Page 117 of Poison Wood
She meets my gaze. “I know, hon. That’s why I’m crying.”
“I understand,” I say.
She pulls back and scratches at the base of the giant bun on top of her head. “I’ve had to hold it together for your dad. Be strong. For him. For you.” Another tear falls. “And now I feel I can let go a little. Maybe go back to volunteering again at the therapeutic riding center down the road. You know? Something ... normal.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I say.
She takes my hand. “You can let go a little, too, Rita. You might need to.”
I smile and nod and climb behind the wheel before she can say one more word about letting go.
That is the last thing I need to do right now.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Natchitoches, Louisiana
Monday, February 18, 2019
10:32 a.m. CST
Natchitoches is normally a quiet town even on a busy day. But not today. Today it is a busy town on a busy day.
The cobblestoned Front Street is packed with parked cars and news vans. The only thing still moving slowly is Cane River.
As I walk along the sidewalk opposite the river, I sense the energy has shifted in this town just as it did in Broken Bayou, an electric current crackling in the humid air.
The media are going to clog the streets and the cafés. They’re going to stop into the quaint gift shops, not to purchase items but to ask questions. I know this because I’ve done it. And I’m about to do it again.
A chime sounds when I enter Oui Oui, an oddly named gift shop filled with country French housewares and French classical music. Dishes, tea towels, candles, and jewelry cover the tops of antique tables and fill antique armoires. Oushak rugs litter the floor. This place is curated within an inch of its life.
A girl in her twenties with dark hair and dark eyes emerges from behind a curtain in the back. “Let me know if you need any help,” she says.
“Just looking,” I say. She’s too young. I need to talk to someone who’s been around long enough to remember Poison Wood. I browse the items and pick up a candle labeledMagnoliaand smell it. It smells like gardenias, like Debby’s perfume. A peace offering wouldn’t be the worst idea. I take it to the counter and purchase it for her.
Back on the sidewalk, I spot something I didn’t even realize I was looking for. A bar, the Stray Cat. It’s nestled in between a deli and a law office, and a small neon sign saysOpen. Of course it’s open. Liquor stores have drive-thru options in Louisiana, and bars rarely close. I’ll bet this one, like the ones in South Louisiana, have hurricane parties in late summer when the storms start building in the Gulf.
Inside, the bar is dark and a horrible country song about tequila serenades the smattering of patrons. A few men dot the place, but I don’t see any other women. A pool table sits in the back, abandoned.
Perfect. I don’t want to talk to people who go to bars at night. I want to talk to the day drinkers. They have better stories to tell.
A bartender with a wiry gray beard approaches me with a look that says he knows I’m trouble. “What can I get ya?” he says.
“How about an old-fashioned? Twelve-year-old Macallan.”
“Lady, the only thing that’s twelve years old in this place is the bar nuts.”
I give him a smile. “Whatever you have is fine.”
I take my drink to a small wooden table off by itself. I don’t need to be joining the day drinkers, but I also don’t want to stand out any more than I already do. I take a small sip of what could possibly be the worst, most watered-down bourbon I’ve ever tasted. I could shoot the whole glass and not get drunk. Which is good. Drunk at eleven in the morning is not a good look.
I sip and observe, waiting to find the one. The one who looks like a talker.
Even in my baggy sweater and farm coat, I’m getting stares. I wish I’d put on a suit. At least then I’d feel more in my element. In these clothes I feel like an amateur.
That word opens up a memory of a job interview I had ten years ago when I was cocky and hadn’t learned that with men, sometimes it paid to be demure, even if you were just faking it. Rick Stone frommy current station’s affiliate in Los Angeles was interviewing me for a piece on up-and-coming female crime reporters. He made the mistake of asking me if I was grateful for that opportunity.
“Are you grateful, Rick, for the opportunity to interview me?”
