Читать книгу Ancient Inheritance - Rita Vetere - Страница 12

Chapter 7

Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana – Present Day

Always an early riser, Alan made his way downstairs, following the aroma of freshly percolated coffee. Morning sunlight poured into the bright expanse of the kitchen through the room’s large, East-facing windows, creating fat stripes of light on the wide-planked floor. On the far wall, the home’s original brick fireplace spanned the entire width of the room, giving it a rustic atmosphere. Evangeline had laid out a platter of fruit and a basket containing freshly baked biscuits, still warm, on the long, wooden kitchen table.

Always one step ahead of him, she had timed the coffee so it would be hot and strong just as he arrived downstairs. He poured himself a steaming mug, helped himself to a couple of her biscuits, and headed for his favorite breakfast spot.

From the kitchen, which was in the back of the house, he traveled along the wide center hallway past the double parlor on his left and the dining room and library on his right. He stepped out the main door onto the expansive porch that fronted the entire louver-windowed main floor.

The Louisiana humidity was already playing hell with his arthritis, and the day had just begun. He set the plate of biscuits and the steaming mug on a side table, smoothed down the stubborn wisps of his snow-white hair, and lowered his aching body onto one of the cushioned wicker rocking chairs arranged along the gallery.

The fragrant scent of crepe myrtle reached him from the gardens beyond the west corner of the house. He bit into a still-warm biscuit and sipped his coffee. When the biscuits were gone, he removed the cigarette from his shirt pocket where he’d tucked it before coming downstairs. He’d quit smoking many times over the years, but the craving had never left him completely. He still indulged in the habit occasionally. After lighting up, he settled back in the rocker to enjoy his smoke in the quiet of the early morning.

He had grown to love the place he now called home, and he thought again of how much he owed to Evangeline. None of it would have been possible without her help. He closed his eyes, remembering the day she had taken them in almost thirty years ago.

* * * *

Louisiana, October 1980

Late on the morning following his escape from Chicago, Alan crossed the Louisiana border. The past twenty-four hours were nothing more than a jumbled blur.

Catherine had noticed blood on his clothes and it frightened her. He’d pulled over to change his shirt but, even afterwards, she’d continued to cry for most of the previous afternoon and evening. Finally, exhausted and unable to shed any more tears, she’d fallen asleep. He stopped once more to lay her in the back seat and cover her up. Then he’d driven all night along the back roads, heading south. The images of his dead wife and daughter haunted him more and more with every mile he put behind him.

Finding Catherine had spurred him to action. Had he remained in the field, it would have jeopardized everything. As he drove into the black night, he found he was too numb to care. When it began to pour, the swishing sound of the wipers and rain drumming on the car roof sounded like a death march, background music to the nightmarish movie playing over and over in his head.

It was not until the sun came up the next morning that some semblance of sanity returned to him. Catherine woke early after a fitful night’s sleep and began to cry when she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings. He stopped at a Denny’s when they crossed over into Louisiana to try to get some food into the child. She barely touched her favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, however, and drank only a little of her milk.

“Where’s mommy, Grandy? I want mommy,” she said in a small quivering voice. “And Nanna.” Her rosebud lips trembled.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Consumed with guilt, Alan stroked the child’s hair, and was instantly reminded of Kate. Catherine was the part of his wife and daughter that had survived, he told himself. He would die before he let any harm come to her. “I’m here and I’m going to take care of you, I promise.”

The little girl stared silently at her grandfather. A transition began, the only way her young mind could deal with the fact that her mother might not be coming back. She started the process of forgetting, of burying the memory of waking up in the car alone and the sight of her grandfather’s frightened face.

The blank look on her face tugged at his heart, although he was relieved she had stopped crying. The poor child just looked worn out. He would have to find a permanent stop, and soon.

By five o’clock that afternoon, having driven a fair way past Houma, he was ready to collapse. He had to pull over. Turning onto a dirt road, he brought the car to a stop under a large oak tree and hoped it would not be noticed by any nosy passersby. Catherine had fallen asleep again, her tiny face as white as a ghost’s. He put his head back, closing his eyes to rest a few moments before carrying on.

* * * *

On the highway bordering the bayou, Evangeline Mercier rolled along in her new Valiant, humming a chorus of the closing hymn as she headed home from Sunday afternoon Mass which, in the small town of Marécage Noir, was held at four o’clock. She loved her hymns and she loved driving her new car, so she was in fine spirits as she turned onto the dusty road leading to her house. At fifty-two, Evangeline was still a handsome woman, tall and slim. One would not describe her as pretty; hers were more the strong good looks a woman could carry with her well into old age. She lived alone in a neat, one-story house outside the tiny bayou town of Marécage Noir, where she had moved with Henry after they married, and where she had remained after Henry passed away twelve years ago. Evangeline, who hailed from Acadia, had thought about moving back there when Henry passed on but, after some contemplation of the matter, decided to stay on in the little house they had shared.

Perhaps because the Priest had mentioned Martin Luther King during the sermon, her thoughts lingered on the turbulent years of the sixties when, as an adolescent living with her mother, brother and grandmother in a clapboard house just outside of Crowley, she had remained insulated from much of the social unrest that had swept the country. For the most part, she’d been too preoccupied adjusting to her own circumstances.

Evangeline had what her grandmother used to call ‘second sight,’ and it was in 1965 that her gift had first manifested itself. It was an event forever seared into her memory. She had been eleven years old on the September day that had changed her life forever. As she drove along, she recalled that morning and how it had started out like any other.

The air had felt stagnant and heavy, thick with humidity, as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen. The moss draping the trees outside the kitchen window hung motionless as Evangeline joined her mother, grandmother, and seven-year-old brother, Claude, in a breakfast of corn-meal mush, what her mother used to call ‘coush-coush.’ From the transistor radio on the windowsill, the only place it could pick up decent reception, a blues tune, ‘Canal Street’ or ‘Dusty Road’ maybe, played in the background as she took her place at the table.

Claude nattered on excitedly about the field trip to Lafayette he was to attend with his class. Evangeline, busy daydreaming about Charlie Robetaille, the boy who sat next to her in school and on whom she had a terrible crush, paid little attention to her brother’s conversation. Then Claude said something about his teacher, nasty old Mrs. Semple, that made her laugh and she turned to him to say something. The moment she looked at Claude, something terrible happened. A dark and menacing sensation gripped her. In her mind’s eye, she saw her little brother lying dead in a coffin. She began to shake uncontrollably, trembling all over, unable to stop, even after the image receded. Her mother turned from her conversation with her grandmother to look at Evangeline, who had suddenly burst into tears.

“Evangeline, what’s wrong?” her mother asked.

“Don’t let him go, maman,” she cried. “Something bad will happen. Please, maman, don’t let him.”

Her mother gave her a strange look, but her grandmother, who had always sensed something different about the girl, became uneasy.

“Perhaps it would be best if the boy stayed back,” she speculated.

Her mother, a superstitious soul, had tried to persuade Claude to stay home. But Claude, being Claude, knew how to get around maman. “I’m not sick,” he said. “Why do I have to stay home?” Evangeline watched as her mother tried to come up with a satisfactory answer. When she didn’t, Claude came out with “Well, if I’m not sick and I have to stay home, then I’ll stay home tomorrow, too.” Ultimately, maman relented, not wanting to encourage the boy’s tendency to play truant, although admonishing him to take extra care.

Evangeline turned out to be the one who stayed home that day. Plagued with a terrible headache, she could not go to school. Early in the afternoon, when the call came that Claude had perished under the wheels of a truck, her mother fainted on the spot and had to be carried to her room, where she remained for days, refusing to come out even to attend Claude’s funeral.

Her mother never got over Claude’s death, and Evangeline never forgot the brutal lesson. The ability she possessed carried with it an onerous responsibility.

And so, after her husband passed away, Evangeline had remained on in Marécage Noir, the only reason being that she ‘sensed’ she was supposed to. Something, she felt, remained as yet undone here. Nothing in the past twelve years had given her an indication that this was the case, but she remained anyway, knowing whatever it was would reveal itself in its own good time.

As she turned onto the road leading to her house, she spotted a car parked off to the side under a large oak. Her window was down and she heard the faint cry of a child. In the back seat of the parked car, a small dark-haired girl stood facing the rear window, tears streaming down her face. The man behind the wheel appeared to be asleep.

Evangeline’s radar told her to stop and take a look, so she slowed her car and brought it to a halt in front of the parked Volvo.

She walked to the driver’s window and knocked on it several times before the man behind the wheel jerked awake. “Everything all right here?” she asked. “I heard le petite bébé crying.”

The man appeared frightened. He looked all around before taking the child into the front seat with him.

Evangeline searched the child’s face for any indication that she was in trouble, but the child clung to the man and did not seem afraid, although she looked pale, and tired.

“Thank you, we’re fine. But my granddaughter and I need to stop for the night. We’ve been driving all day. Do you know of anyplace, someplace quiet, out of the way?”

The look of the man told Evangeline he was in some kind of trouble. His eyes darted around nervously as he spoke. The child was now sitting in his lap, but he kept one hand on the wheel, as if ready to drive off. Evangeline looked again at the pretty, dark-haired little girl, then back at the nicely-dressed man whose worried eyes pleaded with her.

“I’m Evangeline. Live a couple of miles from here. There’s a small town up ahead, Marécage Noir, but no lodging there. You could find someplace to stay the night back in Houma—”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. “Not the city. Is there anyplace else?”

Evangeline looked sharply at the man. “Écoutez. I know nothing about you, but I smell trouble here. Do you run from the law?”

“No,” he responded, “no trouble. At least, not the kind you’re thinking of,” he added lamely.

Evangeline said nothing, studying him. Then she lightly placed her hand on the man’s arm, and closed her eyes, paying no attention when he asked her what she was doing. After a moment, she opened them and looked at Catherine.

“The child looks tired,” she said. “I suppose if you needed to, it would be all right for you and the baby to stay with me. Just for the night, mind. I can get some food into you both and there’s a cot for the girl. You can sleep on the sofa.”

A look of relief crossed the man’s face. “Thank you. Thank you very much. My name is Alan and this is my granddaughter, Catherine.”

Evangeline nodded, noticing he did not give his last name. “Just at the end of this road is where I live,” she told him, returning to her car.

When she was once again behind the wheel, Evangeline considered what had just been shown to her. Her purpose in remaining here was finally clear. Both the little girl and her grandfather were to be protected at all costs.

* * * *

Alan followed Evangeline’s car along the dirt road, wondering if he’d done the right thing. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of options, he reminded himself. Besides, he had a sense the woman could be trusted. At the end of the road sat a neatly-trimmed cottage, backed by towering oak trees and surrounded by a well-tended garden. Evangeline had just exited her car and waited for them to join her. The heat was sweltering as he carried Catherine up the porch steps.

“It’s cooler out here than in the house at this time of day,” she told him. “Something to drink? The child must be thirsty. Ice tea would be all right?”

Alan, who had been trying to place Evangeline’s accent, realized the woman must be of Creole descent. “Perfect, thank you.”

Catherine remained silent, her face buried against Alan’s neck.

He lowered himself into the large porch rocker and settled Catherine on his lap. They were safe for the moment, and he talked softly to her, trying to engage her in conversation, but she kept her face buried in his chest and remained unresponsive.

Soon, Evangeline came back out with a tray containing two tall glasses and a pitcher of ice tea. She had something tucked under her arm and, after she set the tray down, she held it out to Catherine.

“My maman made this doll for me when I was little, like you. Maybe you wish to play with her? Her name is Isabelle.”

Catherine said nothing, but took the little hand-made rag doll from Evangeline to study it.

“I was not expecting company,” she said to Alan. “I can offer you only beans and rice for supper.”

“I’m grateful. And thank you for the doll, that was thoughtful of you.”

Cat slipped off his lap to investigate the porch, carrying the rag doll with her.

Alan knew the woman must have been curious about them, yet she refrained from asking awkward questions, returning inside instead to start dinner.

Later, in the modest but spotless kitchen, Evangeline helped him cajole Catherine into eating a fair portion of the tasty red beans and rice dish that had been set out. Afterwards, he put Catherine to bed on the cot Evangeline had prepared.

“I’ll make up the couch in the front room for you,” she told him. “We can talk tomorrow, after you are rested.”

Good, that’ll give me some time to think up a believable story. To Evangeline, he said, “Yes, of course, and thank you again for taking us in tonight. I appreciate it more than you know.”

Evangeline nodded and left to clean up the kitchen.

The sun had barely gone down when Alan, bone-weary, drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, he arose to the aroma of freshly baked cookies. He sat up with a start and looked around, and then he remembered. The woman, Evangeline, had taken them in for the night. He washed up in the tiny bathroom down the hall and made his way to the kitchen. On the windowsill, a tray of Madeleines had been placed to cool. Two cups were laid out for coffee, which was freshly-made and ready to be poured.

Evangeline sat in a rocking chair by the window, mending a dress and watching the news on TV. She lifted her head as Alan walked in.

He froze as he listened to the serious-faced announcer discussing his life. “Chicago Police are investigating the deaths of three people found slain outside the city on Saturday. Kate Fairfield and her daughter, Erin Caldwell, were found shot to death. Another man found at the scene, Joseph Reggio, was the victim of a stabbing. Missing are Alan Fairfield and his three-year old granddaughter, pictured here. Fairfield, a well-known businessman in the Chicago area, although not a suspect in the slayings, is wanted for questioning by Chicago police. Anyone with information as to their whereabouts is asked to contact—”

To Alan’s relief, Evangeline switched off the television when she noticed him standing frozen in the doorway.

Alan waited. The next thing that came out of her mouth would tell him everything he needed to know.

What she said was, simply, “You have suffered a great loss. I am sorry.”

“Yes.” He felt close to tears again, thinking about Kate and Erin, but swallowed them back.

“You and the child are still in danger.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering how she had arrived at the conclusion. “I need to find a place for us to stay. Somewhere safe.”

After an interminable pause, Evangeline got up to pour him a cup of coffee. She handed it to him. “I can help, perhaps.”

She had turned out to be their savior. It was Evangeline who made discrete arrangements to purchase a run-down plantation house and surrounding acreage under his new identity. She employed the help of a New Orleans lawyer who did not mind dealing in cash, of which Alan had plenty. She had also helped him raise Catherine, thereby allowing him to remain anonymous. It was Evangeline who purchased groceries in the nearby town of Marécage Noir, who had accompanied Cat on her first day of school, who ran errands and cooked for them.

Alan spent the first two years of his exile patiently restoring the old plantation house to its former beauty. Day after day, week after week, the house echoed with the sounds of his labor as he scraped layers of paint from the wood trim, patched up cracks in the plaster walls, sanded and stained the floors, applied fresh paint to each room, and replaced broken windows. The plumbing, he was relieved to find, was sound, although some of the electrical wiring had to be replaced. He repaired the roof and laid new planks on the gallery floor, and dressed the windows with new louvers. After clearing out the overgrowth surrounding the house, he planted a large flower garden in front and a vegetable garden in the back. As a finishing touch, he painted the exterior with fresh white paint and trimmed the louvers in black so the house stood out crisply against the new gardens and lush backdrop of the treed acreage.

When all of the manual labor was finished, he and Evangeline arranged to replace most of the furniture with antiques purchased through a dealer in New Orleans. Then, again with her help, he had arranged for the massive built-in bookcases in the library to be stocked. Little by little he amassed quite an impressive book collection.

The plantation gleamed like a jewel when he was finally finished with the renovations. Only then did he feel confident that it was a fitting place for Catherine to grow up.

After Catherine started school, he spent his time reading or roaming the acreage that comprised his property. When she arrived home, he devoted the rest of his day to her. On weekends, she accompanied him to explore the mysterious sanctuary of the bayou, which lay less than a mile to the south of the house. Occasionally, the two of them would venture out in a small skiff, although he was always careful not to stray very far. It was too easy to get lost in the swamps. Catherine, however, loved the secret places, and if she felt lonely for company other than his, she never showed it.

Over the years, Alan ensured Evangeline was generously compensated and would gladly have handed over everything to her; had, in fact, tried to do just that, but she would have none of it. As he got to know her better, Alan became convinced she accepted his money mostly because she thought his pride would have been wounded if she did not. Her needs, she always told him, were simple. She still returned home each night to her tiny cottage, only a few miles down the road from him, and still drove her Valiant, ‘Old Reliable.’ She was Alan’s only friend. One true friend was all anybody really needed, he thought, remembering Joe.

And so, with Evangeline’s help, Alan had lived in hiding. Although he was more or less a hermit, his prison was a comfortable one, and both Catherine and his secret had remained safe.