Page 50 of Broken Bayou
“This place is beautiful,” she says. “And thankfully air-conditioned.” She laughs, but I keep walking in silence.
When I reach the kitchen and scan the room, I realize my mistake. The license plate is still propped on the counter next to Eddie’s dolls. I turn to redirect Rita back to the front of the house, but she’s already moved around me and pulled out a chair at the table. Her eyes dart around the room as she sits, and I’m sure she’s seen the plate, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
I pour us each a coffee, setting hers in front of her with the creamer and sugar. I sit opposite her and run my hands through my knotted hair.
“Thanks for letting me in,” she says.
I nod, look down at my chipped nails, then back to her polished ones. I exhale what little energy I have left. “I’m not sure I’m up for a long visit.”
She plucks a cell phone from her purse and sets it on the table. “I won’t be long. I promise.” She points to her phone. “I’d like to record this. Make sure nothing gets misconstrued.” She straightens her narrow shoulders. “At any point, you can sayoff the record.”
“Off the record.”
She squares her shoulders, her long red fingernail hovering over the record button. I stay silent. She stays silent. Finally, I exhale and lean back in the chair. She wins.
“Fine. This can be on the record.” Then I add, “To start.”
She presses record. “Please state your full name.”
“Dr. Willamena Pearl Watters.”
She looks down at her phone. “Broken Bayou interview. August nineteenth, 2018.”
I gasp. “Today is August nineteenth?”
Rita looks up. “Is that a problem?”
A memory flashes so hot and bright in my mind that I want to shield my eyes from it. Mama flitting into the upstairs bedroom at Shadow Bluff, holding a lopsided chocolate cake with at least two tubs of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting sliding off it onto the giant silver serving platter. Seventeen bright candles burned on top. “Happy birthday, darlin’.” She pointed an acrylic nail at another candle off by itself. “One to grow on.” Mama popped her hip out to the side. “Now, hurry up and make a wish before my arms fall off.”
A soft hand touches mine. Rita clears her throat. I blink, shake my head. “You know what. Now may not be the best time for me after all.”
Rita pauses the recording. She drums her nails on the table, then sighs. She shows me her phone screen, exits out of the recording, and drops it back in her purse.
“I think you and I have more in common than you know. Two southern girls who made right, despite having the odds stacked against them. We both deal in media, just different aspects of it. We’ve both been accused of sleeping with a man in order to advance our careers.”
I think of Christopher and the rumors. “I—”
She holds up a hand. “I know it’s bullshit.” She leans onto the table and adds, “And who cares if it isn’t. See, what I care about is a good story. When I saw you the other morning in that shitty diner, I knew I had one.” She straightens again. Her eyes dart to the license plate on the counter, then back to me. “You’ve definitely got a story.”
“Yes, I do.” I’m too tired to argue with her, and I’m way past needing to practice what I preach. Honest healing isn’t as easy as I make it sound in my book or on my podcast.
Rita says, “That was your mother’s convertible, wasn’t it?”
Instead of answering, I clear my throat and force myself to sit up straighter.
“I’ve done my homework, Dr. Watters.”
“And what has that homework revealed?”
“That many years ago, a man named Zeke Johnson bought a red convertible and gave it to a woman who worked for him. That a few weeks later, Zeke went missing.” I keep my face neutral, but my insides twist into a knot. My breathing quickens. I have to get her out of this kitchen. Rita continues, “Not a huge shock to most people who knew him. He was a bookie and running bets through his business. He was into all kinds of things. Some people even claim he had connections to the Marcello family in New Orleans, but my guess is he started that rumor.”
“I don’t know ... I think ... maybe we should do this later.”
She continues as if I’ve said nothing. “I’m pretty sure Zeke disappeared that summer because he got busted running drugs through his office.”
Tell her to leave, I prod myself.
“Hope your mom wasn’t hung up in all that.”
