Page 35 of Broken Bayou
I start a pot of coffee. Charles sets the piece of paper and an envelope on the kitchen table and sits. Charlie sits next to him, his legs dangling.
“Those aunts of yours were quite a hoot,” Charles says.
I turn from the coffeepot with a tall mug. Hoot? Who the hell sayshootanymore? And this guy looks like he’s barely out of law school. But he’s right. The Aunts were a hoot.Hoothappens to be the perfect word for that pair. Twins who dressed like wild flamingos.
“Yes, they were,” I say, sitting at the table.
An awkward silence creeps in, and I grasp for something to say. I see Charles staring at my large thermos, or maybe he’s staring at the strange metal dolls leaning against it.
“Those made by Eddie Arceneaux?” he says.
I nod. “You know them? That family.”
“Everybody does. Eddie’s a good guy stuck in a bad place. I feel sorry for him.”
“What about his brother Doyle?” Now that he brought up this subject, I want to see what he knows.
“Doyle’s ... well, he’s an odd one. He’s had a tough go too. Local kids call him Doyle the Boil on account of that complexion of his, but he’s mostly harmless. He did some odd jobs for your aunts off and on.” Charles leans in and whispers, as if Charlie can’t hear, “He’s been incarcerated before, but he’s clean now.” He leans back, clears his throat. “But I didn’t come by to gossip. I came by to see if you found your mother’s things. Our receptionist said you called, needing an attic key, so I brought one with me.” He takes it from the small white envelope and slides it across the table.
I don’t bother to tell him I already let myself in with a flathead screwdriver and a hammer. Besides, he could have left the key with the note under my wiper, but he didn’t. He’s here for another reason, and I wonder how long it will take him to get to it.
“I got in,” I say. “And I’m happy to pay for any damages to the frame.”
“Damages? Oh, well, okay then.” When I don’t elaborate, he says, “Do you need any help getting her stuff down? You’ve got two of us here to help.”
“No, thank you.” Another silence settles over the kitchen. “Would you like some more coffee?” I say.
“No. I’m good,” Charles says.
I look at Charlie. “Wouldyoulike some coffee?”
Charlie doesn’t giggle. He looks past me with a dull, blank stare. Listening is what I do best. But sometimes it’s what I don’t hear that gives me the most pause. And I haven’t heard a word from little Charlie.
“What can I get you, Charlie?” I ask, studying him, trying to place how I know him.
Charles answers for him. “He doesn’t talk much. Well, at all. He doesn’t have his mother’s gift for gab.” He laughs, nervously. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?” He tousles Charlie’s hair, but Charlie stays unresponsive.
“How old is he?”
“Just turned three last weekend.”
“Happy birthday,” I say to Charlie, who still hasn’t made eye contact with me, then to Charles, “Does he make any sounds at all? Has his hearing been tested?” I smile. “Sorry. This is my field, so I sometimes overstep.”
“No, it’s okay.” Charles shifts in his chair, fiddles with his bow tie. “I think my wife saw you at Johnette’s store the other day.”
The boy at the Sack and Save. “Yes, she did.”
“When she described the woman who helped her, I put two and two together.”
This is why Charles is here. In person. With his son. And when I add little Charlie’s behavior from today to the behavior I witnessed at the store, the picture becomes even clearer.
“His hearing is fine,” Charles adds, glancing at Charlie. “Our friends say it’s probably a speech delay. That’s all.”
Charlie needs someone to speak on his behalf. This is not a speech delay.
“Charles,” I say in my professional tone. “Friends mean well, but they don’t always know what’s best. Do you want my opinion?” He nods, and I’m surprised by the amount of relief I feel. Despite my inappropriate behavior on live television, someone out there still trusts me.
As if reading my mind, he says, “For what it’s worth, Dr. Watters, I don’t think what you did on that TV show was that big of a deal. So I’d appreciate any advice you can give me.”
