Page 17 of Broken Bayou
Travis and I both look up as an elderly lady approaches our table. Her white cotton candy hair perches on top of her small head. I picture her wrapping that hair in toilet paper at night like Pearl and Petunia used to do so it’dkeepuntil the next beauty parlor appointment.
I nod at her.
“I’m Ermine Taylor, darlin’.”
“Ermine!” I jump up from the table.
She wraps her little bird arms around me and whispers in my ear. “You sweet angel. Bless your heart.”
I hear pity in her voice. Ermine’s been watching more than just the local news. She’s been watching YouTube, and from the looks we’re getting around the room, she’s not the only one.
Ermine took her daddy’s bait shop and turned it into a business that actually thrived in this town. She offered hot food, cold beer, and easy conversation. And she bucked every stereotype about a Black woman owning a business in the South. Ermine Taylor had been a force to be reckoned with, and from the steely gaze in her dark eyes, she still is.
I smile at the woman who became like a second mother to me over the years. Her store and her hugs something I looked forward to every summer. Then, like so many other things in this town, I’d let her fade away too.
“I ... I ...” I stumble over my words. “I should have kept in touch.”
She waves a hand in front of her. “Water under the bridge, honey. Tell me, how’s your mama?”
Again, that question. And again, I answer, “She’s fine.”
Ermine looks at me like I’m a lost puppy. She pats my arm and tells me to come by Taylor’s Marketplace if I’m in town for a while. I promise I will.
A few of the other ladies are up now that Ermine led the charge. They surround me in a huddle of hugs and sugary perfume, going on about how good it is to see me and how much they miss the Aunts. I don’t recognize most of them as they say their names in one continuous stream. June, Lydia, Barb, Sally. They ask questions all at once about living in a big city and how Mama’s getting along and why I haven’t been back sooner, all in slow rolling accents that sound more Brooklyn than southern gulf. The Yat dialect, as it’s called in New Orleans.
I answer the gaggle in front of me in order: wonderful, just fine, working too hard. None broach the topic ofFort Worth Live, but I seetheir sparkling curiosity behind their smiles. What they wouldn’t give to have me sit at their table and replay that tale. Then Travis saves me.
“Ladies,” he interrupts. “I hate to steal the main attraction, but we have to go.”
“Thank you,” I mouth to him, then turn, and say my goodbyes, leaving with promises to keep in touch, although I have no way to back that up.
Travis pulls out of the parking lot, crosses Main, and parks his truck sideways in front of Ace’s hardware store. The whole process takes less than a minute. I don’t even think he checked for traffic when he crossed the street. Not that he needed to. There’s not a car in sight. It unnerves me a bit. I’ve grown used to city noise, cars, people yelling, airplanes overhead. This town is way too quiet.
“So Ace’s is where we’re going?” I say.
He opens his door. “No. We need to do something about those shoes before our next stop.”
I look down at my kitten heels, but before I can respond, he’s out of the truck and disappearing into Ace’s.
Ned’s Pharmacy is next door, like I remember when I first drove through town. Then my eyes land on the business next to it. The antique store. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something about it still seems familiar.
A woman is out front, sweeping the stoop. Ancient high chairs, crates of old colored bottles, and rustedDIXIEBEERsigns overflow onto the front porch. The woman waves. I wave back. Then a thought hits me. I open my door, glance at Ace’s. Travis is still inside. But for how long?
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman.
She stops sweeping.
“Would you happen to have a VHS player in there?”
The woman shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but you’re welcome to come inside and look.”
I study the glass door behind her. “I’ll stop in later,” I say as I climb back into Travis’s truck.
What is it about that door?
My mouth goes dry. It’s not the door that’s the problem, it’s what used to be on the other side.
A vision of Mama racing into Shadow Bluff, out of breath, one hot, muggy evening flashes in front of me. We’d been in Broken Bayou about a week that last summer, and the Aunts had made it clear we would all sit down for supper at six sharp.
