Whispers of the Bayou (14 page)

“So what’s the myth of the angelus?”

She shook her head.

“I have no idea. I don’t remember one having to do with an angelus—not the prayer or a bell.”

She stood and retrieved a stethoscope from the other side of the bed and leaned over her uncle to listen to his chest, deep frown lines forming around her eyes. Finally she removed the black tubes from her ears and set them onto her shoulders.

“Listen,” she said, “those old bayou tales are just dumb stories, like how the alligator got a long snout, or where the sun goes after it sets.”

“Tall tales you mean, just for fun?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know which one Uncle Willy was talking about. The one about the angelus? I just don’t know. It sure doesn’t ring a—” She stopped and then smiled at me, and we both finished her sentence together by saying “bell.”

“I don’t know why someone would hide a bell,” I said. “Maybe it’s not a real bell but something else called a bell. Or something hidden in a bell.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s got some sort of ancient scroll,” I mused, “like, the actual angelus prayer written down somewhere, and that’s what we have to guard. It could be hidden inside some bell. Are there any bells at this house?”

“Not that I know of. Just a doorbell.”

I thought for a moment, going back over the conversation in my mind.

“So who died in a shrimp boat?” I asked. “I think his name was Teddy Ray?”

Lisa thought for a moment and then chuckled.

“Not Teddy Ray,
têtes duré.
It means hardheaded. There were three of them, actually, three hardheaded brothers who died riding out the hurricane in their boat instead of evacuating.”

“Did you know them?”

“Around here, everybody knows everybody. We weren’t exactly friends, but they were nice guys, distant cousins actually. Cajun good ol’ boys, you know. The kind that smell like seafood, their hands rough and fingernails black, always got a dip of chaw under their bottom lip? The kind of guys I specifically left behind by moving to California. Of course, just my luck, who do I meet there and fall in love with? A Creole boy from New Orleans! Junior may not win husband of the year, but at least he doesn’t dip chaw or smell like fish.”

Being from New York, I didn’t know a lot of people who carried “chaw” around under their lip, but I could imagine what she was saying. No wonder she had wanted to expand her horizons!

“There were so many tragedies in Katrina,” she continued. “The Guidry boys were just one more story for the papers. Their mother was
already a widow, and then in one bad storm she lost her three children as well. So sad.”

“You think they would’ve had enough sense to come in out of the rain.”

Lisa glanced sharply at me, her eyes suddenly dark and angry.

“You weren’t here. You don’t know anything about it.”

For some reason, my comment had stepped on her toes. I waited a beat and then tried again, leaving the touchy stuff alone.

“How about this place Willy mentioned, this Colline d’Or? Where’s that?”

“Never heard of it. I have no idea.”

We were both silent, lost in thought.

“Wherever—and whatever—the angelus is,” I said, “I think its hiding place has something to do with me. Something that’s going to make me angry and require my forgiveness.”

“Yeah, apparently.”

“What’s the last thing he said before he started choking? That once we took the oath, we’d learn the ‘terrible thing’ he did?”

“Something like that.”

I looked at the man’s face, nearly obscured by the mask, and suddenly felt angry. What right did he have to bring me all the way down here just to tell me some sort of horrible news? Was it something that could be undone? If not, then what was the point? There were already enough dark clouds in my life right now, from the state of my marriage to the unknowns in my childhood. Did I have to deal with a dying man giving me some sort of deathbed confession and more than likely touching on facts that I knew nothing about anyway?

“Lisa, what kind of man is Willy?” I asked as I stood up, feeling the need to stretch my legs. “I know he’s your uncle and all, but what’s he like? Has he ever done anything, um, bad? Illegal, even?”

Lisa put away the stethoscope and shook her head.

“Gosh, no. He’s just a good ol’ boy too. Till he got sick, he worked hard, played hard. Cajuns love a cold beer, love their music, love to go fishing. He did all of the above as often as he could.”

“From what I understand, he took good care of the house and grounds until he got sick.”

“Absolutely. This place used to be gorgeous. I’m sorry it’s…I mean, it’s too bad that it needs so much work now. If you could restore it, it would probably be worth a fortune.”

“If I had a fortune to fix it up in the first place.”

“Yeah, but there’s so much stuff here, paintings and artifacts and antiques. You could probably sell off some pieces and get enough money to pay for the fix up. Aren’t you some kind of artist? You’d probably be good at that.”

“I’m in art restoration,” I explained. “I’m senior preparator for a museum.”

“See? That works.”

I realized again that I hadn’t even seen the rest of the house. We had been ushered directly through the back entrance and down the long hallway into here. What a weird concept for me to grasp, that as soon as the man in front of me died, this whole place and everything in it would be mine. All mine. Had I known the magnitude of my inheritance from the beginning, I would have done things a lot differently.

“You seem kind of restless,” Lisa said. “Why don’t you go take a walk? You can check on your daughter. I can come and get you as soon as he wakes up. Knowing Willy, he could sleep for an hour.”

She was right. I was restless, and I did want to check on Tess.

“What if he…what if he doesn’t make it?” I asked. “What if he dies and we never get the rest of that oath, much less the rest of the facts of whatever it is he’s trying to say?”

“I’m not worried. His will to live is strong…at least until he has finished saying all that he has to say.”

I hoped that she was right.

“Go on,” she prodded kindly. “I’ll come get you as soon as he starts to stir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I think the swings are up that way, around the corner of the house.”

She pointed in the direction Charles had taken Tess. I thanked her and let myself out the French doors.

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset.

Once again the hot, humid air took me by surprise. This time, however, the heat felt good, a welcome relief after being in such a chilly room. Moving past the old-fashioned barbeque grill, I followed the path around the hedge and alongside the house, taking in its massive presence, as I went. How I yearned to get inside and explore, walking in through the front door this time, and making my way from room to room until somewhere, somehow, hidden in some dark corner or secret alcove, I could find another spark of a memory. It had to be there, some trace of the first five years of my life.

My walking slowed as I tried to imagine it, and then I stopped, the scene so vivid in my mind that I swore I could hear laughter, the sound of a child’s laughter. It seemed so real! I stood frozen in place as my mind raced, listening, knowing it must be the laughter of my own childhood self. I tried to picture it: me, as a little girl, running down shiny wood hallways and skipping across the lawn.

Then, suddenly, I realized that what I was hearing
was
real: It was the sound of my own child, squealing in delight from the front yard. I sped up my steps until I came around the corner to see my little baby swinging
high up into the sky, Charles Benochet standing wide-legged upon the lawn under a big tree, grinning up at her as he braced for the next push.

“Whoa, that’s kind of high there,” I said, moving toward them, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Mommy! Look! I’m flying!”

I ran closer, my arms lifting from my sides, ready to catch my child when she plummeted to certain death.

“Relax, Mama. She’s fine,” Charles said as the swing reached its high point and began falling back the way it had come.

“Please get her down,” I said under my breath. “She’s only five years old.”

He did as I asked without comment, slowing the swing until the pendulum had wound itself down to a mere arc across the bare spot in the grass. By that point Tess was on the verge of tears, and suddenly I wished that her babysitter Rosita was here, or Nathan. They would know how to handle this, how to distract her from the situation and make it all okay. The best I could do was put my hands on my hips and try to look unbending. I may have trouble standing up to my own child in many areas, but not when it came to her safety.

“You never let me do anything fun!” Tess accused me as she sat there balanced on the swing, her toes scraping in the dirt as she slowly moved back and forth. Then she pulled out the big gun: “I want
Daddy!
”

“I never let you do anything
dangerous.
You’re going to break your neck on that thing.”

“Mister Charlie said you used to swing on it when you were a little girl.”

I glanced at Charles, who was helping Tess down.

“Your mama used to love the swing on the gallery too,” he told her as she let go of the rope and stood on solid ground. “That one was better, in a way, ’cause then the two of them could go on it at the same time. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He reached for her hand and she weighed her options: stand here yelling at Mom or go with this new plan. She chose the latter, shooting me one last, irritated look before taking off across the lawn. With a pang, I
felt the familiar sensation of being the third wheel around my own child. Between Nathan and Rosita, it was a feeling I was used to. One of these days, I still hoped to grow into motherhood, a role that was as ill-fitting on me now as a wool coat that had been run through a hot washer.

I fell into step behind them, pausing at the front porch as they mounted the steps and crossed to the bench swing hanging from the rafters near one end.

As they settled down on the wooden slats of the seat, Charles on one side, Tess in the middle, I was trying to imagine myself as a child, standing here, looking up at my own home, the home of my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents before them. The porch was graceful but worn, the front door one massive single panel framed in elaborate molding. Soon, I knew I would be able to open that big door, step inside, and see if I felt that I had come home.

For now I crossed to the swing and sat down on the other side of Tess, glad to see that the steady rocking was lulling her into a calmer state. After a moment Charles cleared his throat and then spoke softly to me over her head.

“So was it worth the trip?”

“Excuse me?”

“What Willy had to tell you. Was it worth coming all the way down here for?”

“Oh. We’re not finished yet. He needed to take a break. He’s having trouble talking and breathing at the same time.”

“Ah,” Charles replied, and then we swung back and forth for another minute. “He must have a lot to say.”

I knew he wanted to ask me what I’d learned thus far, but I didn’t think it would be right to tell him—not that I had learned all that much yet anyway. I was glad that he didn’t come right out and ask me, though he came pretty close.

“Whatever it is,” Charles said, “I just want to make sure you know I’m glad to help you out with any legal matters. And, of course, anything you tell me will be held in complete confidence, protected by the lawyer-client relationship.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling awkward. “That’s good to know.”

We were silent again for a moment, but this time our silence was broken by the appearance of Lisa the nurse, who came walking around the corner of the house, the frown lines between her eyes now gone.

“There you are, Miranda,” she said. “He’s awake now. Doing better.”

“Good.” I scooted forward to stand, and then I thought twice and looked at my ad hoc babysitter. “Charles, are you going to be okay with Tess just a little longer?”