Page 2 of Broken Bayou
Maybe I should have skipped this stop and driven straight to Shadow Bluff.
“Willamena Pearl,” the woman says.
Hearing my full name always makes me cringe. I better live to ninety so I can grow into it.
She wraps her meaty arms around me, then pulls back as if she’s been waiting on me and I’ve finally shown up. I don’t move.
“I mean Dr. Willa, now.” She beams; then her smile falters. “Sugar, it’s Johnette. Johnette Bendel. Mr. Bendel’s my daddy. I used to know the Aunts too.”
I search my memory for this woman but can’t place her. “Of course,” I lie. I smile. “Good to see you.”
“You haven’t changed a bit. Well, ’cept for the highfalutin clothes.” She sizes me up. “You must be scorching in that suit.” I nod, smiling again. I’m needing the wine more than the coffee now. A few patrons mill around us, pretending to look at canned peas and studying a Stove Top stuffing display, but I know they’re listening. They’re always listening.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she adds, her smile faltering.
I swallow. I’m distracted and jittery from the long drive and can’t think of an appropriate response. I settle on “It’s been a long time.”
“Right,” she says. Her smile is gone now, replaced by an irksome smirk. This highfalutin city girl has offended her. I’ve unintentionally told her she’s not important enough to remember.
“How’s your mama?” she says. The glint in her blue eyes tells me this is a prod. Kudos to her. Mama is indeed the best way to taunt me.
“Fine,” I say because answering withShe’s had four falls in three months, two broken hips, a broken collarbone, and COPD and somehow still managed to steal cigarettes from nurses at the Texas Rose Rehabilitation Centerseems a little TMI. Mama’s laundry list of ailments reads like one for an eighty-year-old woman. Not a woman in her late sixties. But Krystal Lynn burned her candle at both ends with such intensity I’m amazed she made it this far. Seventy seems like a lofty goal for her.
“Good. Good,” Johnette says to my one-word answer. “So,” she adds, “what in the world are you doing down here?” Her right eyebrow lifts slightly.
What’s your game, Johnette?
“I’m just in Broken Bayou for a few days to unwind and relax.” It sounds ridiculous even as I say it, but ridiculous has become my new area of expertise.
Johnette tilts her head to one side. “Unwind? Really?”
My shoulders stiffen.
Johnette shrugs. “Odd time to be here, but I guess you might need a place to unwind after that live television interview yesterday. That was something.”
And there it is.
Shit. How has this woman, in this town, seen that? How viral was I? And if Johnette Bendel has seen it, who else has? It doesn’t bode well for my thinking this place would be a social media graveyard.
“Well ...,” I start, then finish with “I better get to my shopping.”
“Okay, sugar, let me know if you can’t find something. I’ll check the back.”
Nothing in her voice tells me she’ll do any such thing.
I push my small cart with a wobbly wheel toward the nearest aisle. Between the squeaky wheel and my absurd heels on the linoleum floor, I’m making quite a ruckus. I pause and look back at the end of the aisle. Johnette is gone, but her words linger in my head. What did she mean it’s an odd time to be here?
“Oh my God!” A woman’s voice booms through the store.
I jump and snap my head in the other direction. The aisle is empty. No one is standing there pointing a finger at me and laughing. I exhale. I’m too jumpy. I need to take my own advice and find a healthy way to navigate my anxiety. The seven-dollar bottle of chardonnay I’m putting in my cart is probably not the best start.
“We’re going to put that back,” a woman shouts in the next aisle over, and a loud, high-pitched scream follows. Definitely a child’s.
Two women round the endcap onto my aisle shaking their heads.
“Spoiled brat,” one whispers.
“He needs a good old-fashioned spanking,” the other replies.
