Page 1 of Broken Bayou
January 2002
Suzy Weatherton was sick and tired of everyone in this casino yelling “Go Tigers!” LSU won the Sugar Bowl. Big deal. They beat Illinois. Even with her bad knee, she could beat Illinois. If they’d played her alma mater, they’d all be a little quieter. But Suzy knew better than to yell “Roll Tide” in this purple-and-gold crowd.
She reached into the plastic cup of coins in her lap, slid one in the slot, and pulled. She prayed the cherries would line up for her tonight. She’d been here hours already and gotten bupkis. Last week they’d also not been kind. She’d promised herself on the four-hour drive from Houston this would be her last trip. The Louisiana boats might not be as lucky as they advertised. At least theCajun Bellewas permanently connected to the shore. Thanks to the Louisiana loopholes, Suzy wouldn’t have to worry about getting seasick.
She lit another cigarette and motioned for the young waitress, who’d taken her last two drink orders with a smile. She thumbed in another coin. “Come on, baby.” And it hit. Bells started ringing. A light above her slot wailed like a siren. Suzy jumped up, spilling her coins as she clapped.
“Must be your lucky night,” someone next to her said.
Maybe this wouldn’t be her last trip to the boats after all. This jackpot could keep her and her daughter settled for a while and help with the baby on the way. Her first grandbaby.
Suzy left with her winnings and smiled as she made her way out to the parking lot, fumbling for her car key, then dropping it next to the car door. As she bent over, she heard a voice behind her. “Here, let me help you with that.”
Suzy jumped as a flash lit up her face, followed by the sound of an old Polaroid.
Stunned and disoriented, she said, “Did you just take my picture?”
“Say cheese.”
The flash popped again, and that was the last thing Suzy remembered.
Chapter One
Broken Bayou, Louisiana
August 2018
My hand hovers over the inside car-door handle but refuses to open it. Through my windshield, I study a pale brick building whose dirty front window announces boudin is on sale. Its torn awning flaps in the breeze, and above it, chipped cornflower blue letters readSA K ANDSAVEFOODSTORE. You’d think after twenty years they’d have replaced thecin the wordsack, but I guess it sounds the same, so why bother? I wonder if Mr. Bendel is still behind the register inside. If the smell of Virginia Slims still permeates every wall. If the back door still leads to the alley where one could easily escape when shoplifting.
Yesterday, as the incessant notifications started on my phone, this trip seemed like a good idea. Now, though, after sneaking out of my Fort Worth high-rise like a thief, carrying a duffel bag full of pencil skirts and blouses way too formal for this sleepy little bayou town, I seem to have lost my momentum.
Blistering afternoon sun blasts through the windshield. I crank up the AC.
My eyes dart to the large coffee thermos in the seat next to me and, propped beside it, the letter with its creamy paper and crisp typed words from the law office of LaSalle, LaSalle, and Landry. Wings flutter in my chest. I stared at that letter for weeks, ever since my mother handed itto me. Throwing it away and digging it out of the trash several times. A letter notifying us some of my mother’s things were found in the attic of my great-aunts’ old house, Shadow Bluff. Things we may want to come get. Things left behind years ago. Forgotten. On purpose.
Then that television interview happened, and responding to the letter seemed like a better option than staying in Fort Worth. I don’t want to take a chance that a certain object in that attic falls into the wrong hands.
I kill the engine. I’m going in. I’ll get what I need for the few days I’m here: some snacks, a wheelbarrow full of Community Coffee, maybe some wine. That’s it. Except that won’t be it. Not here. Someone will remember me. Once I walk in there, the whole town will know Krystal Lynn Watters’s eldest daughter is back, and she may have fancy clothes and be a big deal back in Texas, but in Louisiana, she’s still the sad, messy-haired little girl who always tried to return everything her mama stole, clutching her little sister’s hand like she might float away. People in small towns don’t forget. They also ask questions. Questions like, Why’d you stop visiting Broken Bayou? Why didn’t you come to your great-aunts’ funerals? Why’d y’all skip town so fast that last summer you were here?
I take a deep breath and open the car door. The heat of a thousand suns smacks into me. Hotter than Texas. Despite the ground looking painfully dry, the air is wet with humidity. I wouldn’t be surprised if the people who live down here have adapted by growing gills. The air smells of the salty gulf, of my past. Even though I’ve only crossed one state line, I feel like I need a passport to be here.
My skin tingles under my long sleeves. Sweat rolls down my back. A tailored suit with a jacket may not have been the best clothing choice for this ... errand. But this is the wardrobe I’ve grown accustomed to. The complete opposite of Krystal Lynn’s tube tops, bell-bottomed jeans, and bright plastic bangles. I saw what that wardrobe would get you and hauled ass in the opposite direction.
My cell dings as I slam the car door shut. Somewhere on the long bridge over the Atchafalaya Basin, I thought it’d be a good idea to turn my ringer back on. Part punishment for my stupidity, part motivation to keep driving.
It dings again. And again. Finally, I look. New notifications. Trending now: #1 Entertainment, Dr. Willa Watters,Fort Worth Live, hashtag honestly hot. A reality TV star from Dallas had retweetedtheclip and tagged me, hashtag put me on your couch. A sour taste fills my mouth. But comments like that will wither on the vine soon enough. It’s the comments about my emotional stability that have the acid in my stomach building.
Dropping my cell in my tote, I teeter across the crumbling parking lot on my heels. I earned a full ride at Baylor, trudged through five years of grad school, and defended a dissertation on spectrum children being integrated into a traditional school setting. I wrote a damn book. I helm a successful podcast, for God’s sake. And now I’m being reduced to entertainment and hashtags on social media while working up the courage to shop in a Sack and Save.
I stop just as I’m about to open the store’s glass door. Something catches my eye, parked on the far end of the lot. My hand slips off the door handle. My pulse quickens. A white news van, off by itself. It’s not for you, I tell myself as I rub my sweaty palm on my jacket. Stay focused. In and out. No big deal.
As Krystal Lynn would say, time to cowgirl up.
Inside the store, I keep my head down, grab a cart, and start heading for the closest aisle.
“Well, forevermore, look what the cat dragged in.”
Four seconds through the front door, and a woman in a denim tent of a dress and a gray permed head works her way from behind the checkout counter. That must be a record.
