Page 59 of Broken Bayou
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, spit it out already.”
“You need to clean up, Krystal Lynn,” Petunia said. “This is why those girls don’t have a daddy.”
I studied Mama as she fished a cigarette from her robe pocket, lit it, and blew smoke into Petunia’s face. No one mentioned our father. Ever.
“Of course,” Petunia said, “you’re just like her. Your mama was just as troubled as you are.”
Mama’s face hardened. This is another topic we never discussed, our grandmother, my aunts’ sister. From the look on Mama’s face, it was going to stay that way.
Pearl scowled. “If you don’t watch out, someone’s gonna take these girls from you.”
“That right?” Mama said. “You wanna take ’em? Go ahead.” She swirled her cigarette around. “You can have ’em.” Mama laughed.
Mabry whimpered and looked at me with wide eyes.
I studied Mama. If she ended up like her mother, did that mean I’d end up like mine? Something hard in my stomach said there was no way I’d let that happen. “We’ll be fine,” I said to the Aunts.
Mama stopped laughing. Mabry tried to crawl into her lap, but Mama pushed her away.
“We need a car,” I said to Mama.
“What happened to that fancy red car?” Pearl said.
“Got rid of it,” Mama said, never breaking my gaze.
“Go get us a car,” I said. “Now.”
I exhale, turn away from my reflection in the kitchen window, and head upstairs. I can’t stay in this house, waiting for Travis to call. There are too many things to think about here. I need to move. And there’s someone I want to talk to.
Upstairs, I start to brush my hair, then realize how long it’s been since I washed it. It’s time to clean up. I shower, work leave-in conditioner through my hair, then detangle it, pulling a little harder than I should. When I’m done, I hop out, brush my teeth, and slide on the ugly orange boots. I forgo the silk shirts, though, for the wrinkled and stained T-shirt. Where I’m going, no one will give a shit what I’m wearing. Then I spot the VCR. The police station. I’m heading there after my stop. I glance down at my outfit. They won’t give a shit, either, as long as I take them what they need. I grab my tote, checking to make sure the tape is still in it.
In my car, I open my phone and search a name until I find the address. Not that I really need it. Even though I’ve only been there a couple of times, I know exactly where it is.
I wait in front of Ace’s Hardware until they open. I run inside, grab what I need, then pull back onto Main and follow my GPS to a potholed dirt road on the north side of town. It winds through dense woods until it dead-ends into a rutted dirt driveway. I stop and kill the engine.
The Arceneauxes’ house is a sagging heap of bricks. A blue tarp covers part of the roof, and old cars in different states of disrepair fill the yard. Trash and weeds fight for dominance. Off to one side sits a grassyarea covered in large pieces of playground equipment, sand piles, and discarded tools, and I remember Travis telling me Doyle’s job involved building playground equipment for schools. Next to the equipment is a dilapidated shed that looks like a metal shop, a place Eddie could make his little metal dolls. I slide my car into park and stare at the dark house in front of me. This could be a stupid mistake, but I can’t get the brothers off my mind. I debate again if I should have called Travis. But it’s a little late for that now. I’m here. I need to follow my momentum.
The curtains on the front window move slightly. I make out the outline of a face before it disappears. They know I’m here.
My boots crunch across the dead, dry grass on my way to the front door. I pull the screen door open and knock. Nothing. I wait, knock again. The front door creaks open, and a waft of cigarette smoke assaults me. I pull back and stare at the tall thin woman in front of me. Her hair is stringy with sections of her pink scalp showing through.
“Mrs. Arceneaux?”
She inhales through withered, pale lips, exhales. “Yeah.” She ashes her brown cigarette onto the floor. “Who are you?”
“My name is Dr. Willa Watters.”
“We don’t need no doctor.”
She starts to shut the door, and I prop my foot against it. “I’m a ... friend of Travis’s. I wondered if I could talk to you and to Eddie?”
“No,” she says and slams the door in my face.
A crow caws in the distance. I stare at the front door. Decision time. I can keep pestering these people and run the risk of having the cops called on me, which is definitely not the path I need to pursue. Or I can back off this porch and go back to Shadow Bluff and mind my own damn business.
“I want to talk about your daughter,” I yell. Decision made. “I want to talk about Emily.”
The door remains shut. I tell myself I’ll count to twenty slowly, then I’ll leave, but my mouth and brain seem to have disconnected. I yell, “I’m not leaving!” I give up trying to convince myself I’m going to doanything that resembles sane. My phone buzzes in my tote. I check the number. Mama’s doctor. The front door opens again. I send the call to voicemail and look up, but Mrs. Arceneaux isn’t standing there; Eddie is. His eyes are as dim as the space behind him. He moves his large frame away from the door, and I take this as an invitation to come in.
