Page 15 of Broken Bayou
Travis rolls his eyes. “My dad died a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. He got drunk and fell off the dock, drowned.”
“That’s horrible.” I remember his father. A burly man who watched Travis like a hawk.
“My mom is still out at the house.”
An image of Liv Arceneaux comes to mind, and it’s not a pretty one: of her holed up in their run-down house, staring out the window when Travis would run out to meet me. Although I didn’t go over there much. The Aunts forbade it. I don’t remember much about that house except that it sat tucked into the woods at the north end of town and that I could always see Liv peeking outside. She would have made a good research study in grad school.
“My brothers Doyle and Eddie live with her,” Travis continues. “The rest of my brothers escaped this place. And Emily,” he pauses, swallows. “Emily passed away a long time ago.”
I set my coffee down. Emily. The sister. I’d forgotten all about her. I only met her a couple of times, even with all our trips down. I want to ask him more about his dad and sister, but I can see the sadness in his eyes, so I settle on, “I’m so sorry.”
He nods, sips his coffee.
I point at his outfit. “And how did you end up in law enforcement?”
He laughs. A deep, hefty laugh that brings with it the memory of a boy and a girl and fireworks. “Thought I’d try out life on the other side for a while.”
“A while?”
“Yeah. Till I get bored, and the juvenile delinquent side comes back out.”
I hold my coffee mug up, and he clinks it, grinning. The scar under his eye crinkles. The one I know he got from falling through a glass-top coffee table while wrestling with one of his brothers. But there’s something unspoken in his eyes. It’s in mine too. I hope to God he doesn’t bring it up. I’m not ready for that topic yet.
I glance at the media table again. The Missing poster and the news vans come to mind along with the conversation with my mother theday before. “I saw several news vans yesterday, then the Missing poster at the turn to Shadow Bluff.”
He shakes his head. “The media’s not here for that missing schoolteacher. They’re here for the barrels.”
I sit up straighter. “What barrels?”
His mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”
That bayou is all over the news.I nod.
“Christ.” He rubs his face. “It’s unbelievable.” He pulls his cell phone out.
“Travis?” I say. “What barrels?”
He holds his finger up. “Hang on.” He taps on his phone, then turns it around so I can see the screen. “Watch.” He hits play on the video.
Two newscasters, a bright-eyed woman and a coifed, lean man, from a Baton Rouge affiliate fill the screen. They look very serious as they discuss the drought plaguing the area. Water levels are dangerously low. Crops are dying. People are worried. Down here, the concern is always too much water, not the lack of. For the first time ever, people are praying for a tropical storm. The two anchors look desperately at the meteorologist, who shakes his head and informs them there’s nothing spinning in the gulf, no rain in sight.
I reach for one of the individual liquid creamers on the table and pour it into my cup. When I look back at the screen, the newscasters have switched gears, and the woman says, “Now, Grace Morgan will follow up on that bizarre story out of Broken Bayou. Good morning, Grace.”
I turn up the volume on the side of Travis’s phone.
“Good morning, Sherri. As you can see, I’m here on the banks of Broken Bayou this morning, following up on a story that has some of the folks here quite concerned.”
I lean in.
Grace says, “In a moment, I’m going to talk with Alice and Calvin Boudreaux, the parents of Katharine Boudreaux, the young teacherwho went missing after a night out with friends in New Orleans.” A picture flashes on the screen. The same face I saw on the Missing poster. “The Boudreauxes believe Katharine took a route home that night three weeks ago that would have led her through Broken Bayou. Specifically, over the bridge behind us.” She points to the bridge in the background. A bridge I fished and swam under every summer. And every summer, there was always some story about kids swimming in the bayou and becoming violently ill from swallowing the water. But not Mabry and me. We never got sick. The Aunts said our stomachs must be made of stone. But it wasn’t stone that hardened our insides. We had Krystal Lynn to thank for that.
The reporter continues, “They believe Katharine never made it over that bridge and are pleading with local law enforcement to help in their search. So far, they say, the local police have been less than helpful, undoubtedly due to the other major story in this small town.” Grace straightens. I do as well. “We have new information on the grim story surrounding the barrel, containing human remains, found a few days ago in Broken Bayou.”
“Oh my God.” I hit pause on the screen and look up at Travis. “What the hell?”
