Fallen (29 page)
“How do you know this place?” I asked Felix
,
as we unstrapped our helmets.
“Ah, the culinary world is full of friends who are more than happy to suggest where to find good eatin’.”
“So you were referred here?”
“Yep,” said Felix,
attempting
to balance his helmet on
the
seat and failing
;
so he
placed it on the ground, open side up.
“Ever tried their catch before?” I asked skeptically, noting the dirty moss creeping over the boats anchored to the porch.
Felix grinned back at me. “Have faith. In this part of the world, the older an establishment…the better the food.”
He winked at me and sauntered
toward
the shanty.
I
n the
porch shadows
we could see
a
robust
woman wearing a dark purple dress and an overwhelming
number
of
different
bracelets on both arms. She sat in a rocking chair
,
slowly creaking
back and forth, smoking a pipe with a single curling wisp of white drifting up
,
collecting at the top of the porch overhang.
Sitting next
to her was a man well
into
his nineties, rocking
in sync
with her
and
wearing
jean
overalls
with
a
white tank top.
He
,
too
,
held a pipe,
although his
didn’t seem to be lit.
Pulling the pipe from her mouth, she spoke
with a thick Cajun accent, “Well podna, whot is it jew need?
We gotta lotta caimon but ain’t mucha
of
the crawfish.
”
“Caimon?” I whispered to Felix.
“That’s alligator in Cajun,” he leaned
, whispering to me, but
then yelled out to her, “Well you certainly have enough moustiques!”
She gave one bellowing laugh, “Ha!”
“Mosquitoes?” I asked, inferring.
“Good! You’re quick, Mags.” H
e
smiled and
launched
into
a Cajun dialect. “You canbe talkin’ like one of them soon enough.”
I snorted
at the impossibility of it
.
Even though we
were approaching
them,
the woman didn’t
get up
until we reached
the porch
. The man never once looked in our direction
. He
simply
continued
rocking back and forth
with the
pipe barely hanging on from the
edge
of his lip
s
.
“
We’re looking for some plump, juicy caimon,” said Felix, not bothering to hide his excitement.
“We got it,” said the woman who’d already walked passed us heading for the screen door.
“I won’t be long,” said Felix with a quick, reassuring pat
on
my back before hurrying
to follow
the woman.
Their voices from inside were muffled
,
but I figured she was showing their catch of the day judging from the
“
oohs”
and
“ahhs”
coming from Felix.
Outside, it was instantly noticeable how
much more
quiet it was here.
I could hear a few crickets making chirping noises and the old man’s rocking chair groaning in protest to the constant motion, yet these were quiet, slow sounds.
Everything else was still.
“Mind if I take a seat?” I asked the old man
,
leaning in to see the name printed
across
a coffee mug sitting on the table beside him. “
Battersbee
…
.
”
He didn’t look at me or utter
a word. In fact, if I hadn’t been watching him, I would have easily missed the slight nod he gave
toward
the other now-available rocking chair to his left.
I took a seat
,
appreciating how comfortable it was even though it was made of wood.
“Nice…” I mumbled,
as I stared
out across the dirt road
toward
the trees lining the edge of the grassy weeds
.
A few seconds passed with the two of us rocking in unison, Felix and the woman’s voices
reached us muddled
from somewhere inside, and then the old man spoke. His voice was gritty and thick with a southern accent
that
I couldn’t place. He wasn’t Cajun
,
but I’d guess somewhere from the woods of
Arkansas
or
Tennessee
. That wasn’t what
left an impression with
me
,
though. It was his words that caught me off guard.
“
B
rought a spi
rit wit
ya, I see.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t think
I
heard him
clearly
. “I thought you said
we brought a
spirit.”
“I did,”
Batter
s
bee
replied bluntly.
“We brought a spirit with us?” I asked,
wondering
if the man was senile. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, I kin see him. Out ova
thea.” H
e pointed with a nod of his chin
toward
my bike. “He’s hazy…but he’s thea.”
I stared in the direction he’d motioned to
,
but I only saw an overgrown fence ending at the roadside.
“Who? Who’s
there? I don’t see anyone
.
”
“How should I
know who he is? I neva met ‘im,” he replied,
indignant
ly
.
Battersbee
rocked a bit more and started to describe the figure he saw.
“Tall…dark, wavy hair…limba – or as you Texians say
,” h
e drew out and
pronounced
the last word. “L
imber.”
I
couldn’t avoid the fact
that
his
desc
ription sounded oddly like Eran, sparking my curiosity more.
“I’m not Texan,” I corrected him
,
still staring in the direction he’d motioned
.
The old man laughed to himself
, but sounded s
lightly offended when answering.
“It’s what we call all you that ain’t Cajun.”
I chuckled at that
,
but Battersbee didn’t join me
. Returning
to his original
subject
, I asked,
“Why do you think he’s here?”
Battersbee snorted. “How should I know?”
He ventured on, guessing,
“Sometimes thea tryin’ to communicate. Sometimes thea just curious. Sometimes thea lookin’ afta someone they know.
Neva
kin
tell…”
A few minutes passed
silently
.
I must have glanced to where
Battersbee
pointed
no less than twenty times.
Never seeing anything, yet
I couldn’t ignore the distinct,
strong
feeling of being watched.
“I
still don’t
see him
,
”
I said, slightly frustrated.
“
Maybe he don’t want
ya
to. N’ if that’s the case,
ya
won’t…
that’s
the way it works.
Communin’ with the dead ain’
t done the same by everyone
all the time
. Different people…
different times…
different ways…
.
”
“So you can commune with the dead?” I asked, watching
his response.
“Used to. No need to now. I’ll see
‘em
all
in a short while anyways.”
“
A short while?
”
Keeping his gaze focused straight ahead, he answered,
“I’ll be dead
soon
.
”
I stopped rocking immediately and sat motionless for what seemed to be an eternity, waiting for him to break into a teasing smile.
H
e
remained calm and
continued rocking
,
as if he
was
just
commenting
on the weather.
I had never seen anyone use such blunt words or emotionless acknowledgment when speaking of their
alleged
, impending death.
It
jolted me
to the core
. “I’m
…I’m very
sorry
,
”
I
offered
, not knowing what else to say.
