Not in La Cachette.
Delphine yells something in our direction. A Creole word. And the twins stand up. So I stand up, too. “We have to go,” Sera says.
“Thanks for sharing these with me,” I tell them.
Sera studies me for a second, then she asks, “You really don’t feel her at all?” The question throws me for a loop. I’m not ready to tell them about those flashes I’ve been having, so I shake my head. The twins stare at me with two identical sets of amber-colored eyes.
“Your mama had deep power,” Sera starts. “Manman says –”
Delphine yells at them again. “Asteur!” And that word I know. It means now.
Sera yells back that they’re coming, then Sander hugs me goodbye and Sera leans close to whisper in my ear. “There’s bound to be some magic in you, Grey. You need to know that.”
Then the two of them hurry across to the dock and into the boat. That leaves me staring at the drawing in my hand and wondering what Sera meant. About my mother.
And about me.
Honey calls me in for dinner, so I fold up the sketch and slip it into my back pocket. She’s made my favorite. Fried catfish with dirty rice. Homemade pralines for dessert. Sweet-N- Low sits between our chairs, drooling in a puddle and hoping someone will drop something. And it all tastes like heaven, but I can’t enjoy the feast. Because I keep thinking about that big black trunk.
As soon as I help Honey clear the plates, I make an excuse to get away. It’s starting to get dark when I slip out the kitchen door and follow the short bit of boardwalk that leads to the little storage shed out back. It’s low tide, and I can smell the sickly sweet odor of exposed mud and rot.
The door to the shed is never locked – none of the doors in La Cachette are ever locked – so it opens right up when I turn the knob. There’s a bare light bulb in the ceiling, but when I pull the string, nothing happens. It must be burned out.
I should’ve grabbed a flashlight. The sun isn’t all the way down yet, but there are no windows in the shed, so that just leaves the last of the grey light coming in the open door to see by.
I push my way through the junk and the cobwebs toward the back of the shed. The light is fading fast, and I can barely make out the writing on the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder high.
CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS
CAMPING GEAR
OUIJA BOARDS
You know. The kind of stuff everybody keeps in storage.
I move the boxes one by one until I can see behind them, to the spot where the trunk should be. And I’m not surprised when it isn’t there.
“You huntin’ somethin’？” A deep voice echoes in the almost-dark just as a shape moves into the open doorway, blocking out the dying light.
I whirl around fast, knocking over one of the boxes and sending Christmas ornaments spilling across the dusty floor.
The shape in the doorway is huge and silhouetted against that little bit of light from outside, so I can’t make out any facial features. There’s just an empty nothingness.
étranger. The stranger.
I take a step backward, pressing myself into the boxes behind me. Then there’s a flash of light. The smell of sulfur. A glimpse of dark red hair.
Case holds the lit match up near his face, and the featureless monster disappears.
He takes a step toward me, and that’s when I notice what he’s holding in one hand. It’s a long pole with four barbed prongs on the end. Sharp. Deadly. A frog gig. They’re illegal, but some people down here still use them for hunting in the shallows.
“Heard you was home,” he says. Then he looks around the shed and repeats his question. “Lookin’ for somethin’？” His eyes sweep the floor, searching the shadowy corners.
“No,” I lie. “Just putting something away. For Honey.” I bend down and scoop up the scattered ornaments. I don’t know why my hands are shaking.
Case is my friend.
The match goes out, and we’re left in the dark again.
“Case,” I say, and I try to make my voice sound even. Calm. But he doesn’t let me finish.
“I didn’t do it, Grey. Whatever dey told you I done – whatever Hart said – I never laid a goddamn hand on Elora.” There’s something hurt in his voice. Something real. Something that reminds me I’ve known Case my whole life. “Shit. I know ya know dat.” I hear his Cajun accent bleeding through. Rough as he can be, Case always sounds like music when he talks. There’s a long pause, then, “Jesus, Grey. I loved ’er.”