Page 44 of Poison Wood
“I like to plan.”
Normally those are words that describe me, too, but something is shifting in me, an old restlessness that leans more into winging it than planning.
“I won’t be here for dinner,” I say, having no idea if that is true or not.
“Okay then. Will you be here to feed the dogs later, or will I need to come back?”
“You’ll need to come back,” I say. “I’m going to the hospital too. Then I’m going to Natchitoches.” I don’t clarify why I’m going to Natchitoches.
“Huh,” she says. She walks to the oven and takes out a cookie sheet filled with homemade biscuits. She sets it on a hot pad on the counter and while they are cooling starts digging in the cabinets for something.
“You’re not going to upset him?” she says with her back to me.
I stop mid-sip. “No. I’m not going to upset him.”
She stands, and her knees pop. “It’s just. His blood pressure was a little elevated after your visit yesterday.”
She walks back to the biscuits and places several in a tea towel then places it in the large plastic container she found. When the lid clicks into place, she looks up at me.
“What are you saying, Debby?”
“I’m saying, I don’t want him upset. This is a very delicate time for him. The doctor said he has to avoid stress.”
“Good luck with that right now,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “All this news about ... that girl. It’s too much. And when you’re there, he doesn’t have a choice but to think about it.”
I don’t tell her he’s probably thinking about it whether I’m there or not. Instead I say, “I’ll wait to go see him.” I cringe inwardly as I say it. It sounds like I’m being selfless. Like I’m making a sacrifice. But the truth is I’m relieved I don’t have to revisit that hospital. And that relief hurts more than the pain in my head.
Her shoulders drop. “Thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, I back out into the snow, and the wipers come on as I start out of the driveway. The tires slide a little, but I turn the wheel into the slide and correct it. Snow is not common here, but it’s not unheard of either. Dad taught me to drive when I was twelve. He gave me the keys to the old farm truck and took me out in the field and let me go. The first time it snowed after that, he woke me up and handed the keys to me. “But school’s canceled,” I moaned. “All the more reason to get up and really learn something. I can teach you more than school.” I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and into the truck. We drove up and down the slick road that runs past our land. Several times I almost landed us in the ditch, but my father remained calm, telling me how to correct, not overcorrect. “Overcorrecting will get you in trouble,” he said. “Know your limits. Stay within them.”
Advice I’m ignoring in more ways than one as I slide out onto the empty two-lane road adjacent to the property gate. I take it slow, get back to the correct lane, and hold the wheel tight.
The world down here is quiet on a normal day, even more so under a thin blanket of snow. Not the worst idea since the people who live here are more familiar with heat than cold and half an inch of snow predicted was probably enough to send residents scrambling for supplies yesterday. No doubt the bread aisle is empty at the grocery store.
I take my time getting to the interstate entrance. As I approach I-49, giant orange-and-white blockades announce the north entrance is closed, that section of the interstate mostly a bridge. The south entrance, though, is open. And that’s the only one I need.
Fifty minutes later, I take the exit I took yesterday, ignoring the burning jet fuel in my stomach. I tell myself it’s the lack of food, notthe fact that I basically lied to my boss and that I’m starting to think my father’s heart attack might actually work to my advantage.
I exit the interstate in Natchitoches and pull into a gas station to fill up the truck. There’s a line out the door next to a sign that saysbreakfast served twenty-four hours. Whoever said don’t buy food where you buy gas never visited a Louisiana gas station.
I punch in the address to the press conference I saw on the notification. It’s not at the police department. It’s at the city council meeting chamber. It’s still cold here but not nearly as cold as it was at home. And the roads are dry, so the GPS says it will take me six minutes to get there.
Too early. I’ve got some time to kill.
I finish pumping the gas and get on the road again, crossing back over the interstate and into the town. After two more turns, I spot my destination. I park next to Lasyone’s again, but I walk down the street to the next block toward a small house with green shutters, narrow Greek revival columns, and a green sign that readsNatchitoches Historic Foundation.
The inside looks like a tidy Southern home, with hardwood floors and toile drapes on the transom windows and a small Christmas tree decorated not with Christmas but with a ghastly combination of Valentine’s Day and Mardi Gras. Purple, gold, and green beaded necklaces share space with red and pink feathers and fake candy hearts. Nothing quite like dueling holidays.
A short woman with spiky blond hair peeks out from one of the rooms.
“I thought I heard someone out here.” She wipes her hands on her jeans. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Rita Meade. I’m here for the news conference later this morning, but I wanted to stop in here first. I’m hoping to attend your meeting today.”
She nods. “Mm-hmm. That meeting’s been postponed. Ms. Tandy said it will be too much for one day.”
