Part 23 (1/2)

I couldn't disagree with him. I spent another hard-earned quarter calling Ranson. She said she'd do what she could.

I left messages on both Danny's and Cordelia's answering machines, saying hi and that I was fine. Cliched, but adequate. Then I called the hospital. Still no change.

The next day a messenger brought me a package from Ranson. It contained an invitation to the Krewe of Nemesis Ball for M. Knight and escort. Ranson had enclosed a note saying, ”Will this do?” It would be a private affair, but there would be too many diverse law enforcement officials there for even a rabid rat like Milo to try anything. It would mean going out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation one more time and * 156 *

seeing my bosom buddy Karen Holloway, but it seemed a good idea for Frankie.

I found a pay phone and called Frankie and told him to get his dancing shoes ready for Sat.u.r.day. He agreed. We discussed his wearing the dress and me the tails, but decided that it would have to wait for another ball. Torbin agreed to lend me a suitable dress, but warned me to find my own shoes. I got Frankie's measurements to rent a set of tails for him.

I wasn't going to go over to Torbin's until Sat.u.r.day, much as I would have liked to. Torbin is a great way to pa.s.s time, but I didn't want the risk, however small, of someone following me there.

I prowled my way through the week taking care of the other case that had shown up on my doorstep-tracking down a missing eight-foot dragon's rump from a Mardi Gras float. Why is it that I get the tail end of everything?

Finally, on Thursday, I decided to do something boring and practical and all too necessary. Get my car fixed. There was a garage here in town that my car was inordinately fond of visiting, but I decided, for financial reasons, to avoid the high overhead of city rents and taxes.

Azalea Decheaux's oldest son had a garage out in Bayou St.

Jack's. It seemed reasonable and practical to go out there and get him to fix my car.

These were the reasons I kept repeating to myself as I drove out of the city. Also, I told myself, I might try to find out where Ben was and how he was doing. And to visit my ghosts, but I didn't let myself dwell on that.

I drove down the narrow road through the browns and muted green leaves of winter. The trees had always come to the edge of the pavement, but now they seemed smaller, less dense than in my memories. They were the same, but I had grown taller, tall enough to peer over the jumble of gra.s.s and weeds that had met the face of the child.

The sign for Bayou St. Jack's appeared. It had only been put up in the last five years, but looked much older, bitten and buffeted by salt winds from the Gulf and the boredom of small boys with BB guns.

My dad had told me that no one was sure how Bayou St. Jack's got its name. He'd wink and say, ”Us Cajuns know it's supposed to be Bayou St. Jacques, but the d.a.m.ned Americans can't speak French, so * 157 *

they ended up calling it Jack's. Of course,” he would continue, ”they say we were just so friendly that we wouldn't stand for any formality, so we nicknamed St. John, St. Jack.” I wondered if there was any truth in either version.

I didn't head into town, the whole block and a half of it, but instead took the turn out to the s.h.i.+pyard. Just to make sure everything was all right, I told myself.

I saw a figure walking beside the dirt road. He wore a Navy peacoat and black pants. Then I realized there was something familiar in the way he walked. He was going to the s.h.i.+pyard; he had to be if he was traveling down this road. I had to know if I had recognized something or if I was seeing ghosts from my past.

I caught up to him, then pa.s.sed with a seemingly casual glance in his direction. If he wasn't who I thought he was, I would drive on by.

”Ben,” I called, slowing the car as I caught up with him.

He turned to see who it was, looking for a moment like he might run, a man unsure of his welcome.

I stopped and got out. I hadn't seen him in twenty years. It looked like forty had pa.s.sed for him. His hair, once a thick black, was now thinning and streaked with iron gray. The lines I remembered as softly etched on his face were deep, wide channels; his eyes were uncertain, almost haunted.

”I'm sorry, I don't know you,” he said, starting to walk away.

”Ben,” I repeated. I was shocked to notice that I was taller and stronger. To the child it had never seemed possible that I would look down on those broad shoulders that used to carry me around my dad's s.h.i.+pyard. ”It's me. Michele. Little Micky.”

His eyes seemed to cloud in thought, then catch focus, his face breaking out in the wide grin that hadn't changed. ”Micky! d.a.m.n, girl, you bigger 'n I am now. You look great.”

I had known that he was in prison. I had visited him there after I had turned eighteen and Aunt Greta could no longer control my life.

But we lost track of each other after I had left for college and he had gotten out.

”What are you doing here?” he asked in the soft accents of the bayou.

Visiting the same graves that you are, Ben. But I didn't say that.

Instead I replied, ”My car needs to be looked at. I trust the mechanics * 158 *

out here more than I do the ones in the city. Hop in. I'll give you a ride.”

I got back in, reached over and unlocked the door. He got in, stowing a small satchel between his legs. There was an awkward silence.

”You still keep up with folks out here?” he finally asked.

”Some. Not that much,” I answered. ”I live in the city now,” I continued, to avoid another awkward silence. The truth was that I did my best to see as few people out here as possible, always imagining their pointing fingers and hushed whispers of ”illegitimate” and ”accident”

behind my back. ”I kept up with the Decheauxes for a while until Mrs.

Decheaux died. Her son runs a garage and is a good mechanic. And the Claytons,” I rambled on. ”Do you know them?”

”They new?” Ben asked.

”Naw,” I said, letting my accent broaden to match his. ”They own the bait shop down the bayou.”

”Oh, them Claytons,” Ben said. ”The nigras.”

”Yes, them,” I said carefully. I knew I would have to say something, but I was caught, an unsure child about to criticize an adult. ”I went to college with their oldest daughter, Danielle. She's one of my best friends,” I answered, indirectly confronting him.

”Yeah, well, that's nice. I don't know 'em too well,” Ben replied.

I turned into the s.h.i.+pyard. Ben got out and opened the gate, like he had so many times for my dad. The action, the face seemed so familiar, yet so out of place. How many years had it been since I had watched Ben Beaugez open that gate? He got back in and I drove to the cleared area near the dock.

”I could look at your car, you know. I know a few things 'bout engines,” Ben said as he opened his door.

”You don't have to,” I answered, getting out.

”Naw, it's okay. I'm real used to fixin' things 'round this place.”

I propped open the hood for him, and he started looking at the motor.

”I used to fix my bike, but that's as far as I ever got mechanically,”

I said. I was talking to fill time and s.p.a.ce, to fill the emptiness made by all the people who should have been here with us, but weren't.

”I might fix this if I had some tools,” he said.

”I can get some. I still have all of Dad's tools. I'll be back in a * 159 *

second.” I was glad of a task, glad not to have to think of something to say that didn't have anything to do with the real reasons we were here.

I walked purposefully over to what had been Dad's workshop.