Beware the Wild (6 page)

It's hard to remember how brilliant he was back then. He was the sun and everything revolved around him until one day he went dark. And then he started showing up in the back of Darold's cruiser.

“Uh,” he starts. “Sorry about the mess. It's sort of a chronic condition for me.”

“I don't mind,” I say, carefully setting my feet on top of his discarded assignments. “I prefer the disasters you can see.”

He smiles and just like that we've reconnected.

“Coke?” he asks. “My treat.”

I'm not much of a Coke drinker, but I find myself nodding. “Sounds great.”

We have three options: Flying J, the only gas station for thirty miles; Sonic, the town's sole representation of mainstream dining; or Clary General, home of infuriating encounters with Old Lady Clary. He heads to Clary General. I'm unsurprised. He's a Clary General type of guy.

As we approach, I see that Phin's Chevelle is already parked in the gravel lot. My heart boils at the sight.

“You wouldn't happen to know how to hot-wire a car, would you?”

I feel Heath's eyes settle on me. The truck slows to a crawl, but doesn't turn in to the lot.

“No. But I've got ten minutes and a smartphone.”

It doesn't take ten minutes. In less than five, we've discovered that classic cars like Phin's will turn over for a screwdriver, and have parked Heath's truck as far from the Chevelle as possible. We don't have to look any farther than the truck bed to find the same little red toolbox all the boys and men of Sticks seem to carry.

Heath taps the screwdriver against his leg, considering me or the car, I can't tell. He says, “You gonna tell me why we're doing this?”

“It's my brother's,” I say, hoping he'll let this be enough. “The one the swamp took. I want to keep it safe.” I want to keep it away from
her
, but I can't explain that, yet.

He nods once and steps into action. He retrieves his wallet from the truck, cracks the windows, locks the doors, and joins me, all with the same level of care. Mercifully, the Chevelle is unlocked. Heath slides behind the wheel.

Clary General is still quiet, but the sun is high and there are plenty of people passing on the street. I remind myself that it's not theft because the car didn't belong to Lenora May in the first place. It doesn't do a whole lot for my nerves.

Heath has his screwdriver poised for crime.

“Wait. Let me do that.” I reach for the tool. “Scoot over.”

He doesn't argue. I take his place behind the wheel, settling into the wide, leather seat, and verifying my feet reach the pedals. If this were a normal day, they wouldn't. Phin's legs are a foot longer than mine, but apparently, Lenora May and I are of comparable height. I grind my teeth at the thought.

With a little extra pressure, and one disturbing sound, the screwdriver fits neatly into the ignition.

Wincing, I twist the handle. The engine rumbles to life as the door of Clary General swings open. I catch a glimpse of Lenora May's dark curls as I reverse out of the parking spot. Without another glace at the door, I kick the Chevelle into third as fast as I can. Gravel sprays behind us as we peel away.

Heath slouches in his seat, one hand on the window frame, the other on his thigh, a picture of calm in my speeding car.

“What do you intend to do with this vehicle?” he asks.

“Put it someplace it won't be found.”

We take the side road by the swamp. Half a mile past my house, the road forks; in one direction, an ancient wooden bridge brings you over a wide swath of the Mississippi River, and in the other a gravel road bends around the far side of the swamp. I take the gravel road, slowing to accommodate the choppy, disused terrain.

No one comes here. Most folks don't even know it exists.

I turn down another narrow road that's nearly invisible below a sprawl of oak trees. The air is cooler here, the branches crossing every which way overhead to veil the sun, each of them bleeding Spanish moss. Fallen twigs snick and pop beneath the tires.

“How did you ever find this place?” Heath peers through the open window at the canopy above. I'm pleased at the appreciation in his voice.

“I didn't.” Heath looks at me, an eyebrow arched in question, but I shake my head. He doesn't know what kind of story he's asking for. “This isn't even it. Just wait.”

The trees open; behind them the sun splashes over a tall, long-forgotten plantation house. White paint peels away in long scrolls, exposing pale, aged pine beneath. Wide-open porches and balconies crawl around every corner. It's remarkably intact: the roofline's square and not a window is broken.

I tuck the Chevelle around the side beneath a low-bending oak branch and then together, Heath and I get out and climb the five steps to the front door. An old metal plaque nailed to the right of the door says
LILLARD HOUSE
, 1778.

Heath tries the door. The lock rattles securely. He cranes his head, following the arch of the door frame. “Ever been inside?”

“No. Everything's locked up tight and has been for years.”

Heath's lost in the grandeur of this place. He walks the length of the porch, peering in windows, his hands cupped against the light.

I remember the first time I saw the house. It was late one summer night. Phineas and I had escaped one of Dad's drunken rages. Neither of us was brave enough to try the swamp. Instead, we ran and ran, and when the Lillard House loomed ghostly white in front of us, it was a relief. I collapsed on the porch and Phin sat with an arm around me while I cried myself dry.

But standing on the porch now, I feel an invasive memory creeping in. One of running through those same woods with Lenora May. She gripped my hand, helped me up when I stumbled, and when I couldn't stop crying, she held my face her in own trembling hands and said, “This is our place. It's safe.” She pulled me away from the house, beneath the dark canopy of oak trees and said, “We're so safe here, we can scream our hearts out.”

And then she screamed at the sky. It was a vicious and brave noise. At first, it frightened me. I thought Dad would hear, but when she did it again and nothing happened, I joined her.

She held both of my hands and we tipped our heads back and screamed.

Except we didn't.

It's not real
.

The real memory is Phineas wrapping his thin arms around me and telling me I was safe, safe, safe as long as he was with me. The real memory is Phineas saying it was Mama's fault for not being strong and, even as he said it, we both knew it wasn't true. The real memory is leaning into that porch like it had arms to fold around us and falling asleep there.

Behind the house a little field spills away toward the edge of the swamp. This time of year, clusters of wild sweet William grow in blue patches, like the sky dropped down and left bits of itself behind. Heath eyes it all with a quiet focus that I suspect means he's thinking. If he wasn't, he'd pick a point for his eyes to stick to and fade away the way I've seen him do a thousand times from the last row of the classroom.

“Jezuz,” he says, having explored the back porch from one end to the other. “How does a place like this fall off the map?”

That idea doesn't seem as strange as it might have a few days ago. If a mother can forget her own son, a town forgetting a relic of the past century seems easy as dying.

“The swamp's down there.” I point to where a few pine trees mark the edge. They're older and more dense than the trees behind my house, the fence is hidden beneath
their heavy, needled boughs.

A small shudder passes through Heath's shoulders. He doesn't speak right away. Just watches me with a little distance in his eyes. Then he says, “I don't know who you lost, but I remember what it was like. When no one believed me.”

Quickly, I run through what I know about Heath and his family. The Durhams live in the wealthiest part of town, in the faux plantation-style homes, which sit on a few cozy acres of land, none of which touch the swamp. His dad's a farmer and his mom's an engineer or something else fancy like that, and he doesn't have any siblings. At least, none I've ever heard of.

“Nathan Payola,” he says. He waits for me to react, but there's nothing for me to react to. Angrily, he adds, “He was my best friend.”

Because I know what it feels like, I wish I could tell Heath I remembered Nathan, but the name sparks absolutely nothing inside me. So I say the same thing Heath told me that I found comfort in. “I believe you.”

I commit the name to memory, Nathan Payola, anchoring as firmly as I did Phin's. It's only familiar because there
are
Payolas in town. But Doc Payola and his wife never had childr—

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, a fog I hadn't known was there begins to clear. A memory shakes itself loose: a boy lurking behind his mother's desk with a stack of old books in Doc Payola's waiting room. His name was Nathan. The more certain I become, the more he settles in my mind. As with Lenora May, there are memories of the Payolas being childless sitting side by side with memories of their son.

“Heath,” I say, unsure of my own mind. “I remember him.”

His voice is wounded. “Sterling—”

“I didn't. I swear, I didn't until you said his name and somehow . . .” I gesture helplessly at the swamp. “Everything cleared and now I do.”

“You're kidding.”

“Not even a little!” Excitement rushes through me. If I can remember Nathan, there's hope. “Doc's son. A year ahead of us. Basketball, tongue ring, great laugh. Heath!”

My enthusiasm barely stirs him. His smile is cautious when he says, “That's him.”

“How did it happen to you? To Nathan?” I ask.

Heath stares into the oaks and sinks into the memory. “We grew up together. When he got his license last spring, we drove to New Orleans. Because we could. Got all the way to the Quarter, but parking was so damn expensive we couldn't do anything other than turn around. It was late when we got back. We thought we'd take a few laps around the racetrack. See if anyone else was there.”

The track is at the end of Candy's street and if you go to Sticks High, you've been there more than a few times. It's a sad piece of pavement that all the good ol' boys do their best to keep flat and functional, and it's about as far as you can get from the swamp without leaving Sticks. Phin's grand plan for the Chevelle was to have it fixed in time for a graduation loop of glory three and a half days from now. More than anything, I want him to be home in time to make that loop.

I'm glad I saved his car from that thief.

“We never made it to the track. Not even close,” Heath continues, picking at a leather band around his wrist. “Someone came tearing down the side road and forced us into the swamp. They must've been drunk. We crashed nose-first on one of the fence posts—I still can't believe it didn't break.” He pauses; the memory looks like it's closing in on him. “I blacked out. Woke up with blood in my eyes, a tree practically in my lap. All alone. I had to climb through one of the rear doors—mine was crunched shut.” He makes a shape with his hands to mimic the destroyed door. “Whoever it was that ran us off didn't even stop and at first I didn't see Nathan anywhere.

“This is where it starts to sound crazy.” He pushes his hands through his hair and that's when I see they're shaking.

“Heath,” I say, being bold by taking one of those hands in mine. “I know you're not crazy.”

His expression is guarded, but his hand settles, and he goes on with a little more confidence.

“The driver's side of the car had punched through the fence and was sinking in the muck. The swamp was full. It had been raining for days and there was so much water. There was nothing else to do so I waded in, looking for Nathan. I kept tripping because I couldn't see where I was stepping. I was soaked. Choking on swamp water—I remember how horrible it tasted and thinking that I shouldn't care about a thing like that, but I couldn't help it because it tasted
so
bad—but I kept trying to run. Jezuz, I was terrified that Nathan'd be floating there. Dead.

“I didn't see him at first because I didn't expect him to be on his feet and so far into the swamp. Just standing there.”

I'm chilled to the bone. Suddenly, I see Lenora May's figure, a ghostly silhouette deep in the swamp. The horror is fresh as new.

“I yelled, but it was like he couldn't hear me. Twenty yards away and he couldn't hear me. I don't really know what happened next. I turned away for a second and when I looked again, he was gone,” Heath finishes with a tight shrug.

“And no one remembers him except for you,” I add, both horrified and relieved.
There's some comfort in simply not being alone. “Did anyone replace him?”

The look he gives me is answer enough.

“When the swamp took my brother, it sent someone—some
thing
else to take his place. I don't know what Lenora May is, but she's not my sister.”

“Are you shitting me?” Heath reels, stepping back a few paces. “She's not your sister? You don't have a sister? She came from the swamp?”

“Yes and no. I've never had a sister. Only a brother. Phineas. Phineas Harlan Saucier.”

“Phineas,” Heath repeats. And then he pauses, jerks a little, and frowns. “Phin Saucier.”

“He only ran into the swamp yesterday and—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, pinching his eyes shut. With his hands braced against his hips, he keeps his eyes closed for a long minute.

“Heath?”

“Yeah. I just. I don't know.” He looks at me, frowning hard. “Phin was a senior?”

“With a full ride to Tulane in the fall. I guess that's Lenora May's now, too,” I say, letting my bitterness show.

“Dark hair, dark blue eyes. Like you,” Heath continues, studying me so intently I feel myself squirm. “Quick temper. Better in a fight than the Wawheece boys?”