Bitter Root (3 page)

She started planning her escape. Merley Addison Nerbass, the
killer and drug runner, would disappear and she’d just be Addison Bergeron.
She’d take back her real daddy’s name and build a new life he would be proud
of. She’d forget old rotten J.B. was ever a part of her. She would leave as
soon as she could and he’d see he couldn’t hold her here. But she’d make sure
she was well out of his reach when she left. Those hands were heavy, and she’d
had enough of them. If he ever found her, he’d kill her. She knew that, so she’d
have to be careful.

*

The next few months were hard. She and J.B. fought almost
constantly. Her mamma was no help at all; in fact, she seemed to enjoy the
strife. By the time summer rolled around, Merley was ready to make her move.
J.B. had burst into her room that night, spitting mad. She’d held fast to not
working for him as much as she could. He’d get mad like this from time to time,
and she’d have to give in a little
.
Not this time, though. I’m out of here and you can’t stop me.

“You’ll be at the damn bait shop at three tomorrow afternoon,
girl. I mean it. No more lollygagging for you. This is my last warning. I’ve
got to go meet with my buddy Ramon, and I need you to take care of the shop.
You better show up if you know what’s good for you.”

She wanted to scream at him that she’d be gone tomorrow and he
could take care of his own damn shop, but she bit her tongue. She had to have
as much time as possible before he started looking for her. And he’d look. She
knew that. As much as she’d seen him do and had done for him, he’d kill her
before letting her get away. Once she ran, she’d have to keep running until she
was sure he wasn’t behind her. It’d be better to kill herself than to let him
find her.

She had been happy to see her mamma throwing back glass after
glass of red wine at dinner. No worries about her waking up when it was time to
take off. She just had to wait until she heard J.B.’s truck leaving the house.
He spent his time Lord knew where, but he was always gone from midnight until
just after seven in the morning.
Maybe
he goes out to that rig every night.
It wouldn’t surprise her. The
last time he met with Mr. Ramon he’d been gone until nearly supper time the
next day. This was her best chance to get away.

She finally heard his truck spinning gravel in the driveway.
Time to go.
She toed
open her door and listened. The sonorous sound of her mamma’s snoring gave her
clearance. As quietly as possible, she slid open the bureau drawer where the
important family papers were.
I
need to have something that proves who I am, even if I don’t want to be me
anymore
. She found her birth certificate and slid it out of the
envelope. Merley Addison Bergeron. The name her real papa had chosen for her.
Merley for her mamma’s aunt, and Addison after his grandfather.

Well, lots
of people go by their middle names. I doubt J.B. even knows what my real name
is. His head’s too big, making me go by Nerbass. I ain’t no Nerbass.

She tucked the form back into the envelope and pocketed it.
Noiselessly, she left the house. The sharp tang of salt drifted in the fog. It
would be a good six hours before the sun was high enough to burn it off. By
that time, she planned to be far from this place. There was nothing for her
here. It was the empty husk of a life eaten from inside out. The taste of it on
her palate was as bitter as chicory. Determination, a hard knot in her stomach,
pushed her out into the darkness. Without a backward glance at the
cypress-shrouded cabin, she opened the shed door and maneuvered her bike out to
the hard-packed dirt road leading to her new life.

“Hey, Dink! Bring me some fresh boudin out here! This crap
’bout to crawl off on its own!”

Adi cringed at the guttural sound of Bertie’s shouted order and
her use of the diminutive nickname. She really needed to talk to her about
that. Adi was anything but “dinky.” Sure, when she’d shaken the mud of
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, off her boots, she wasn’t nearly the size she was
now.
It’s amazing what a
regular diet and the lack of fear can do for you.
Bertie had been a
lifesaver. She’d driven her rusty old Ford up to the back lot of Michaud’s
Boiling Point and practically stumbled over Adi’s sleeping form near the
Dumpster. If it had been T’Claude who’d found her, she’d have had a cold shower
from the hose as a wake-up call. But luck, for once, had been with her and
Bertie had been the one to find her. She hadn’t asked many questions, just
poked her with her walking stick and said, “Well, Dink, if you gonna sleep out
here with the raccoons, people gonna think you ain’t got no sense. Best get up
now and come on in with me.”

Adi had been “Dink” to Bertie ever since, never mind that she’d
shot up a good four inches in the past eight years. Eight years of living in
the warm embrace of a woman who cared not a whit where she originated. A woman
who loved her the way she vaguely remembered her father loving her. A woman who
never even questioned whether Adi needed or wanted a place to land. No, Bertie
had simply provided one. She had brought Adi into the restaurant, fed her the
first proper meal in as long as she could remember, and tossed her a stained,
but clean, white apron.

Adi grinned as she remembered Bertie’s most famous speech, one
she’d given countless times.
“Listen
here, Dink, ain’t nobody gonna give you what you need in life, you hear? You
got to take a hold of this life and give her a good shake. Scare the daylights
outta her, till she drops what you need. Then you pick it up and run with it.
Right? Don’t you be lying around waiting neither. Get yourself up and get a hold
of life. Now, look here, you go on over to that big pot there and I’m gonna
tell you what to drop in it. You do like I say and we gonna be all right.”

And Adi had done just that. She had chopped and peeled and
stirred just as Bertie dictated. In the end, she felt good about what she
produced. Maybe it wasn’t the best oyster gumbo ever served, but it was her
first, and with Bertie’s tutelage, she improved with every batch. Now Bertie
trusted Adi to handle not only the gumbo, but the boudin, étouffée, creole, and
maque choux.

Adi shook her head in resignation. There would be no changing
Bertie’s mind about her name. She turned back to the task at hand, making fresh
boudin. She pulled the boiled ground pork from the cooler and put it beside the
commercial grinder on the butcher block counter. She mixed in the blend of
onion, celery, bell pepper, and garlic she had prepared earlier. Chopped
scallions, parsley, and rice followed. She topped the concoction off with fresh
ground black pepper, salt, cayenne pepper, ground thyme, and ground oregano.
Nothing made Adi feel better than the scent of fresh spice. She loved making
good food with her own hands. She would never be in a position again to rely on
someone else to prepare food for her. As long as she could breathe, she could
cook. That was another lesson she learned from Bertie.
“Listen up, Dink. Never wait
around for somebody to fix you something to eat. You hear me? You get over to
the stove and fix it up for yourself. Cooking is from inside, Dink. You got it,
I got it, durn near everybody’s got cooking in ’em. Problem is, most folks just
too durn lazy or been kept from the knowing. All you got to do is do.”

Adi smiled, thinking what a great gift Bertie was in her life.
When she thought about where she might have ended up, she shuddered. Somehow,
she’d picked the right Dumpster to crawl behind. For that, she would always be
thankful. She filled sausage casings with the mixture, pumping it through the
grinder. She twisted each segment closed as she went. Water was already
steaming in the skillet, waiting for her creation. She dropped the finished
boudin in the water to allow the steam to marry the flavors inside. While it
steamed, she prepared a plate with saltine crackers and a crusty baguette. She
slid a bowl of melted garlic butter on as well, knowing Bertie’s fondness for
the treat. Nothing pleased her more than cooking for Bertie. She felt it was
the best way she could thank the woman who’d saved her life.

As she placed the piping hot boudin onto the plate, she caught
the metallic creak of the kitchen screen door. T’Claude lumbered into the room,
taking up far too much space in the small kitchen.

“What you got there, Dinky?”

“This isn’t for you, T. It’s for Bertie. And my name is Adi, not
Dinky.”

“Heck, Bertie calls you Dinky all the time.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Bertie, not you. You call me by my name, or
you won’t be getting any boudin, or étouffée, for that matter.”

“Well, dang, Adi, okay. No problem. So, how about a taste of
that?” He grinned at her, showing his trademark dimples.

Adi smiled back at him. “Okay, but save some for the paying
customers.” She couldn’t deny T’Claude his taste of boudin. He did own the
place, after all. T’Claude Michaud was the son of Claude Michaud Sr., a man who
had earned his living as a Louisiana politician in the days when that was a
“paying” position. Michaud had owned a piece of every business in the parish by
the time God saw fit to remove him from office. A powerful heart attack had
ended his life in its prime, leaving T’Claude quite a nice sized bank account,
and had given him the opportunity to open the restaurant he’d always dreamed
of. T’Claude left the restaurant in Bertie’s capable hands for the most part,
but he did like to come by from time to time and sample the wares. He was an
easy boss except for those days when he met with Jack Daniels before coming to
visit. He had a mean temper when in his cups. Only Bertie’s voice could stop
him then. Something about the woman just forced sense into your head, whether
you wanted it or not. But today appeared to be a good day.
Thank goodness.

“What have you been up to T’Claude? Have you been up to the
casino lately?”

“Ah, chère, they robbed me blind up there. Them casino folks just
love to see ole T’boy coming. They figure I’m going to make their week and set
about to empty my pockets as quick as they can!” They laughed together, knowing
that T rarely carried much cash into the casino and usually left with more than
his fair share. He had a knack for cards that served him well. Adi had often
tried to get him to show her how he was so successful, but he insisted it was
pure luck.

“T’Claude! You come on outta that kitchen and let that girl be.
She got work to do, you know!” Bertie yelled.

Adi smiled as T made his way ponderously through the small room
into the dining area. He might be lucky with cards, but she was the really
lucky one at Michaud’s.

She scooped up Bertie’s plate and followed him out the door.
“Here you go, Bertie. Careful now, it’s fresh out of the pot. Don’t burn your
mouth.” She slid the plate onto the polished cypress bar where Bertie waited.

“When you ever known me to be burning my mouth, Dinky? You know I
got more than a lick a sense about hot food.”

“Course I know that, but you know if I forgot to say something
you’d tell me I was trying to kill you.”

Bertie laughed her deep rumbling laugh and threw her hand up.
“Yeah, you right there. How’s the gumbo coming for tonight?”

Abruptly, the door to the restaurant opened and the sound of
voices raised in argument preceded the first guests of the day. “I cannot
believe you, Bill. Seriously? How hard can it be to find one small town in
Louisiana? You act as if you’ve never heard of GPS!” The scowl on the face that
went with those words marred what was otherwise attractive features.

The woman was average height, had dark hair, almost black, and
skin so pale it looked as if she’d never seen the sun. Adi took in her outfit.
She was wearing creamy white slacks and a cream and brown top that buttoned at
an odd angle. Her shoes were about the highest Adi had seen, matched the cream
color perfectly and showed off delicate feet with pale pink toenails. The man
behind her looked harried and unkempt, in fancy blue jeans, a button-down
shirt, and a tweed blazer. He was visibly upset, his tanned face red and drawn.

“It is not my fault the place is so small it’s not on a map! You
navigate if you think you can do a better job, Dawn.” With that, he glared at
Adi and added, “How about a table? We’re starving.”

“Oh, sure thing, mister, just take any one you like. I’ll get you
some menus.” Adi turned to grab them, wanting nothing more than to get these
two fed and out the door. Bertie and T’Claude turned so they were leaning back
on the bar.

“Where are you folks coming from?” Bertie called. “Not many folks
find their way to New Iberia without planning on getting here.”

The new arrivals glanced up at her, but neither answered. “Well,
we don’t cotton much to folks as won’t state their business around here. You
got some reason you don’t want to say?” Bertie raised a skeptical eyebrow as
she narrowed her eyes on her prey.

Tweed jacket cleared his throat. “No, ma’am. Not at all. We drove
down from New Orleans. We’re trying to find the town of Carencro, but it seems
we’re a little turned around.” Cream pantsuit looked at him sharply.

Adi wondered what their story was. They sure were acting strange.
“Here you are,’” she said, handing them the menus. “There’s fresh hot boudin in
the kitchen if you’d like an appetizer.” She turned away from the table, but
took only a half-step before the woman spoke up.

“That would be nice. Yes, please. And what drink would you
recommend to go with that?”

Looking back, Adi said, “Well, about the best thing to drink with
boudin is a nice cold beer. I’d say either a Hopitoulas or a Jockamo.”

“A what or a who?”

“They’re both IPAs made here in Louisiana.”

“Okay, I’ll have the Hopitoulas and he’ll have the Jockamo.”

Adi nodded and moved off to get their order. When she returned,
Bertie and T were sitting at an adjoining table engaged in a spirited
conversation with their customers. She shook her head. These two used this
place as their own gossip central. They had a knack for making strangers feel
welcome. She was sure by the time she got them fed these poor folks wouldn’t
have a secret between them. That’s just how it was at Michaud’s. The Boiling
Pot was a pot full of other folks’ business. Bertie and T just kept stirring
it.