Page 48 of Broken Bayou
Outside, it’s hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot. And humid to the point I can’t catch my breath. But even with all that water in the atmosphere, it still hasn’t rained. Everything around me looks dry and dusty and shriveled up. The water in that bayou is going to continue to evaporate, and the more it does, the more likely it is something else will surface.
The news vans back out of the lot and turn left onto Main. Before I can think about it, I’m in my car following them, heading east onto Bridge Street, then crossing over the bridge to the opposite side of the bayou from where the car was found. They turn onto an unpaved dirt road. This side of the bayou is wilder, more trees and scrub brush, lessgrass. I park behind the vans. Reporters jump out and hustle to the top of the levee with their camera operators chasing them. I am not in my right mind. I have no business being here. I need to turn around and leave, go back to Shadow Bluff, and try to reach Charles again. But as I slip my car into reverse, I see Rita on top of the levee, motioning for me to come up. My car idles. It’s risky. She knows about the convertible. But she also said information flows both ways. And I need all the information I can get. I put the car in park. No risk, no reward.
As I walk up the levee, Rita leans into her cameraman, hands him her mic, and teeters her way to me on stick-thin heels. Most of the crowd hovers on the opposite side of the bayou from where I’m standing. Only a few people huddle below me, whispering and pointing. Like Nan’s, the levee is much quieter than the last time. No loud conversations. No hum of energy. The tragic circumstances surrounding this bayou are real now. And reality has thrown a wet, heavy blanket over this town.
When Rita reaches me, she holds out a hand. “Dr. Watters.”
I stare at it. Rita stares at me. Even though manners weren’t at the top of Krystal Lynn’s list of things to teach her daughters, I take Rita’s soft hand and shake it.
“Enjoy your breakfast this morning?” she says. When I don’t respond, she adds, “I was serious about what I said at Taylor’s. Anything can be off the record. I just want to talk.”
“What did you mean by ‘information flows both ways’?”
She ignores me, glances over her shoulder, then back to me. “Pretty crazy. Right?”
I stay stoic, nod again. I know to watch what I say with this one. She can spin shit into gold. A modern-day Rumpelstiltskin.
Along the bank, divers dressed from head to toe in black wet suits and carrying large divers’ flashlights slip under the opaque water for brief periods of time, then resurface. Officers try to hold back the press as they try to push forward. All in a weird slow dance that gets them both nowhere.
I look around for Travis. He’s talking to Chief Wilson as the tow truck driver from the other day leans against his now silent truck, smoking.
“Pretty crazy,” I say.
My instincts tell me to wait, that Rita will answer my question. So I don’t fill the silence.
Finally, she says, “Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Dr. Watters. I’m interested in your episode onFort Worth Live, but that’s not all I’m interested in. I’m curious why you’re in this small town at the same time bodies are coming out of the bayou. I’m curious about that old convertible that came out too.” She stares at me with a steady gaze. “I know a lot about that car. Things I think you should know.”
My feet feel as if they are covered in cement. I can’t move. I’m stuck, staring at her, and hoping she hasn’t noticed how difficult it is for me to swallow. What the hell was I thinking?
“Give me a chance, Dr. Watters,” she says. “I’m only asking for one conversation.”
Before I’m able to respond, a loud horn slices through the humid air and cuts Rita short. We whip our heads toward the small boat of divers. The sheriff’s radio crackles. Travis yells, “They got it!”
Rita shoves a card in my hand and in a breathless voice says, “I really do think it’d be good for you to tell your side of the story.” She swivels on her heels and sidesteps back down the levee before I can even begin to respond. I study the card and slip it into my purse. The only story Rita wants to tell is the one that’ll get her the best ratings.
I watch the tow truck driver stomp out his cigarette and fire up his diesel. As the truck backs to the water’s edge, Rita’s cameraman ignites the light on his camera. I can see Rita’s mouth moving as the scene unfolds behind her.
The flat-bottom divers’ boat floats closer to the edge. Two divers come up from the water, take the chains from the tow truck, and disappear again. Just like with the car. But this time when the chains grindforward, something else comes out of the murky water. A large black steel drum barrel.
Barrel number five.
I park in front of Shadow Bluff and leave the engine running. My thoughts slide from Rita’s comment about that car back to Mama. All of it revolves around her. It always has. If the soaps had been her sun, Mama had been ours, a hot ball of fire pulling my sister and me along in her orbit. My aunts did what they could to help us, but a few months in the summer wasn’t enough to combat Mama’s gravitational pull. Even though I became successful and self-reliant, the threads tying me to Mama are tough and harder to break than I realized. And they’re no longer buried deep. Here they’re exposed, like the roots on the old oaks surrounding me, twisted and gnarled and easy to trip on.
I turn off the car and check my cell. I’ve missed a call from Charles LaSalle. Shit. I punch his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Then my phone rings. It’s Amy. I consider not answering, then decide avoidance isn’t going to do me any favors. I need to know what’s going on at home.
“Hey,” I say, stepping out of the car.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wow. I only said one word.”
“And that’s all it took. What’s up? You on your way home?”
I ignore her last question as I head for the porch. “I’m thinking about all this stuff with Christopher is all. Have you heard anything?”
“The rumors about him being married have died down. His divorce papers are a matter of public record. You were right. He was divorced a year before you went to work with him.”
I exhale. “At least that’s some good news.” I climb the porch steps. “But the attack on my competency is still gnawing at me.”
