Page 37 of Broken Bayou
She’s silent a moment, then says, “And you know what happened to it.”
“Part of it.” I swallow. “But there’s another part, isn’t there?”
Images of Mama that night with her swollen eye and cut lip flash in my head. Then it hits me. The empty safe I’d seen years ago when I went back to get the security tape. The stack of cash in the glove box as we left town. I had neatly tucked those two things into separate compartments and buried each deep in my subconscious. Putting them together now shows the full picture, and it doesn’t take a wall of diplomas to figure out what that picture looks like. No more tiptoeing around.
“What’d you steal, Mama?”
“Well, that’s a fine how do you do.”
I rub my face a little too hard. “I remember you saying your boss that summer was some kind of hotshot, paid you cash. My guess is he had a lot of cash in that office.” Sweat worms down my back. “Why’d you ask me to get rid of the car?” My voice cracks around the question. A blue jay darts from one of the limbs and alights atop another. Thewind ceases. The moss hangs limp. But my heart is racing as I force out my next two words. “Answer me.”
“Listen, sweet girl, I got no answers for you.” Mama hacks into the receiver, and I hold it away from my ear for a moment. I hear her shallow breaths as she speaks. “Just come home, Willamena. That place is bad news.”
“They found the car, Mama.”
“What? Who?”
“The police. The divers that they brought in. That car’s not in the bayou anymore. It’s in a police impound.”
A long silence follows. I let that knowledge sink in for her. Give her a moment to gather herself and finally tell me the truth.
She clears her throat. “Well, that’s good,” she says. “Maybe I’ll finally get my insurance money.”
And she hangs up.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from her. I’d learned years ago to stop expecting anything, but I needed to start a conversation with her about that car. And even though we didn’t finish it, I have a feeling I know someone who might be able to fill in the gaps.
Chapter Eleven
No little silver bell rings when I open the door to Taylor’s Marketplace. The air inside is cool and smells of old wood and pan-fried burgers. Other than the missing bell, Taylor’s looks a lot like I remember. Warped wood floors, short shelves stacked with dry goods, homemade jellies, and canned vegetables. All sharing space with a bait shop full of live crickets, worms, and leeches. I’m not sure how the health department works down here, but I can’t imagine a place like this in Fort Worth.
In the back sits a long counter with a grill behind it and a hovering scent of cigarette smoke. This place is less crowded than Nan’s, but there’s still a buzz in the air coming from the patrons sitting at the back counter. Ermine Taylor stands behind the cash register, which looks exactly like the one I used when I worked here years ago.
She glances up. “Willamena, you came by.” She moves around the counter faster than I expect and wraps me in a hug. Then pulls back and studies my starched white shirt and pants. Her gaze stops at my feet.
I glance down at the orange boots. They’re starting to grow on me. And they’re much more comfortable than the heels I’d packed.
Ermine keeps her southern manners in check and says, “Don’t you look good. Can I get you some breakfast?” She clasps her shriveled hand around my wrist and pulls me toward another counter containing bagels, muffins, and wrapped biscuit sandwiches. In front of it all sits a huge, fat jar filled with a green liquid and floating pale chunks. Thesign next to it,PICKLEDPIGS’ FEET. I cringe and point to the biscuits. She pulls one out and hands it to me. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Large.”
I follow her to the back counter and sit while she grabs a pot, a mug, creamer, and sugar.
“Here you go, sweetie,” she says, pouring. She sits next to me and stares, shakes her head. “Except for those fancy-dancy clothes, you look exactly the same.”
I don’t, but I nod. “So do you.”
“How’s your mama?”
I don’t tell her she asked me this already at the diner. It’s the first question people seem to ask in the South. Hell, it’s the first question I asked Travis.Hanging in thereorfineorgreatare all the appropriate answers. Like the answer I gave her at Nan’s. But she’s staring at me with a look that says she knows good and well she asked me this question already, and this time she wants the truth.
“Mama is ...” I sigh. “Still complicated.”
Ermine nods. “Fair enough. And you? How’re you?”
Her small hand touches my arm, and without warning, my eyes sting. I look down into my coffee, swallow the lump in the back of my throat, push aside the memories trying to escape. If Ermine’s soft touch is that much of a trigger, I need to be careful about how many trips I make to this store. I look up. “I’m fine.”
A man with a white beard at the end of the counter lifts his head above the small group of men beside him and says, “Ms. Ermine, Scooter Rees called me this morning. Said they called him to bring his tow truck back to the bayou just after sunrise. I bet they found something.”
