Page 23 of Broken Bayou
“Where’s the old station wagon?”
“I traded that piece of shit in. It was on its last leg anyway.”
“Does this car even have a back seat?”
“Of course it does.” Mama scanned the inside. “Kind of.”
“You can’t afford to buy Mabry colored pencils, but you can afford that?”
“Well, sugar girl, colored pencils can’t drive us to the grocery store, can they?”
Mama sauntered onto the porch, fanning her face, speaking with a soupy accent she didn’t normally have. “I’mma need some lemonade, y’all.”
As she passed us, I noticed a smudge of purple high on her cheek. At first, I thought it was makeup, but one thing Krystal Lynn never messed up was her makeup, not ever.
“What’s that?” Mabry asked, pointing.
Mama’s long fingernails hovered over her cheek. “Nothing, baby girl. Mama just ran into a door at work is all.” And she flitted into Shadow Bluff without a care in the world.
My heart thumps in irregular beats. Travis pulls off Main onto the lane leading to Shadow Bluff.
“Travis,” I say. “I think we need to talk.”
He turns into the driveway and stops in front of the porch. It feels like we’ve been gone for days.
He finally looks at me. “Don’t worry about the car.”
I can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but his voice sounds earnest, not angry. “I’m a little worried.” I inhale a long breath and let it out.
My hands start to shake. Travis lowers his sunglasses. His expression matches mine. On edge. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No. This is my mess.” One of many, I think. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Chief Wilson. I’m the one who dumped the damn thing in the bayou all those years ago.”
He lowers his chin like he’s dealing with a petulant child.
“No one will know you were with me,” I add quickly. There, it’s said. There’s no dancing around it anymore.
“I wasn’t with you,” he says.
“True, but you were close by. And you knew what I was up to.”
“Because you came to my house and asked me for help.” His tone has changed. The frustration in it is palpable. I wonder if it’s geared toward me or himself. Probably both. And I don’t blame him. I was young. And, despite thinking otherwise at the time, so naive.
“I’m sorry, Travis.”
His dash radio squawks, and he slides his sunglasses back on. “I have to go. Look, Willa, I’ll help you figure out a way to handle this.” I open the car door. He adds, “Just don’t say anything yet. My job is all I have. I don’t want anything or anyone to jeopardize that.”
“I understand.” And I do understand. Vulnerability starts when you have something to lose. And I have something to lose as well. But I have no idea what taking care of it will look like. Do I tell the police the same story Mama told me all those years ago? That she wanted me to dump that car for insurance money.
I may have been able to convince myself money was the reason then—a crime, yes, but one I could eventually make right, justifiable because of my age—but now that I’m back here, now that I’ve seen the car, I’m starting to understand insurance fraud could have been just another one of Mama’s many lies. I certainly don’t remember us ever receiving a check. I do, however, remember a large stack of cash in the glove box of our old car the day we left town. Insurance companies don’t operate that fast, and they don’t pay cash.
I stop my thoughts from going any further. I need to stay present, in control.
I look at Travis and say again, “I’m sorry.” Knowing that my career hangs in the balance based on my stupid actions makes me sick to my stomach. If Travis had done something years ago that could jeopardize it, I’d be furious. But these days, I’m the only one jeopardizing what I’ve accomplished.
He nods but keeps his gaze forward. “I’ll try to come by at some point. And, Willa,” he adds. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I climb down from the truck and watch as Travis leaves in a cloud of dust.
