Then, after a long, silent pause, I heard a familiar voice suddenly yell in triumph, “Now, take dat you sumabitch and suck my dick!”
Poochie?
Couldn’t be . . . not out here. . . not way out here . . .
I tried turning my head to see, to make sure, but nothing on my body would move. The only external body part that seemed capable of functioning was my ears. I closed my eyes . . .
Heard . . . an odd sucking sound, like a cork being pulled from a wine bottle.
. . . a child asking, “Are you Superman?”
. . . a man’s deep, gentle voice . . .“It’s okay, I’ve got you. . . ”
A woman . . . “Dat’s right! Dat’s right, sumabitch, I got you!”
Then the stars, the moon, the world went black. . .
EPILOGUE
At this very moment, the entire town of Cyler, Texas was vibrating with activity. A parade down Main Street, children laughing, clapping, parents propping the smaller ones up on their shoulders—Roman candles spitting out brilliant red, green, yellow balls, the snap, whistle, and pop of Black Cat firecrackers and bottle rockets, sparklers that sizzled out far too quickly—folks chattering on front lawns around barbeque pits that roasted hotdogs, hamburgers, steaks, or chicken.
The fourth of July had always been one of my favorite holidays. Not just because it commemorated the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, but because it celebrated the word Independence itself. Freedom from control or influence of another.
Freedom. How precious a word. How relevant and powerful its meaning. Even more so to me now than ever before.
Nearly three months had passed since the nightmare in Bayou Crow, and so much had changed in my life in those few short months. I still carried a few stubborn bruises on my chest from Beeno’s beating, but little more. The surgery I’d had on my hand to remove the rest of the bone Beeno had missed on my extra finger had gone well. I sometimes still felt naked and lost without it, though. Even after three months, I still reached for gloves before going out to the grocery store, or I’d unconsciously want to tuck that finger into my palm when I met someone on the street, then remember it was no longer there. It was a freedom that took a bit getting used to. The rest of the changes that came my way, however, I took to immediately. Especially the one before me now.
Sitting in a recliner, I folded my legs and tucked them up under me, rested my head on a hand, and studied my new family. Angelle was sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room on one end of a Monopoly board, grinning. She’d moved in with me about a month ago, once we’d finished burying Trevor and selling her house. She still had night terrors over her husband’s horrid death, but they were becoming fewer.
“No, no, you can’t have Park Place!” Angelle said, laughing.
The giggles that followed came from the little girl sitting on the opposite side of the board. She wore new jeans and a bright pink t-shirt with flip flops to match. Her toes were wiggling in delight. The first time I’d taken Sarah Woodard shopping, the only thing she’d requested was that we not get dresses or shiny shoes. I was more than happy to oblige. Not only did we not buy either, we shipped the box of clothes her uncle had given us before we left Bayou Crow off to the Salvation Army. No more patent leather—no more dresses.
“Ya gotta hand it over,” Sarah said. “And the hotels on it, too!” She giggled again, and the sound made my smile broaden. She, too, still had nightmares, often screaming, “No more mud! No!” in her sleep. The doctors and counselors said she’d get better over time, but that the trauma had been so severe, there was a chance her nightmares might never fully go away. Fortunately, the only physical scars that remained on Sarah’s body were from the snakebite, which luckily hadn’t been poisonous. It had healed beautiful and looked like two small freckles on her cheek.
Rusty Woodard had been more than happy to release Sarah into my custody, claiming that the dee-mons had invaded his neice and there was no hope of her returning to normal. The courts agreed . . .that the man was hazard to the child, and when no mother or father stepped forward to claim Sarah, the state agreed she’d be better off in my care. I felt a little guilty because, secretly, I’d been glad when the girl’s parents didn’t show. Sarah was home now. We were her home.
Sarah laughed at the pretend-dismay look on Angelle’s face and said, clapping, “I’m rich! I’m rich!”
Angelle laughed along with her. “You’re a hard customer, I’ll tell ya.”
Beside Sarah lay Fritter, still lop-eared and wiry-haired, a permanent fixture in our home now, and Sarah’s constant companion. His eyes roamed from Sarah to Angelle, then to me, and he gave me one of his looks, only this one seemed to say, “Thank you for letting me be here.”
I heard the soft hum of a motor from the hallway and glanced over to see Poochie riding into the living room on her scooter. She was humming Jambalaya, an old Hank Williams tune about crawfish pie and file′ gumbo, and tapping her fingers to the beat on the arms of the scooter. She winked at me as she circled around the coffee table to join Angelle and Sarah, and I winked back.
Poochie hadn’t shouted out a Bingo number in quite some time. Probably because she now frequented the Bingo hall in Cyler.Every Wednesday night, I’d drive her out there, and more times than not she returned home with prizes, money, and big toothy grin—toothy because Poochie had gotten herself a new set of teeth. Although she never said,I think the sudden interest in a set of choppers had something to do with Clayton, some old guy she’d met at the Bingo hall her first time there.
Poochie’s scooter was new, too, an updated version with compartments and a front basket for whatever bric-a-brac she decided to carry around. It hadn’t taken her long to learn its operation. She zipped and zoomed around the house and every so often she’d give Sarah and Fritter a ride on it down the driveway.
So much smiling and laughing now . . .
I turned my attention to the large picture window that overlooked my front yard, and to the mesquite tree that Pop Pollack had tended to with such love and care. The lavender blossoms on the tree were gone, having given way to fruit that resembled dried green beans—and to multiple pairs of shoes of various sizes, shapes, and colors. As soon as Poochie moved in, she’d wasted no time laying claim to her new prayer tree. As far as I was concerned, Poochie Blackledge could fill every tree branch with shoes, socks, and gloves if she wanted to. I owed her my life.
Over the gentle laughter from the Monopoly game and Poochie’s humming, I heard the crunch of gravel. I sat up to get a better view of whoever was headed down the driveway.
A black pickup was making its way to the house, and even from here I could make out the man behind the wheel. He wore a black Stetson.
“Dere he is,” Poochie said, grinning. She winked at me again.
The smile on my face broadened.
My sister was smiling, too, although I wondered if seeing this man made her miss Trevor even more.
I got out of my chair and turned my attention back to the window . . . to him . . .to Cherokee.
Without a doubt, Cherokee had brought about the biggest change in me of all.According to Poochie, he’d been her accomplice at the knoll. That night, he’d shown up at Angelle’s house, and Poochie told him what we were up to. She said his face got all dark, not with anger, but concern. She claimed she didn’t have to convince him that Angelle and I were headed for trouble because he already knew it. Somehow Poochie had talked him into taking her along in his boat to look for us. Cherokee’s response to that had been, “Poochie can be persuasive when she wants to.” To which Poochie had responded, “Dat’s right.”
Obviously Cherokee was used to the swamps and had skills for tracking. He said it had been easy to follow the subtle, and not so subtle, trails that Angelle and I had left behind. Poochie swore that her prayers had been the biggest help in finding them. No one disputed that. Either or, the miracle had been that they’d been found at all.
Cherokee also added tha
t finding us had been the easy part. What followed, though, had been the weirdest. How he’d heard Poochie scream in rage, then her grabbing the shotgun he’d brought along and blasting Beeno with it before he could stop her . . . not that he would have.
Every time the story was told, Poochie loved giving the details about how she’d raised that gun, gave Beeno what for, and had never had a bad thought or bad dream about it since then. According to Poochie, God had given her peace about the incident, and she thanked him everyday for giving her a good aim.
Cherokee had stayed by their sides throughout the police investigations that followed that night. He helped retrieve that poor dead woman from the swamp and the bodies of those charred men. He also stood quietly by, attentive, ever-watchful during Trevor’s closed casket service. He’d been with them for the reunion between Nicky and his mother, who they’d found in a Baton Rouge rehab hospital. Cherokee had told Nicky’s mother that if she ever felt herself sliding into trouble again to call him. To which I made sure to add, “And we’ll take good care of Nicky for you.”
Judging from the frequent phone calls between here and Louisiana, Nicky and his mother were fairing well. Nicky still referred to Cherokee as Superman.
When it was time to pack Poochie and Angelle’s belongings for the move here, Cherokee had been more than happy to lend a hand. Even helped with the sale of Angelle’s house. He’d been there every step of the way—quiet, strong. He’d even made sure Pork Chop got on the straight and narrow so he’d be of decent help at the Bloody Bucket now that Vern was gone. In the beginning, Sook had talked about selling the grocery store and bar. She mourned Vern terribly and didn’t think she’d be able to go on at the Bucket without him. Last I’d heard, though, the Bucket was still open, and Sook was still giving Pork Chop hell.
I guessed just like everything else in life, you can only take one thing at a time. People did the best they could. Lived and loved and died. But I didn’t want to think about death now I had life on my mind. And the man parking his truck in my driveway.
Before I left Louisiana, Cherokee promised he’d come to Cyler to see me. From the looks of things, he’d kept his promise. The sight of his strong face made my chest tingle, and as I watched him get out of the truck and walk towards the house—tall, straight, confident—the tingling turned to warm butter, flowing throughout my body. I felt my face flush, and my palms began to sweat.
I’d never felt anything like it before, and it brought a sudden rush of unexpected anticipation. I didn’t have the extra finger as an indicator for anything anymore, but I couldn’t help but wonder if my heart had taken over the job. If so, judging by the warmth spreading through me, it was signaling that there were bigger, better promises to come.
And, for the first time ever, I believed in promises and looked forward to every one of them.
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