From somewhere deep inside, instinct warned me to stay home. But judging by the heaviness in my chest, my heart had already succumbed to the missing kids. I had to go.
Drawing in a long breath, then releasing it slowly to calm myself, I dropped my hand from the window and watched the imprint of all those fingers fade away. If only disappearing were that easy . . .
With my head clogged with worry, I headed out of the living room and to the computer that held the information on the Baton Rouge flight. As I passed through the kitchen, I heard Fritter whimper from behind the screen door. I looked over at him.
“Don’t even start,” I warned. “I don’t want to hear it.”
He flicked his tongue over his snout, stared at me.
“There just little kids. I have to go . . . so quit staring at me like that godammit.”
Fritter chuffed once, and in that sound, I could’ve sworn by all that was sacred I heard the words, “You’ll be sorry.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Baton Rouge Airport was smaller than I expected. It didn’t take long for me to get from the gate and to a set of wide glass doors that whooshed open, welcoming me to a warm and humid Louisiana day. Angelle had told me about the heat and humidity that baked the state in the summer, but she hadn’t told me that summer began in April. It was obvious other travelers hadn’t been warned either, for a few had arrived in heavy coats and sweaters, most of which were stripped off immediately.
I squinted against the sun and marveled at how green everything looked—grass, trees, shrubby, so lush and beautiful. In Cyler, spring took its sweet old time coming about. And even then, its landscape remained predominately brown due to drought. Back home, the air always smelled of dust and desert, but here it was scented with pine, jasmine, and a hint of something that smelled a little like bananas.
A horn honked, and a gray Camry pulled up to the curb in front of me. No sooner did it stop, than the trunk popped open. An elderly woman peered out at me from the back passenger window. She pressed her face against the glass and smiled, lips curling in over toothless gums, heavy jowls jiggling. She had brilliant green eyes that held the expression of a child who’d just seen her first department store Santa—a little fear and a whole lot of wonder.
Someone tugged on the strap of the carry-on bag I had slung over my right shoulder, and I glanced over to see my sister standing beside me.
“Hey you,” she said, and offered a faltering smile. “Sorry if you had to wait long.”
I stared at her, unable to respond. I’d last seen Angelle about five months ago, when she and Trevor had flown to Cyler to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with me. At that time, her beautiful heart-shaped face still held the glow of a newlywed. Now her cheeks were sunken, her complexion sallow. Dark circles rimmed her light brown eyes. She wore a blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, both of which looked as if they’d come from the discard bin at the Salvation Army.
Before I managed to say anything, Angelle’s eyes welled up with tears, and she threw her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered against my ear.
I returned her hug, holding her tight. She was trembling, and she squeezed me back even tighter. Having a soft spot for kids was one thing, but Angelle seemed traumatized, as if those missing kids belonged to her. Something bigger had to be going on. I was about to ask her if she was okay to drive, when someone called out.
“Hey!”
Angelle and I turned towards the old woman sitting in the Camry. She had lowered the back window to half-mast and was waving a hand through the opening. “Dat damn door she’s stuck, come get me out!”
“You don’t need to get out, Poochie,” Angelle said. “We’re coming right now.”
“Mais den you bes’ hurry ‘cause I’m gonna pass out in dis heat. Poo-yi, it’s hot!”
“You’re not going to suffocate, Poochie. The car’s still running, and the air-conditioner’s on.” Angelle grabbed me by the arm and led me to the back of the car. She signaled for me to put my bag in the trunk.
As soon as she closed the trunk, the old woman harrumphed loudly. “If dat air-condition is on, den de summabitch is broke, cause I don’t feel me no air.”
Angelle gave me an apologetic look. “Poochie’s the reason I’m a little late. Normally she’s at the B and B right now, but she kept insisting she had to come with me to pick you up.” Before I could ask what a B and B was, Angelle tapped a finger against her left temple, looking even more exhausted than she did five minutes ago. “Poochie goes a little off from time to time, and she never shuts up. So take that as a head’s up, we may not get any talk time until I drop her off.”
I gave her another quick hug and kissed her cheek. “No need to apologize. We’ll talk when we can. I’m just glad to see you.”
“Me, too.” Angelle squeezed my arm, then gave me a real smile, albeit small. “Come on, let’s get going before Poochie decides to pitch a hissy fit.”
“I heard dat,” Poochie yelled out the window as we headed for opposite sides of the car. “What’s dat a hissy fit?”
“Nothing, Pooch,” Angelle said, opening her door. “We’re leaving, so put your seatbelt back on.”
As soon as I settled into the passenger’s seat, Poochie scooted to the edge of the backseat and put a hand on my shoulder.
“What your name is?” she asked, giving me another toothless grin, her green eyes flashing questions yet to be asked. She looked to be in her mid-eighties, and although her manner appeared brusque, it held the confidence of a woman who felt living eighty-some-odd years had earned her the right to say whatever she pleased to whomever she pleased.
“I already told you her name twice this morning, Pooch,” Angelle said, as she put the car in drive and threaded her way into traffic.
Poochie frowned as if ready to say, No you didn’t. I figured it was as good a time as any to jump in. If I was going to be here for a couple of days, and Trevor’s grandmother was going to be part of this, even if only by osmosis, then it was probably better to get some of the basics locked down upfront. “My name’s Dunny. And yours is . . . Poochie?”
She nodded vigorously, and her cap of white, over-permed hair bobbled.
“Is that your real name?”
The old woman tsked. “What kinda mama you think would give her baby girl a name like Poochie? No, dat name came from my old husband, Maurice, may de good Lord rest him. My for real name is Patricia. Maurice, him, he just cut dat short to Poochie. So dat’s me, Poochie Blackledge. Before I had me a husband, though, it was Poochie Babineaux. I come from St. Martinville. My grandbaby, Trevor, he’s de one dat moved me over here. You know how dat is when you get old, de young people think dey got to take over everything. So, I figure I come live over here for a little while, maybe save on some grocery money, you know. It’s not too bad. And you, what your name is?”
I blinked at the onslaught of words.
“She just told you her name, Pooch,” Angelle said, and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
I wanted to look out at the landscape, take in the green, green, and more green, but Poochie would have none of it. She tapped me on the shoulder again.
“Oh, yeah, dat’s true, you tol’ me you name. Well, den, who’s you daddy? What his name is?”
I grinned in spite of her persistent chatter. I loved the woman’s accent, her brassy, outspoken style. “My dad’s name was Robert Pollock. But he and our mother passed away when Angelle and I were little girls.”
“Oh, pauvre ‘tite fille.” Poochie shook her head. “Dat’s so sad you don’t got
no daddy and no mama. What you mama’s name was?”
“Victoria Pollock.”
“Aw, dat’s a pretty name. I had me a sister. Her name was Valenteen, but she died long time ago, prob’bly thirty-five, forty years now. Valenteen . . .dat’s almost de same like Victoria, huh?”
I smiled. “Pretty close, I think.”
“Pooch, you already know all about our parents.
” Angelle slapped the blinker handle down a bit harder than was necessary. “I’ve told you about them a bunch of times. Don’t you remember?”
Poochie huffed. “What, de gubberment pass a law dat says you can only talk about something one or two times den you can’t talk about it no more?”
Angelle threw me a look, rolled her eyes, then faced the windshield again with an exasperated sigh.
Poochie tapped my shoulder again. “Hey, how come you wearin’ dem gloves like dat? You a little cuckoo in de head? It’s too hot for gloves.”
“I just like wearing them,” I said.
“You know, dey think I’m crazy in de head.” Poochie tsked and tapped her forehead with a finger. “But it’s not true, no. Every once in a little while, a fewthings slip in and out my head, but dat’s not too bad, huh? I believe everybody got something dat slips out deir head sometime. What you think?”
Struggling to keep up with the constant shift in topics, I only nodded.
“You see?” Poochie tapped Angelle’s right shoulder. “You sister thinks de same as me. I tol’ you I’m not crazy.”
“I never said you were, Pooch.”
“Yeah, but I know what y’all been thinking. That I’m needin’ to go to de cuckoo house or to de ol’ people’s house. Dey both de same if you ask me, but it don’t matter ‘cause I’m not goin’ to neither one no how.”
Angelle had already turned onto Interstate 10, and I could tell by the way she was white knuckling the steering wheel and pushing the speedometer past eighty she was anxious to get wherever we were going.
“N-32!” Poochie suddenly yelled.
Angelle and I started at the outburst, and although I figured it could prompt a barrage of words, not one of them answering the question, I had to ask, “Why do you call out Bingo letters and numbers?”
“’Cause I like how dey sound. You know how when you go to de Bingo hall, and all de little balls is flyin’ around in de machine? Den dat machine sucks out one of dem balls, and a man grabs dat ball, and he yells, ‘B-2!—N-38!—O-52!’ I love when dat happens! It passes me de frissons all over. It makes me feel good, like I’m dat much closer to win.”
“What’s a frisson?”
Poochie shook her body, demonstrating a sudden shudder. “Like dat—like all de excitement inside you want to come out all at de same time. I can’t go to de Bingo hall in St. Martinville no more, and dey don’t got one where I live now, so I got to make my own frisson. Let me tell you, when you my age, you got to get all de frissons you can where you can get dem.”
I chuckled.
“So—how come you got dem gloves on?”
Angelle and I exchanged another glance, then I turned back to Poochie. “Just giving my hands time to warm up.” I hoped that would appease her, but I had a feeling not much appeased her curiosity, that it was a constant state of being—hungry, fed, hungry, fed, the cycle never ending. “My hands always seem to get cold, no matter where I go.”
“Hmmm,” Poochie said, elongating the sound until it reached a pitch of disbelief.
Before she could broach the subject again, I quickly asked, “So what’s this B and B place Angelle says you go to? Is it like a bed and breakfast?”
Angelle snorted. “Far from a bed and breakfast.”
“No, dey don’t got no bed over dere, but breakfast, yeah, sometimes When Vern feels like to cook.” Poochie settled back in her seat and folded her arms over her ample bosom, which caused her pink housedress to hike up over her knees. “Vern Nezat, dat’s Sook’s husband, and Sook, her, she’s a cousin on my poor husband’s side. Dey own de Bloody Bucket, and I go help over dere most times during de week.”
“The Bloody Bucket?”
“Yeah, dat’s what I said.”
“It’s kind of like a combo grocery store and bar and grill,” Angelle said, not taking her eyes off the road.
“They name a place where people buy food the Bloody Bucket?” Sudden images of a slaughter house, cow innards and blood strewn across the floor, came to mind, and I shuddered. “Doesn’t sound very appetizing.”
“Sound’s worse than it is,” Angelle said. “There’s a pier attached to the back of the building. That way if a fisherman wants to come in for a beer and a burger, he doesn’t have to worry about retrailering his boat. He just ties his skiff up to the pier and goes into the bar from the back door. Most of them come in straight out the marsh, shrimp boots and clothes all muddy and bloody from the bait they’ve been cutting all morning for trout lines. They used to keep their bait buckets on the back porch, too, until Sook made them stop because it was drawing too many flies. Anyway, that’s how it got its name, and—”
“Yeah, most de men over dere’s a bunch of slobs,” Poochie interjected. “Vern don’t care how dey come in de bar, long as dey buy beers, you know? Sook, her, she de one who gets mad. She usually works de grocery side, but at de end of de day, she’s de one’s gotta mop de mess left on de floor in de bar. Poo-yi dat makes her mad.”
“What do you do over there,” I asked.
“Me, I stay to de grocery side, pass down de aisles and clean de can goods. Corn, Beenie Weenies, okra, stuff like dat. Dem can goods don’t sell too fas’, so dey get all dusty. And I make sure nobody takes stuff in de store when Sook goes help Vern in de bar.” Poochie must have seen me eyeing the folded metal walker that leaned against the seat beside her because she promptly added, “Oh, I jus’ use dat walker at de house. I got me some very-close veins on my legs, you know, and sometimes it’s hard for me to walk. At de Bucket, though, I use me a scooter. Vern and Sook got me one so I could ride around de store fas’ if I need to.”
At last Poochie took a breath, unfolded her arms and smoothed out her housedress so it covered her knees again. “Now, you sister tol’ me you come out here to pass a little visit.” She cocked her head and looked me dead in the eyes. “But me, I think you here to help find dem li’l chil’ren. Dat’s true, huh?”
Oh, God, she knew!
CHAPTER FOUR
My heart did a triple beat, and I glanced at Angelle, who went wide-eyed and mouthed, “I didn’t tell her anything.”
“N-37!”
Angelle jumped, which caused her to jerk on the steering wheel and the car to veer slightly to the right towards an eighteen-wheeler. She quickly brought the car back on track, then blew out a breath.
“You know how come I know dat?” Poochie said. “Dat you come to help find dem chil’ren?”
“How,” I asked, the word coming out strained. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how she knew.
“Well, it’s like dis. I had me a feeling de good Lord was gonna send somebody de last time I was out to my prayer tree.”
“What’s a prayer tree?” I asked, and Angelle shot me a, Quit asking questions or she’ll never shut up! look.
“Dat’s something, yeah . . . when I move over here, Angelle, she don’t know what a prayer tree is neither. Dat’s a shame y’all don’t have none where you come from. A prayer tree, dat’s important. Back to my house in St. Martinville, I used me a chicken tree, kept all de shoes for de souls in purgatory on de right side of dat tree, and shoes for de people dat’s still alive on de left side. Over to Angelle and Trevor’s I gotta use me a china ball tree ‘cause dat’s all dey got. It’s not big like my chicken tree . . .” She shrugged. “But sometimes all you can do is work wit’ what you got, right?”
“Shoes?” I glanced at Angelle, but she stared straight ahead, her thoughts obviously spiraling elsewhere. I turned back to Poochie who continued to talk…and talk…
“Mais, yeah, shoes. Dat’s what I use to keep close to de people I pray for. Sometimes when a person pass away, de family’s worried dey didn’t pass right to heaven. Maybe dey did too much bad, you know? So dey bring me a pair of deir shoes so I can pray for de soul, ask de good Lord to let dem in heaven.”
“Why shoes?”
Poochie shrugged. “Just ‘cause. What I do is tie de shoelaces together and throw de shoes up
in de branches on de purgatory side of de tree. Now if somebody wants me to pray for somebody dat’s sick or hurt, like dey got a broke leg, den I throw dem shoes up in de alive side of de tree.”Poochie grinned, obviously confident that the explanation clarified everything fully.
As colorful as she was I was beginning to believe my sister might be right. The old woman’s mind did slip off the track occasionally. Shoes in trees that had designated purgatory branches? Okay, maybe it slipped off a bit more than occasionally . . .
“Anyways,” Poochie continued. “I usually go out to my prayer tree every day, but las’ week when I went out dere, you never guess what I saw.”
It took a long pause before I realized she was actually waiting for a response. “Oh . . . uh, I don’t have any idea. What did you see?”
“Some of de shoes on de purgatory side was missin’!” She nodded, wide-eyed. “It’s de trut’! Now how bad you think dat is when somebody’s gonna steal a dead man’s shoes out a tree? Den, don’t you know I went back out de very next day, and boom.” She slapped her hands together. “Another pair of shoes missin’. So far now, dat’s prob’bly three-four pairs gone, and I don’t know where dey went. All I know is since dey been gone, dere’s been nothin’ but trouble. De chil’ren went missin’, and de feux fo lais is out in de swamp ‘most every night now. I know, I seen dem out by de bayou. Dat makes it all kind of dangerous for de fishermen ‘cause it’s de feux fo lais’ job to make people get los’ in de swamps, you know what I’m sayin’?”
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