The Drought (16 page)

She rubbed the cigarette against the wall and let the butt drop to the ground. “I imagine what you lookin’ for cahnt be found in a book.” She turned to go through the back door and beckoned for him to follow her. “Come inside. Eat.” She winked. “I know you don’ have lunch.”

Inside, the temperature defied human tolerance. Along the back wall there were vats of barbeque boiling. A small black girl with her hair pulled back in a red kerchief stood on a chair and used a giant wooden paddle to stir one of the pots.

Narried called out, pointing to a pot smoking heavily, “Celeste, don’ you let that pork burn.”

Giggling, Celeste called back, “No ma’am, I won’t.”

They walked away from the hot kitchen toward the stock room. Behind them a chair scraped across the floor as Celeste changed her position over the boiling pots.

A small table sat between the large racks of restaurant supplies. Narried settled herself in a chair and he joined her at the table. Sweat pooled under his shirt and along his collarbone. His face glistened. While he was mopping the sweat from his brow, Celeste appeared carrying a plate of red beans and rice and a glass of iced tea. He could have kissed her. The girl scampered away to tend to her boiling pots.

Narried offered, “That’s my granddaughter. Her daddy’s in de kitchen.” She settled back in her chair, looking him over, sizing him up.

He felt like a prize pig at the state fair. He half expected her to start poking at his ribs to see how much meat he had on his bones.

“I use ta know your gran’mother.” The word grandmother rolled off her tongue, the last syllable hanging in the humid air. She paused to sip her own tea, watching him.

Convinced she could read his mind, he fidgeted under the weight of her eyes. Her next words proved him right.

“I imagine, you wonderin' what dat has to do wit’ anyting’?”

He nodded, waiting for her answer.

“Las’ time it was dis hot we was just girls. She circled her finger in the air. “Life a cycle. You find where it comin’ from you know where it goin’.”

He laughed. “That’s what I needed today, more riddles.”

Her smiled widened. “All life a riddle, mon.”

The smile left his face. He leaned forward, this time making eye contact. “If you know the answer to this one I’d be much obliged if you let me in on it.”

The long pause that followed made his heart quicken.
Had she been waiting for him?

It was her turn to lean forward. She tapped his chest with a slender finger. “I wonder if you believe the tales of an ol’ womon?”

“I’ll try.”

“Hmm.” She leaned back in her chair, tracing a finger lightly through the crumbs on the table. “Dat girl who watched over your gran’ mother, you still see her sometime?”

He shook his head in amusement, still amazed at how little was left unknown in a small town. He said “Elise,” in response to the question. An image of a naked thigh flashed through his mind.

She waggled her finger at him. “You watch dis girl, no tellin’…” Her words came to an abrupt halt. She didn’t offer an excuse or try to change the topic. Instead she reached into the mysterious folds of her clothing where slender cigars remained hidden. Her hand reappeared with an envelope. She placed it on the table between them.

“I suspect this goin’ to lead to more questions before it give you any answers.” She gave the packet a brusque tap with the tip of her finger, “I promise Ninon I give it to you if ever the time came you need it.” She pushed the envelope across the small table.

Nathan sat in silence for a moment contemplating the small packet. There were no markings to give any clue as to the contents but he knew whatever was inside was a message from beyond the grave—a message from his grandmother.

Junction, Texas

Maple McManus stood in the predawn light of another day, pulling deeply on a cigarette. She had long since rounded the bend of middle age and was moving comfortably toward old age. If she had learned anything in all her years it was that the Texas skies were rarely kind to ranchers and they made no differentiation between men and women. She could proudly boast she worked the land as hard as any man, and each craggy line that marked her face corroborated her words.

A small radio sat on her kitchen table and through the static she could hear a monotone voice discussing pig futures, the price of grain and the relentless heat. She didn’t need a specialist to tell her about the weather, or the precarious future that loomed just down the road for the ranchers in this area. She’d seen it all before, recognized the signs and knew a drought was coming long before anyone started using the word.

She opened the screen door and threw down her cigarette, then stubbed it out with the toe of her boot. A gust of wind pulled at the screen door. A fine grit rode the wind and it stung her arm. She rubbed her thumb against her fingertips contemplating the gritty sensation.
Sand.
Worried eyes searched the horizon. How long before the sandstorm hit town? In the distance, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a coyote let out a mournful cry. The pigs, either spooked by the presence of the coyote or sensing the pending storm, stirred restlessly in their pens.

The first drought had gotten so bad, all the grazing land had dried up. Her daddy, always willing to try something new, took the ranch hands out and started burning cactus. They’d spend the day pulling needles out of the burnt cactus, then chop it up and feed it to the cattle. In town, water got so scarce they started selling it by the gallon; at 50 cents, it was more expensive than gasoline.

There were days when she completely understood why her daddy had taken his own life, and other days when she didn’t believe a word of her own eulogy. Strong people just don’t take their own lives. She stepped back into her kitchen and said out loud, “Hugh, what in the hell were you thinking?” As an afterthought she added, “And why did you shoot the best of the herd? I could have used the meat, or at least the money from the sale of the meat.” She laughed. Hugh would have appreciated the sentiment. On a ranch, business always came first.

Piles of dirty dishes were stacked on either side of the sink. She grabbed a coffee mug from the heap, gave it a quick rinse beneath the tap, and poured herself a cup of coffee from the stained pot. By the time they had found Hugh out in the field, he and the dead cattle were baking in the late afternoon sun and had attracted quite a swarm of flies. The meat wasn’t salvageable. After taking care of Hugh’s body, she had Lionel and Curtis grind up the dead cattle and feed it to the pigs. Today, the next step in the cycle of life was about to take place.

Normally she would wait for November, but this heat wasn’t going to give. She had a sense for that, just like her daddy. The pigs were just another thing that needed water. They needed a place to keep themselves clean. She knew before long there wasn’t going to be any extra water to spray into the pigpen. The last thing she needed was a case of Swine Fever to deal with, and unclean pigs sooner or later ended up infected. Better to do it now and smoke the meat than to wait and lose them all.

Outside, Lionel’s truck pulled into the yard. Clamping another cigarette between her lips, she stood up ready to slaughter the pigs.

Reserve, Louisiana

Nathan did not open the packet immediately. There was no way of knowing what news it would bring; bad or good he was not willing to have it sprung on him in a public place. He left the diner through the back exit the way he had come.

Agador was waiting for him at home, his thick tail thumping from side to side. Nathan walked him outside. After the dog relieved himself he looked out toward the trees, whined and looked back at Nathan. “Not this time. Come on in and keep an old man company.” Agador dropped his head and returned to the house like a sulking teenager.

While a pot of coffee brewed he sat down at the kitchen table and once again contemplated the packet. Unable to put it off for another minute he slid a butter knife down the seam and opened the envelope. Folded neatly inside, yellow with age, were clippings from the River Review newspaper. It was not what he had expected. He had prepared himself for a long letter from his grandmother. Skimming the contents, he quickly thumbed through the seven articles.

-

Missing Girl Found in Woods.

By Joseph Hammond

July 7, 1954

Edgard—Anna Christine disappeared on June 27, 1954. Her body was found five days later, buried in the woods near Oak Lane drive in Edgard.

* * *

Another Child Goes Missing.

By Joseph Hammond

July 28, 1954

Gramercy—Geneva Bordelon was first reported missing on July 15th. A massive manhunt by officers in several local agencies discovered her body in a ravine near Gramercy.

* * *

Girl Brutally Mutilated

By Joseph Hammond

August 1, 1954

Lutcher—Authorities today released details on the death of Margaret Menard. The 8 year-old was brutally mutilated and strangled to death.

* * *

Where is Francois Joseph?

By Joseph Hammond

August 12, 1954

Reserve—Francois Joseph, 10 went missing on his way home from a friend’s house on August 6th. Authorities believe the missing boy might be the fourth child in a string of recent child murders.

* * *

Girl Found in Cemetery

By Joseph Hammond

September 9, 1954

Reserve—The body of Catherine Lewis, 9 was discovered in Saint John’s cemetery early yesterday morning. Adelle Lewis, the girl’s mother, said it was not uncommon for Catherine to cut through the cemetery on her way home from town. She was reported missing on August 30th.

* * *

Child’s Body Found Near Levee

By Joseph Hammond

October 20, 1954

La Place—The Sheriff’s department confirmed today the mutilated body of a child found near the levee was Robert Parquet age 10.

* * *

Seventh Child Found Mutilated!

By Joseph Hammond

November 5, 1954

Reserve—The mutilated remains of Harriet Landrieu were found in late October in a ravine off Route 61.This is the seventh in a string of tragic murders that has rocked the St. James Parish.

Nathan flipped the papers over expecting a note of some kind as way of explanation. There was nothing. Not even an underlined word to send him in the right direction. The murders were not a surprise. As a child he had been exposed to rumors and ghost stories about the murdered children, half told to keep a new generation of children out of the woods and close to home.

The thing he couldn’t come to terms with was why his grandmother had left him the articles and more importantly why Narried had decided now was the time to give him the packet. Standing, he stretched and switched off the pot. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the room, triggering a memory of the first time he’d seen his grandmother out of sorts.

It was getting dark and he was late for supper so he cut through the woods coming home from Todd Beaumont’s house. He’d gotten lost. When he’d finally made it home the smell coming from the kitchen was burnt coffee. His grandmother had gone out looking for him. When she came through the door and saw him waiting at the table there was a mixture of raw pain and relief on her face. She grabbed the front of his shirt, gave him a hard shake and said, “I don’t want you in the woods after dark. You hear? You want the tonton macoute to get you? Do you?”

Tonton macoute was the Haitian word for boogeyman. It was also the name given to Papa Doc Duvalier’s secret police in Haiti, a brutal force known to come and take people in the middle of the night. He understood how fear and superstition became intertwined, people disappeared without explanation all the time. It didn’t matter who or what was doing the taking, the grieving process was the same. But in his line of work he learned long ago the most heinous acts were committed by humans.