Page 23
Sprawled beside me on the truck’s bench is a map of Louisiana that I bought at the welcome center, where the clerk made a point to inform me he hadn’t sold one in almost a decade. Unfortunately, I had to let my phone lapse after Russ passed, otherwise I’d be like every other human being who doesn’t bother with paper maps anymore. Russ never used a cellphone, always said they were nothing but a means for the government to spy, so it was from him that I learned how to read a physical map.
A light on my dashboard flickers, indicating I have about five more miles before the truck is out of gas, and thankfully, the next sign I pass marks an exit with a gas station two miles off the highway.
Jesus. I’ll only just make it.
Warm humid air breezes through the open window of the truck, the damp heat of early summer settling over my skin in a sheen of sweat. A far cry from the cooler temperatures I grew accustomed to for this time of year while living in the north. Damn the broken air conditioner in this tired rust-bucket. Almost suffocating.
I turn off the exit, onto a two-lane highway that’s flanked by twisted trees with Spanish moss dripping from their branches. A strange familiarity nestles deep in my bones, bristling when I pull into an ancient-looking gas station, with a faded sign and chipping paint on its exterior. Only two pumps stand out in front, neither one of them resembling the modern variety, with a credit card reader. A bell rings out, as I steer the truck alongside one of the pumps, but thankfully, no one comes out to greet me. Another truck, newer than mine, is parked alongside the building, and two older men lean against it, talking. Tingles flare across my neck, and I tuck the knife that Russ gave me into my calf-high leather hunting boots and tug down the ripped-up jean shorts that barely reach mid-thigh.
The air is stagnant when I hop out of the truck, feeling the stares of those men on me all the while. Uncapping the tank with one hand, I reach for the pump with the other, and the moment my hand makes contact, an unbidden clip of memory flickers on inside my head.
Daddy, can I pump the gas?
I recoil at the visual, drawing my hand away from the pump, and glance up to the faded sign propped at the road. Benny’s. Shaking it off, I slide the pump into the truck, and twist to find the men staring back at me. Neither friendly, nor threatening. Just staring.
I crook my ankle just enough to feel the blade press against my skin, a comfort in this place where I don’t know a single soul. The sun’s heat blazes through those clouds overhead, and I run my arm over my forehead, wiping away the sweat trickling down my temples. Minutes later, the pump clicks, and after hanging it up, I stride across the lot to the small building.
The inside is cramped, but the cool air is a blessing while I scan over shelves of groceries for a restroom. Not spying the sign inside, I grab a couple of Cokes, a gallon of water, and a few bags of chips, then head for the checkout.
“I’ve got forty on pump two,” I say, setting down the food onto a counter cluttered with useless trinkets and candy. “You got a bathroom?”
“Side of the building.” The thick Louisiana accent reverberates in some long-forgotten memory locked inside my head. “Lock’s broke.”
Of course it is.
She takes her time ringing me up, not that I mind, because it’s longer I get to stay in the air conditioning. On the wall across from me is a corkboard covered in missing persons. So many of them, they’re hanging off the edges and dangling by pushpins.
All women.
The most recent date, from what I can see, is just three days ago, and I study the picture of the woman, about my age, with mid-length brown hair and dark eyes. A bright smile stares back at me that morphs into a terrified scream echoing inside my head, as I imagine her horrific end. I clamp my eyes on a gasp to shut it up and tune it out. Happens sometimes, when I look at people. I don’t even know who the screams belong to, but they’re so real and vivid. So loud inside my head that it pounds against my skull like a drum.
“Forty-seven twenty-two.” The clerk’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see her tapping a pink, painted nail against the counter.
Waiting on me now.
After leaving the cash, I exit the store and dump the bags into the truck. The men are still there when I make my way toward the bathroom, and just as before, I focus my attention on the blade tucked inside my boot. Tension winds inside my muscles, the closer I get to these men, my mind spinning with the image of that missing girl’s face. So many of those girls, it’s a wonder this place isn’t on some Dateline show.
“Bonjour,” one of the men says as I pass him, tipping his head in greeting. His accent is Cajun, which, I understand, is more common for the mainlanders than those from Chevalier Isle, who speak what’s known as Valir.
After a bit of reading, I learned that, back when Chevalier Isle was first settled in by the Cajuns who moved there from the mainland, they were referred to as Les Chevaliers which essentially translates to The Knights. Refusing to call a bunch of farmers something so noble, the mainlanders eventually referred to them as Les Valiers, which over time, became known as Valirs. The language is a sub-dialect of Cajun, sharing many of the same words, but it’s the pronunciation of them that seems to be a distinguishing factor. That, and it apparently incorporates more European French, from what I’ve read.
Not that I’d know the difference, since I can’t speak a lick of it.
With a quick nod toward the man who greeted me, I duck into the restroom and flip the light on. Toying with the knob fails to release the stiff lock that keeps it from closing entirely, and I huff in frustration, seriously pondering the idea of dropping trou somewhere alongside the road instead of here. At least I wouldn’t hear conversation while I try to relieve myself.
The bathroom itself is clean and quaint and smells like disinfectant, which is nice. Ears piqued, I do my business as quickly as I can, keeping my eyes fixed through the crack in the door for any peeping Toms. A brief wash of my hands, and I wet some paper towels in the cool water to drag across the sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. Outside the door, the men keep on with their chatter, and I nod once more as I pass, on my way to the truck.
I don’t know when my distrust of people began, really. If it was always there, or just became more pronounced the older I got and began to notice the stares. At home, they tended to be rife with animosity, while here, they seem more curious. Wary, maybe.
Or welcoming, and I’ve just become too jaded to know what a friendly gesture looks like these days.
Once back at my truck, I fire up the engine and head out to the highway. A few miles off stands the Veilleux Bridge that connects Chevalier Isle to the mainland. Only about two miles long, it’s not quite as lengthy as the Mackinac Bridge back at home, but it’s vertical height and the slight curve of it makes the thing look like a treacherous rollercoaster hill.
The island, shrouded in mystery, prides itself on the number of tourists that visit for its beaches and Festival des Morts that happens every summer. A carnival that, I’ve read, is a cross between Mardi Gras and Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Rich in its own Valir culture, the island’s dark folklore has always given me the impression of a southern French Transylvania, darkly enchanting, and the locals are said to be friendly, if not a little strange for their beliefs in the spectral and macabre. This island alone boasts more ghost stories than all of Louisiana combined.
And I’m one of them.
Every steel deck panel that passes beneath my wheels feels like the clink of the track, and a thrill winds in my stomach while I drive across. At either side, Veilleux Bay stretches out into the Gulf in a bird-speckled, endless blue horizon, and with the height of the bridge, it’s almost as if I’m flying over it. For as long as I can remember, the ocean has always been a fascination of mine. It’s creatures, unfathomable depths, and mystery, call to me like a siren, and I would give anything to, one day, sail the open sea.
