammunition, Wanda-loo.”
Wanda’s eyebrows rippled. “I don’t get it.”
“You must learn how to steer around the rocks, hon.” Mandy pushed aside the tall arrangement of autumn leaves and flowers blocking her mirror.
The Halloween specters and fake spider webs had disappeared, replaced by pumpkins, wreaths of fall leaves, and pots of yellow and rust-colored mums.
Wanda stood with her arms
akimbo. “If I live down here until I’m a hundred and two, I will never understand Southern women’s ways.”
“And we do have our ways . . .” Mandy sashayed a few steps.
Wanda motioned in the direction of the reception room. “What’s up with this collage thing?” she asked Elvina.
“I’m making a big wall hanging of the Davis family for Mary-Esther, from pictures I’ve gathered.”
“I thought Mary-Esther skipped town.” Wanda scraped her red hair into a short ponytail and secured it with a strip of bright cloth.
“She’ll be back,” Elvina said with a head nod.
“Elvina’s been out talking to Piddie in the memorial garden,” Mandy said. “Says Piddie is working her other-worldly juju magic to bring Mary-Esther home.”
Wanda pointed toward the ceiling. “Sure wish I had someone on the other side who would help me out with issues.”
Mandy straightened a row of hair products and moved the pot of foliage again, this time to the floor. “Piddie and Elvina had this thing, like they knew what the other was thinking. Kind of eerie. But cool.”
Wanda waved in the general direction of the reception desk. “One thing I’ve come to know about you, Elvina. Once you decide you like someone, you’ll do whatever it takes to help that person.”
“Piddie was the same way,” Elvina said.
“Only, with bigger hair.” Mandy smiled.
“Wish I could’ve known her,” Wanda said. “Some people are memorable like that. Larger than life. Hope I’ll be that way.”
Elvina regarded the impish red-haired woman with the New Jersey accent. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, dear.”
Wanda lowered her voice. “I heard the DNA test proved for sure that Mary-Esther is Hattie and Bobby’s sister.”
Elvina moved closer. “That’s what makes it so tragic. Hattie was so excited. Now, with Mary-Esther just up and leaving . . . Leigh came in yesterday morning, and she’s really worried about Hattie.”
“What about Bobby?” Wanda asked. “He’s never struck me as the warm and fuzzy type.”
“Seriously,” Mandy said. “Those silent types will surprise you.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The closer Mary-Esther drew to New Orleans, the more she lingered at rest stops and any kind of roadside tourist trap advertised on the interstate billboards. A road trip that normally would have taken Mary-Esther ten hours stretched to three days. Plus two tanks of expensive gas.
Over a year had passed since Katrina had blown ashore and erased her life in the Big Easy. Seemed like ten.
The van had held little when she fled the city in August of 2005: a minimum of clothing and canned food, the urn containing Loretta Boudreau’s ashes, the rock collection, and five jugs of water. Certainly, the storm couldn’t last forever. After a few days’ inconvenience, she would return and tidy the small yard. Life would return to its dismal sameness.
When the first aerial photos appeared on national television, any hope of an immediate return withered. Her neighborhood floated in several feet of filth-strewn water. Basic utilities and services ground to a halt. Looters ran amok.
Days passed. Then, months. Mary-Esther moved from shelter to shelter, relying on the kindness of strangers and picking up odd jobs to supplement the cash culled from her meager savings account. Time pushed forward, and the aftermath of the devastating storm dulled in the American consciousness. Relief stalled. Tempers and resentment festered. Mary-Esther found excuses to delay her return. No way could she bear witness to a colorful city pounded to its knees. Too much had happened before the storm, and she simply had nothing left to bolster either herself or her neighbors. When she finally shucked the inertia, she headed in the opposite direction toward the Panhandle of Florida.
Now, she picked her way toward Louisiana with Rose’s dolls and a road-weary cat. Otherwise, she returned with the same amount of next-to-nothing. And her heart ached in fresh ways.
Mary-Esther fought sleep at the end of each day; the nocturnal vision of her grandmother’s house haunted her. As she neared New Orleans, the dream became more detailed. Sections of a cabinet appeared. A board in a wall. Mary-Esther grappled to understand.
A distinct line separated her Louisiana life and the one she thought she had created in Chattahoochee. Emotions warred: her love for the city where she had spent the majority of her life and the growing affection for the small town that had recently enfolded her.
Mary-Esther pulled into a gas station a half-hour out of the city. On a dinged-up pay phone smeared with strangers’ sweat and spit, she dialed Jerry Blount’s number. The tang of urine wafted from the cracked concrete.
The line rang three times before his deep voice interrupted and asked her to leave a brief message. Her eyes burned with tears. “Jerry. This is Mary-Esther. Sorry I haven’t called. Maybe I can explain so you’ll understand . . . some day.”
Mary-Esther swallowed. Her mouth tasted of dust and sorrow. “I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be back. A lot depends on what I find. I . . . Be good to yourself.”
She returned the headset to its cradle then leaned against the edge of the booth and wept.
*
Jerry shifted a packed duffle bag from one shoulder to the other and waited at the car rental counter in New Orleans’s Louis Armstrong airport. Even this long after the storm, its effects stood out around him. The terminal held a handful of people, not anywhere near the level he would have expected.
“How many days, Mr. Blount?” the sweet-faced car rental woman asked. Her accent, so much like Mary-Esther’s.
“Make it a week. I really don’t have a firm departure date, yet.”
She entered his credit card information into the computer then handed him a stack of papers and a tagged keychain. “Do you need a map, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’d be good.”
Who knew where he might be going? Following the breadcrumb clues Mary-Esther had left of her life in New Orleans, he had a general idea of where to start. But it was a sprawling, damaged city. Time to rely on his law enforcement training and the gut-intuition that had served him well during his years in the field. An eerie connection stretched between him and Mary-Esther, solid as a steel-link chain.
He turned on his cell phone.
*
Bobby slumped into a porch rocker. His wife and son wouldn’t be home until the end of the weekend. Hours stretched out before him, a fact that usually pleased him. Woodworking projects waited in the small shop behind the log home. Christmas loomed, and he had barely started. Normally, he would be up to his armpits in a quagmire of pine and oak shavings. Guilt niggled him like wasps hovering over rotten fruit.
Once, at an AA meeting, Bobby had overheard a fellow abuser joke: Know what sober stands for? Son Of a Bitch, Everything’s Real!
So true. Without the cloak of drunkenness, reality stood out, ugly and neon-studded. The hell with taking on reality without something to help.
“You’ve really screwed the pooch this time, Davis,” he slurred. He slung back his head and downed his tenth beer in less than an hour. The alcohol wasn’t working. The pain of his betrayal seeped in around the fuzzy edges.
He imagined Hattie’s face, disappointment smudged across her features. She’d know what he did. Eventually.
Bobby stood up and stumbled. Before his alcohol-pickled brain could tell his body how to upright itself, he fell. The rocker arm gashed his forehead. He roused long enough to feel the pounding pain.
He vomited and blacked out.
*
When Bobby awakened, the headache rivaled any hangover in his history. Filtered light from a blind-slatted window pierced his eyes like a meat hook into sirloin. Leigh and Hattie’s worried faces swam in and out of focus.
“Bobby?” His wife’s voice struggled through tears.
He squeezed his eyes shut and reached up to touch his forehead.
“You’re in the hospital.” Leigh grasped his hand. “You ha
ve a pressure bandage, babe. And stitches. When you fell, you cut your head pretty bad.”
“Passed out.” Hattie spat out the words. “Call a dog a dog. What in the blue blazes were you thinking, Bobby?”
The back of his throat felt like packing peanuts mixed with plaster of Paris. He tried to swallow and held one hand to his neck. “Could I have something . . . ?”
Leigh poured water from a small bedside pitcher into a Styrofoam cup and held it to her husband’s lips.
He rested his head on the pillow and blinked to focus. “I let you down. I never thought . . .” Dear God. He’d take five cases of pneumonia over this. At least that was a sickness he could beat in a few days.
The muscles at Hattie’s temples pulsed. “You never thought it would hurt you to just drink a beer, did you?”
When Bobby looked directly at her, Hattie gasped. Could she see the raw ache mirrored in his eyes? “Hattie, you’ll never forgive me.”
Hattie sank onto the edge of the gurney. “Does it make me mad as a wet hen to know you drank again? Yes. It brings up all the times when you came stumbling in, barely able to stand up, not to mention the times you got behind the wheel. Bobby, you cannot drink. You’re a freakin’ alcoholic. You can’t pick it up like it never affected you and expect to handle it. God knows your liver already looks like Swiss cheese.”
“I know. I know.” He nodded and blanched at the sickening swirl the motion caused. The musk of metabolizing alcohol boiled in waves from his skin. “What I did was dumb.”
“Why, babe?” Leigh asked. “You were fine when I left for Mama’s. What could have caused you to . . . ?” She paused. “You haven’t drank at all since way before we were married.”
Bobby shifted to relieve a cramp in his back. The room warped, then settled. “Things snowballed on me last night. Guess it was last night—” He looked to his sister and wife for confirmation.
“Nine o’clock, to be precise.” Hattie frowned. “I was coming down to make sure you were doing okay while Leigh and Josh were away. Good thing I did. You’d still be face down in a pool of blood and chunks of what you had for dinner.”