by Rhett DeVane
Bobby’s stomach lurched. “Leave it to you to provide the sordid details.”
Hattie leaned in. “So, tell me. Must be a heck of reason to drive you back to the bottle.”
Bobby inhaled and exhaled. “Mary-Esther left town because of me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what came over me, Hattie. Well, I do, sort of. . . Think I figured it all out.”
Hattie narrowed her eyes to slits. “You . . . what did you do?”
“I went to Mary-Esther’s place.” Bobby took a moment to find the words. “What everyone said was true. When she looked at me, I saw Mama.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Something in me tore loose.” He opened his eyes, stared at the wall to avoid their reactions. “I told her I thought she had shown up looking for a handout. Gave her down the road. It got pretty nasty.”
“Dear. How did she react?” Leigh asked.
“Denied it. Said she couldn’t care less about anything you or I had. Said she was trying to find out where she belonged.” He rubbed his eyes. “I cussed her out, told her I didn’t much care where that was, long as it wasn’t in my damn family.”
“Oh, Bobby.” Leigh glanced away.
Hattie studied her brother. “Cold, even for you.”
He huffed. “Thing is, I believe her. She wasn’t playing us.”
“I can’t imagine what Mary-Esther could’ve said to win you over.” Hattie’s features relayed her anger. “Nothing I said or did, nor the point-blank fact that our DNA matched, swayed you at all. You never gave her a chance.”
Bobby stared down at his weathered hands. Rough. Stained. Like him. “Mary-Esther said she would never do anything to hurt me or you. Said we were so lucky. Said she had heard story after story about our folks, and how they poured love over us. Said she wished things had been different. That she would have liked to have had a brother who was so protective. Said she admired the way I stood in front of anything or anyone I perceived to be a threat to you.”
Leigh’s expression mirrored Bobby’s anguish.
“Even after the things I said to her . . .” He pressed his temples with his thumbs. “It squirmed around in my brain. I wanted a drink, bad. I sat out on the porch and rocked for a long time. Then, I jumped in the truck and went to find her, try to make peace. I pounded on her door. No answer. The apartment was locked up, but I found a key under the mat and let myself in. Nothing left. Anywhere.”
Hattie raked her fingers through her hair. “No wonder she beat it out of here so fast. First, you come at her, all full of piss and vinegar, then those freaks from Chipley show up.”
Bobby dipped his head in agreement, careful this time not to move too fast. “I heard about them.” He cleared his throat. “After I realized she was gone, the craving took me over. Fought it at first. Picked up the phone to call my AA sponsor. Didn’t.” The bitter taste of vomit lingered. “Could’ve found a meeting to attend. Didn’t,” he muttered to himself then looked at Leigh. “I had ruined everything again. I got in my truck, rode around a while. Stopped at the package store for a couple of beers.”
“You had more than two,” Leigh said. “Your blood alcohol concentration was really high.”
Bobby frowned. “I didn’t drive drunk. Why’d they run a BAC?”
“Really?” Hattie folded her arms across her chest. “You end up in a puddle of puke and blood. You don’t come to. Of course they’re going to check.”
Bobby looked from Hattie to Leigh.
“You were close to full-on alcohol poisoning, babe.”
Hearing the fear in his sister’s and wife’s voices, Bobby’s spirits sank lower. Like that was possible. “I rode out to the lake to sit and think. Some stuff came back to me. Stuff I hadn’t thought about in years.”
Hattie pursed her lips.
“I’m not one to talk about all this touchy-feely junk.” His eyes sought his sister’s. “I prayed for Sarah to die. Can you imagine that?”
Hattie waited.
“I didn’t want that baby to be born. Didn’t want to share Mama, I suppose. Who knows? I sat by the lake and I remembered, clear as it was yesterday, getting down on my hands and knees, day after day, begging God to kill that baby in Mama’s belly. Don’t you see? I hated Sarah. I wanted her to die. And she did.”
Leigh squeezed her husband’s hand. “Sarah died because of bacteria she picked up in the birth canal. Back then, they didn’t have the same preventive measures we have now. You were a boy, Bobby. Children can be terribly selfish. You didn’t cause Sarah’s death.”
Bobby squeezed his eyes shut to ease the burn of tears. “Then, when Mama told me she was pregnant with you, Hattie, I was so happy. Mama had been sad for so long. Nothing I did helped. Her depression made me feel guiltier. This time, I prayed for the baby to be born okay. When you came fast, and Mama had to have you at home, I freaked out. I knew you would die, that God would repay me for wishing my first sister dead.” He opened his eyes and wiped the moisture aside with one forearm. “I pledged to always look after you. I haven’t done such a great job.”
Hattie traced her finger through the tear trail on his arm. “Mary-Esther coming here . . . It brought back all of this?”
Bobby’s upper lip flicked up. He took three breaths to staunch a wave of nausea. “An awful blackness smothered me every time I heard her name and especially when I finally saw her. There she was, my mama staring at me through Mary-Esther’s eyes, with that same sorrowful look. Like I was a huge disappointment. Like I had crushed her heart to dust. I can’t find enough bad words to tell you how sick and twisted my insides felt.”
“What did you do after you left the lake?” Hattie prodded.
“I wanted to numb out completely, like I used to do. I bought a case of beer. On some level, I reckon I was thinking straight; I didn’t go on driving around. I went home and sat on our porch, and knocked ’em back. But all of it kept coming at me.”
Bobby looked at his sister. “I was that same little kid, murdering my sister all over again. I prayed for the first Sarah to die, then I ran the second one off. Now I’ll be lucky if my baby sister ever forgives me.”
Hattie leaned over and rested her head on his chest. Bobby remembered how she had done that as a child, how she said hearing the strong pound of his heartbeat made her feel safe.
“We’ll find a way through this,” Leigh said in a soft voice.
Hattie pushed away and looked into his eyes. “Don’t ever try to hurt yourself like this again. Promise?”
Bobby wrapped one arm around his sister then reached the other to draw his wife into the circle.
Chapter Thirty-two
Cities of any size appeared gray to Mary-Esther. In the early morning mist, she couldn’t tell if her gloomy mood or the abundance of pavement and buildings colored the Big Easy.
Mary-Esther’s eyes stung. Other than the feelings linked to Nana, no tender emotions tied her to this place. What had she been thinking all those months spent dreaming of the triumphant return home?
None of her dreams remained in the storm-ravaged streets.
No familiar faces waited for her.
Only the past. And loss.
The battered street sign listed to one side. She slowed the van and crept down the once-familiar lane. On either side, mounds of debris stood like funeral pyres awaiting a torch. The structures still intact were deserted. Bright orange spray-painted crosshatches slashed the doors, reminders of the emergency personnel’s grim search for survivors.
She parked the van in a small space clear of trash and shut off the engine. It no longer went into smoky seizures when she turned the key.
Her grandmother’s house, though badly damaged, still stood. The shingles hung in tattered pieces, and only one of the visible windows contained unbroken glass. The curtains dangled in shreds, gauze ripped from a wound.
The magnolia branches that once draped over one end of the house were gone. Her tree. Didn’t need to step into the back yard to confirm, it was
probably twisted like the rest she’d seen on the block.
A police cruiser pulled beside her. Mary-Esther automatically grabbed her purse and fished for identification. The officer flipped on his strobe lights and got out.
“Morning. May I see—?” The officer stopped when she held out her driver’s license. His expression revealed no emotion. Mary-Esther guessed he had little left. “You live here?” he asked.
“Was my grandmother’s house. Guess it’s mine now.”
“We don’t allow anyone except property owners to enter these neighborhoods. Most of the houses have been condemned. Looters aren’t so much a problem. Not now.”
“Nothing left to steal?”
He offered a wry smile and handed her license through the lowered window.
“I talked to the FEMA people. They sent me a letter.” Mary-Esther glanced toward the house. “I have to get anything of personal value out of here before they level it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His gaze canvassed the deserted street. “Do you need a place to stay tonight? I could direct you—”
Mary-Esther shoved her ID into her wallet. “I can’t imagine I will be here long. But thanks. If I need to, I can sleep in here.” She pointed to the rear of the van.
“I wouldn’t suggest parking here after dark.” He tipped his head, returned to the patrol car, and drove away.
Funny, at one time she would’ve dreaded seeing a police car. It usually meant the party had gone on too loud or long, or one of the neighbors had heard the fight. A law officer was an intrusion. Deal with the man, or woman, and coax ’em to leave. Now she appreciated the concern. At least, she wasn’t totally alone, even if he got paid to care.
Her thoughts drifted to Jerry. He would be getting in from work, doing some mundane thing around the house, maybe driving over to his mother’s to help her with a chore. Sleep wouldn’t come until much later for him, in the hours before his evening shift. She knew his routine almost as well as her own, the one she had grown into before she left Chattahoochee. Mary-Esther missed Jerry and the life she had constructed so intensely that her chest hurt.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
The van’s door opened with little effort. No more banging with her shoulder, thanks to Jerry’s cousin. Every well-oiled hinge on the old clunker operated without screeching complaints.
Mary-Esther approached the house tentatively, as if she expected someone to erupt from the ruined structure with a loaded shotgun. When she stepped onto the porch, a powerful longing mixed with fear swept over her. Her mouth tasted sour. She swallowed and opened the door.
The stench of decay and mold accosted her nose. She sneezed violently. An evil brown tinctured the once-white walls, with lines of mildew creeping down from the ceiling. In several places, the overhead plaster drooped like soiled diapers. Ruined rugs studded the warped wooden floors.
In the narrow living room, Mary-Esther spotted one picture frame, still in place on the mantle. Thank God. She wove past the overturned furniture and picked up the black and white print. The frame had warped, but the image seemed intact. Her mother—so young, so thin—stood on the front steps of this house, her lips curled up for the camera. Beside her, Nana Boudreau cuddled a baby: Mary-Esther, several months old.
Telling. Even then, Nana was the one supporting me.
Mary-Esther held the frame to her heart, checked the rest of the room. Nothing else worth touching.
The house warranted demolition. No miracle of modern construction could exhume it from the filth.
She made her way to the kitchen. The cabinets stood ajar. Dishes and flatware littered the buckled linoleum. After placing the frame on the small table, she knelt down and rescued a cream-colored pottery bowl from the clutter. Through some miracle, the piece had remained intact—her grandmother’s favorite mixing bowl.
Nana Boudreau’s knotty hands appeared in her mind like a well-loved video.
Dusted with flour, moving up and down, dough pipes through those long fingers as she digs into some gooey mixture. Biscuits, cornbread, wheat bread, rolls. Never blended by an electrical or mechanical device. Instead, by dancing hands in love with their work.
Mary-Esther closed her eyes, yielded to the memory.
Those same hands wipe on an apron before reaching out to hug her. Then the hands lead her to the cabinet under the sink.
“Shh, child.” Nana taps her lips with a fingertip. “Don’t tell a soul.”
Nana moves aside a stack of pans. Raps on one of the boards until an end sticks out a fraction. Her fingers pry the board loose. It swings aside to reveal a void between the wall and insulation.
“If I ever want to hide a treasure, I will put it here. Remember . . .” Nana touches a finger on Mary-Esther’s young forehead, sealing in the secret.
Mary-Esther’s eyes popped open. She gently set the bowl down and shoved away the clutter in front of the cabinet door. When she opened it, the hinges loosened and the rotten door fell onto the floor.
Inside, she found a few cleaning supplies and a pile of mildewed rags. In the dim light, she strained to see the edges of the boards. She went back outside to the van, returning with a small flashlight.
The weak beam hit the cabinet wall where waterlogged planks bowed outward like the hull of a boat. Mary-Esther dug through the spilled flatware, located a butter knife, and pried one of the boards loose. A rectangular, chipped blue tin was wedged into place by shreds of cloth.
After several unsuccessful attempts, she pried open the tin’s rusty lid. A small gold cross on a delicate chain rested in a bed of blue velvet.
Mary-Esther worked the clasp and fastened the chain around her neck. She noticed a folded piece of time-yellowed paper beneath the tattered velvet. She recognized the swirling artistic script.
My little one,
No matter where you are, or where I am, I will be watching over you.
Nana
All these years, Nana’s cross had been here, waiting. Her grandmother’s words whispered in her ears: Be patient. Magic is everywhere.
Mary-Esther grabbed the tin, bowl, and frame, and returned to the van. She considered leaving. But how many items—small things of great power—would she miss if she did?
*
Hattie watched the gold Delta 88 float up the driveway and park in the fall-browned grass in front of the farmhouse. The car was as much a part of its driver as her signature. Many times, Hattie recalled hearing Aunt Piddie trying to convince Elvina of the wisdom of trading for a more economical automobile. No go.
The car door opened and Elvina Houston emerged, cane first, casted foot next.
“Mornin’, Glory!” The old woman called out as she rounded the front of the car.
“Morning, Elvina.” Hattie stood and helped guide her to a porch rocker.
“Whew!” Elvina blew out a long breath and hooked her cane on the arm of the rocker. “I surely will be proud to get this walkin’ cast off. It takes all my energy to haul this blasted thing around.”
“How much longer?” Hattie dragged up a stool for Elvina’s foot.
The old woman propped up the casted leg with a grunt. “All goes well, a couple more weeks. Bones don’t knit as fast on a person of my age, but I’ve always been pretty active, so I’m hoping that stacks the deck in my favor.”
“Offer you something to drink? Coffee?”
Elvina nodded. “I could use a cup of coffee. I usually drink my green tea, but I might like the change. Not to be a botherment, now.”
Hattie smiled at her Aunt Piddie’s slang for bother. “Cream and one sugar, right?”
“That’ll be fine.” She nodded. “You young folks have such good memories. I can barely recall how I take my own coffee, much less anyone else’s.”
When Hattie returned with a refill for her cup and Elvina’s coffee, Elvina said, “Suppose you’re wondering to what you owe the honor of my company.”
“You’re welcome on The Hill any time, Elvina. You know that. I figured
you were coming out to discuss Thanksgiving.”
“I’d have just called. And I already told you I’m bringing a couple of Piddie’s favorite casseroles. Haven’t decided which ones yet. Maybe the squash and one other.” She tasted from her cup. “You make good coffee, Hattie. Not like some of it—so weak you could read a newspaper through it.”
“Why bother drinking it if it’s not rich and strong?”
Elvina hummed agreement. “I’m getting busy on my Christmas projects. I came to get your help.”
Hattie tilted her head. “Oh?”
“I need to borrow any old photos you have of your folks, you and Bobby . . . that sort.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’m using my new scanner to copy them and make a framed collage.”
“That’s nice.”
Elvina sipped and continued, “I have a few of Piddie, and Joe and Evelyn. A scattering of you and your brother when you were children, but not enough. Hoped you’d be able to fill in the blanks.”
“Sure, Elvina. I have a few albums, but most of them are loose pictures in a couple of plastic bins in the back closet. Sure you’re up to pouring through all of them? It will take some time.”
“Time, I’ve got. I can do this project with my leg propped on a pillow. I can only watch so much television. When I’m not at the Triple C, I nearly climb the walls with boredom. It’s not like I can get out and do my walks right now.”
“I’ll put them in your car.”
“Good, good. I’ll get Jake and Shug to swing by and carry them inside for me.”
They watched a cardinal squabbling with a finch at the feeder near the porch. The creak of the rockers blended with the bird chatter.
“Are you making the collage for someone in particular?” Hattie asked. “Don’t want to spoil anyone’s surprise by asking. Just curious.”
“For Mary-Esther. Your sister needs to have a sense of history. If she can see pictures of you all, it might help her feel more settled.”
Hattie’s spirit sank. “Elvina, my sister is gone.”
Elvina shot her a disgusted look. “I know everything that goes on in this town, Hattie. I studied at the feet of a master. And I was there with you at Bill’s. Remember?”