The Gates of Evangeline (13 page)

O
ne advantage of insomnia is that you get to see a lot of sunrises. Standing on the banks of the bayou the next morning, I try to focus on the spectacular scenery instead of dwelling on my failures. A thin layer of mist hovers above the water like breath. For these few minutes, I let myself enjoy the retreating shadows, the golden light. Day is unyielding. It always comes. A comforting or an exhausting thought, depending on my mood, which is currently trending toward melancholy.

When a call comes from an unknown number, my first panicked thought is of Grandma's assisted-living facility.
Something's happened. I never should've come here, it's too far, she's too old, how will I—

But it's Detective Minot, and his news isn't really news at all. “Didi's gone,” he says. “I don't know how you knew, but it was this morning. Four sixteen.”

“I'm sorry.” I lean back against a tree, feeling guilty at the brief surge of relief his words bring me. “Were you with her?”

“Yeah. After we hung up last night, I told my wife about your call. She insisted we stay up. Just in case.” His voice is surprisingly steady for someone whose daughter just died, but then he's probably been bracing himself for months, dreading and preparing for this day. “We knew she didn't have a lot of time left,” he says. “The nurses told us she'd probably never regain consciousness. But . . . four sixteen. She stopped breathing that exact minute.”

The bayou and sky seem to glow, both suffused with the same dusty orange. Behind me, Evangeline is quiet. Except for Detective Minot's voice in my ear, I feel like the only person left living. “I hope being with Didi at the end brought you and your wife . . . I don't know. Some peace.”

“We were holding her hands,” he says. “We were all three there when she came into this world, and all three together when she left it.” His voice cracks, and I think how peculiar it is that I should be privy to this man's grief.

“You should go,” I say gently. “Go be with your wife.”

“I will. But I had to ask you.” He takes a second to formulate the thought. “See, I haven't believed in God in a long time, Miss Cates. Maybe it's my job, seeing what people do to other people. To kids, even. And some of it's Didi, of course, watching her sick for three years. But from what I've seen, there's no one out there manning the store.”

I wait for the question. Across the bayou, I see a flash of white. A bird. A big one, wading at the edge of the water.

“You said you had a dream about Didi. Well, Justine thinks it was God's message to me. To renew my faith. Yesterday I would've told you that was horseshit, but . . . I've got no other explanation. So I want to know what you think.”

I never expected to land in the middle of a bereaved couple's religious debate. I've never attributed my dreams to God, but I don't have any better answers for Detective Minot. And maybe it doesn't matter. This man has watched his daughter fight a losing battle for three years, and now she's dead. Won't faith feel better than skepticism?

“I don't know where my dreams come from,” I tell him. “But maybe your wife is right.”

“You've had others?”

“Just a few. They started after my son died.”

“But you see things? In the future?” He seems somewhere between intrigued and freaked out.

“Not always the future. Sometimes it's already happened.” The white bird dips its head in the water.

“Like what kinds of things?” Detective Minot wants to know.

“They're always bad and they're always kids.” So far he sounds like he believes me, so I plunge ahead and hope for the best. “I wasn't being totally straight with you the other day when I told you why I came to Chicory. It wasn't the book that brought me here. It was Gabriel.”

The bird lifts its head suddenly and gazes at me across the water. I swear it's listening as I lay bare my secret.

“I saw him,” I say. “I saw Gabriel Deveau.”

•   •   •

I
DON
'
T KNOW EXACTLY
what kind of response I was expecting, but Detective Minot's long, noisy exhale is not it. I wait.

“I don't believe it,” he mutters.

“I'm not lying, I really—”

“No. I mean, I don't believe that after all this time, we could finally solve this case.”

“He didn't give me any names,” I say, not wanting to get the detective's hopes up. “Just a few details.”

I hear a woman's voice in the background, presumably Dr. Pinaro. “Listen, I better go,” Detective Minot says reluctantly. “We have preparations to make for the funeral. Don't tell anyone what you've just told me, okay? I'll be in touch with you in a few days.”

There's a lightness, an almost soaring feeling in my chest when I hang up. I tilt my face toward the newly risen sun. I don't know what feels better: the fact that I helped Didi's parents, or the fact that Detective Minot believes in me.

Leeann is pulling a pan of banana bread from the oven when I show up for breakfast. “Mornin', Charlie,” she calls cheerily.

“Morning,” I reply. “How's it going, Leeann?”

There's no one else eating yet, just the old red dog splayed by the French doors. Leeann sets down her pan, eager to talk. “You won't believe what ma
boug
is doin'.” From the pocket of her apron, she produces a napkin with letters on it. “Right here. He wrote ‘MOM,' see that?”

I remember that sweet mama high, remember it well. I want to tell her about Keegan, how he loved writing with “grown-up pens” and once put Sharpie on the wall, but that would change everything. Leeann has assumed that I am childless, and if I mentioned him, I'd have to tell the ending. And then she'd apologize too many times and feel guilty, like she couldn't mention her own son or coo over Paulette's big belly in front of me. So I smile at Leeann's napkin, its squiggly letters, and say, “He's a smarty.”

I'm on the verge of getting sentimental and weepy when I spot Noah coming up the path outside. I didn't run into him yesterday. Was he avoiding me or just busy? Part of me wants to apologize for not being more up front about the book, but who am I kidding? I can't tell him about the dreams, the things I've been seeing. I can't tell him that I have my suspicions about Hettie, maybe even about his father. Our relationship will always involve my holding something back. So what's the point in pursuing it?

Still, I can't resist greeting him as he enters the kitchen. “Hi.” I lift my fingers in a tentative wave.

He looks over in my direction. He's wearing jeans, a close-fitting thermal, and a windbreaker. Mr. Casual. I can't read his expression when he sees me, but I think it's a smile. A cautious smile. “I thought I saw you over by the water earlier,” he says. “Great sunrise.” He leans down to pet the dog.

“Noah, have you met Leeann?”

Leeann seems delighted to have someone new to chat with and cuts us both slices of warm banana bread. She then proceeds to interview Noah about his life in Texas while frying up eggs and sausage. From her questions, I learn that Noah's ex-wife is Mexican-American, that he speaks Spanish fairly fluently, and that the hardest part of their splitting up was losing the dog.

“Don't you fret,” Leeann says sympathetically. “Life can get betta in a hurry.” She slaps down sausages one by one on a plate. “Four years ago, I was nineteen and pregnant by a lyin', no-good boy who I come to find was engaged to somebody else. I was livin' with ma folks, workin' at ma daddy's diner, not a hope in the world.”

Getting pep talks from a twenty-three-year-old doesn't seem to annoy Noah the way it would me. He watches her, chin in hand, waiting for the happy ending.

“Now I got ma own place with the most carin' man alive who loves ma son like his own,” she concludes. “Still haven't got ma ring yet, but we'll get there! Ma mama always says trust in God, and I do. Life'll turn sweet.”

Noah smiles at her. “Well, your bread just made mine sweeter.” He turns to me, probably to avoid further talk of personal hardship. “You been workin' on your book, Charlie?”

A sore subject, although he doesn't
sound
hostile. His dark eyes hold mine for a second. Accusing? Apologetic? Probing? I can't read them, but all that eye contact makes me blush.

“Yeah, I've been working,” I say. “I'm going to hit up the library today, do some research.”

He deposits his plate over by the sink. “If you see any old pictures a the garden, let me know.”

“They open at nine,” I tell him, surprising myself. “Come along.”

•   •   •

T
HE GRAY
-
HAIRED WOMAN
at the reference desk sits cataloging film reels when we arrive. She wears a purple turtleneck with a garish studded snowflake pin that only a teacher, librarian, or grandmother would find attractive. On the ceiling above her, an amorphous brown spot hovers, presumably some type of water damage. I remember the maintenance man trying to patch it up the last time I was here; his efforts have obviously failed.

The woman recognizes me immediately. “You're back! Still looking for materials on the Deveau family?”

“Good memory. And today I've brought a friend.” I gesture to Noah.

“The more the merrier,” she beams. “You know, I never did ask where you're from.”

“Connecticut.”

“That's quite a distance. Welcome!” She looks over at Noah. “Are you from Connecticut as well?”

“Nah, my family's from Chicory. Just—visiting for a while.”

Her face lights up. “You doin' genealogical research? That's my specialty. What's your family name?”

He glances at me, hesitating. I shrug. “My grandfather was Jack Lauchlin,” he says. “L-A-U-C—”

“Lauchlin? Don't tell me you're related to Sean.”

“My father.” Noah looks uncomfortable.

Given what he told me about his dad taking off on him, I can understand that. My mother has never been my favorite topic of discussion either.

Oblivious, the librarian jumps all over the family connection. “You kiddin' me? I went to high school with Sean Lauchlin way back when. I had no idea he had children. He never seemed interested in the girls around here. What happened to him, anyway? Left town ages ago, right?”

“Yeah,” says Noah, “he didn't stick around.”

“Nice-looking boy, your daddy. I had English with him, you know. I bet he never told you this, but when we did poetry, Mr. LaValle always asked him to read. Your father had such a lovely speaking voice.” She smiles at the memory. “What can I do for you today?”

Noah explains his quest to restore the gardens of Evangeline and his search for historic photos, which leaves the woman nearly breathless with delight. “Oh, you've got to see the Abe and Thomas Brennan Photo Collection. Abe Brennan just
loved
to photograph gardens.”

She hustles him down a lonely little hallway to the viewing room. I browse periodicals and leaf through a book called
Dynasty: The Louisiana Deveaus
and learn that Maurice Deveau once shot himself in the foot while drunk; that Dulcie Deveau became a suffragette, much to the horror of her family; and that Neville's grandfather developed polio and required an iron lung. Maybe the twins are right. A little family history could jazz up my book.

I pace the stacks for a while, dip into various volumes and inhale that nice, fusty old-book smell before joining Noah in the viewing room. Inside, he pages through an album of black-and-white photos. Etched on the spine are the words
Abe and Thomas Brennan Photo Collection, 1924
. Beside him, I see two large carts of similar albums, each labeled with a different year. The reference librarian returns shortly, dragging a third.

“I'll be back at my desk if you need anything,” she tells Noah. “Remember, don't touch the photos. If you'd like to reproduce any images, we've got to submit a request to the Brennan family.”

She closes the door behind her and waves good-bye to us through the little glass window. I take an album from 1963, the year Neville and Hettie married. Maybe I can find wedding photos. Noah and I sit quietly together for about half an hour, absorbed in these glimpses of the town and its inhabitants. I don't find the Deveau wedding, but I'm drawn in by other stories on display: a first communion, a town fair, a family portrait with four generations of black folks smiling proudly.

Noah's the one to eventually break the silence. “Hey, Charlie?”

I look up. “Hmm?”

“I didn't mean to go off on you the other day about your book. I know you gotta work, like everyone else.”

“I understand why you were upset,” I say. “I wasn't thrilled with the whole arrangement myself.”

He nods, and we leave it there. I'm pretty sure we're okay again. I forget about him and continue looking through the photo albums, eventually locating a 1965 picture of Hettie on a parade float, baby Andre on her lap. She's so young, about Leeann's age. Fresh-faced and eager as she faces the crowd. Neville, sitting beside her, already looks like a bloated stick-in-the-mud.

I take a quick bathroom break, Deveau family dynamics dancing through my head. Hettie was twenty, maybe twenty-one when she got married. She and Neville had met less than two years earlier at a polo game, according to books. He was six years her senior, wealthy, from one of
the
eminent Southern families. She was pretty, well mannered, from a solidly upper-class family. Neville must have looked at her and seen a blank slate. Was their marriage about love or a mutually advantageous social contract?

I'm about to head back into the viewing room when something gives me pause. Through the door's small glass window, I see Noah sliding one of the pictures out of its protective case. I can't make out the image, but I can definitely see some people. He rolls up the photo and stuffs it into the zippered pocket of his windbreaker.