Lost in the Bayou
by
Cornell DeVille
An Imprint of
Musa Publishing
Lost
in the Bayou
by Cornell DeVille
Copyright © Cornell DeVille,
2011
Smashwords Edition
…
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
…
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood
Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130
…
Published by Musa Publishing, December 2011
…
This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61937-930-5
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Meredith MacLeod
Cover Design: Lisa Dovichi
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
To
my family and friends
who have been with me on this
journey.
You know who you are.
To the publisher, editors, and
designers
who transformed a dream into a reality.
And especially to you, dear
reader,
for whom it was created.
A Word of Warning
If you’re ever in Louisiana, stay away from the bayou. And especially avoid a place known as the Voodoo Swamp.
People disappear in there.
It’s hidden deep inside the bayou, beyond the fork in the creek where the limbless cypress stands, and on the far side of Skullhaven Lake. Once you enter that dark and mysterious area, you can become hopelessly lost. The landscape is unchanging. Cypress trees rise from the water, their moss-draped limbs beckoning like ghoulish arms in ragged shrouds. Sounds of unseen things fly into your ears from every direction. The humidity soaks you from the moment you enter, and the invisible stench of death and decay hangs heavy in the air as a silent reminder not to linger.
At twilight, a ghostly blanket of fog rolls in. It covers the stagnant water and hides the quicksand pools that patiently await the unsuspecting visitor. As twilight fades, an inky veil of darkness descends and paints everything in its shadowy evening attire. That’s when the night creatures slither out of their hiding places. Watching. Waiting. Their razor-sharp teeth and long, thick claws ready to rip you open in a heartbeat and devour you within a few minutes.
But something even more deadly is lurking. If your path leads you into the Voodoo Swamp after nightfall, and if the snakes don’t get you first, you may have the great misfortune of encountering Fabien Laveau. A descendant of the legendary Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, Fabien mysteriously disappeared from the Baton Rouge Psychiatric Hospital in 1956.
It’s been seven years since his escape, and it’s rumored that he’s still hiding deep in the bayou. Some say whatever is lurking there is nothing but Fabien’s ghost, a spirit with no more substance than the mist that floats through the air on a summer’s eve. Others disagree. Those who really know aren’t talking.
If you’re ever in Louisiana, stay away from the bayou—especially the Voodoo Swamp.
You may not come out alive.
Chapter One—The Dead Bird
The Bayou—A week ago
Something is wrong.
The steady drone of the Lycoming engine has changed. The pilot shoves the mixture control handle forward to the full rich position. The motor responds with a cough and a few sputters before belching out a loud backfire and a cloud of black smoke. Then silence as the propeller slows to a stop.
With insufficient airspeed, the Piper Cherokee stalls. The nose drops. Five hundred feet above the swampy bayou, the aircraft rolls over and goes into a graveyard spiral, gaining speed as it descends. Seconds later, the water explodes from the plane’s impact as the twilight sky is filled with the feathered thunder of fluttering wings.
The bones in the pilot’s right forearm snap in two with a brittle crack! But he doesn’t hear it. His head has already crashed into the wheel. On the other side of the cockpit, the passenger lurches forward from the impact while a jagged shard from the windshield speeds toward her forehead.
The plane sinks slowly below the murky surface. A metallic shudder groans through the fuselage as the nose comes to rest on the soft bottom and the ripples head toward the shore. When the movement stops, the only evidence of the event is a few feet of the silver tail remaining above the surface and pointing toward the sky.
From the shadows of the muddy bank, a dark figure glides into the water.
Chapter Two—The Silver Claw
The Sherwood Estate—Monday morning
In Louisiana, summer wraps around you like molasses. Thick and sticky. July is hot and humid. Always. August is worse. And the summer of 1963 has been a record breaker so far.
This morning, the sky is cloudless. It’s muggy, and there’s no hint of a breeze to blow away the pestering flies or the lingering stench of whatever crawled under the porch and died a few days ago. The only possible relief in sight is a dark bank of clouds in the south over the bayou. If it holds together, we may get a storm later tonight to cool things off. I hope so.
The rhythmic buzz of locusts fills the air, but it stops suddenly as a deep rumble comes up the road. My heart races as the sound rolls across the terrace and toward the covered veranda where we’re waiting.
There’s an uncertain look in Andy’s eyes when he glances up at me, and his voice is thin as water when he speaks.
“He’s coming.”
“It’s going to be all right.”
I squeeze my younger brother’s narrow shoulders and give him a reassuring smile while trying to hide my own fear of what’s heading toward us. Since our house is quite a distance from the wrought-iron entrance gates of our estate, we have a minute or so before the car gets here.
When I turn around and glance at my reflection in the window for one final check, the awkward image staring back at me is disappointing, as usual. Being fourteen is frustrating. Honestly. I’m all knees and elbows, and the white dress makes my freckles show up too much. The Toni home permanent made my hair way too kinky. And my eyes are puffy from crying all night.
But I’m stuck with it for now. That’s another bad part about being fourteen: You can’t change anything. And there’s nothing I can change now before the car carrying our visitor gets here—including the fact that the court has appointed him our new guardian.
Andy stares down the long driveway toward the entrance, waiting and watching. When I spin him around to adjust his necktie, big-eyed smiling frogs stare back at me. Frog neckties must be the rage with eleven-year-old boys this summer. Actually, I don’t know why I’m even bothering. His tie is a clip-on. There’s nothing to adjust.
My fingers scratch through his scruffy blond hair to make it look as if someone combed it. A quick swipe of my hand wipes away the tiny beads of sweat glistening on his pink forehead. If Mom were here, she’d open her purse and pull out a Kleenex, lick it, and scrub some dirt from our faces—that special dirt only mothers can see. It always embarrassed me when she did that, but I wish she were here to do it now.
The sound is getting louder. And closer. The locusts have gotten used to it and started buzzing again, their cadence in time with the seconds ticking by. Andy and I stand side by side at the porch railing, waiting to face whatever the future has in store for us.
A white sports car comes into view with a cloud of gravel dust following closely behind it. The morning sun reflects off the polished chrome in a brilliant silver flash.
“Robin! Look!” Andy yells, pointing toward the car. “It’s a Corvette!”
His fear and apprehension seem to have flown, and there’s a gleam in his eyes—a sparkle that’s been missing since our parents disappeared. He has such a cute smile, even if he is my brother, and it’s nice to see him wearing it again. He’s tapping his toes now, the way he always does when he’s excited about something. He hasn’t been this animated in quite some time. If Dad were here, he would say, “Andrew, you’re dancing like a maggot on a hot griddle.” Mom and I would smile at each other and open our mouths and stick out our tongues, like we were going to gag. Then Dad would chuckle in that deep voice of his. I can hear it in my head.
The car continues up the long driveway until it reaches the circle. It makes a slow turn around the big fountain in the center before coming to a stop.
“Holy cow, Robin!” Andy yells. “It’s a Sting Ray! Come on!”
He bolts toward the veranda steps, but he doesn’t get far. My fingers hook the back of his collar in time to stop him in his tracks and make his tie pop off. I pull him back to the railing, pick up the tie, and clip the metal prongs under his collar. I’m wearing my serious face now and looking directly into his eyes.
“Don’t you remember Mrs. Deffenbaugh telling us to stay on the porch to make a good impression? And quit jumping around so much. You act like you’re about to pee your pants.”
He gives me that look of his and stands still. For about two seconds. Then he looks back at the car and his excitement bubbles to the surface again. What is it with boys and their fascination with sports cars? I’m ignoring him, of course, trying to keep a dignified expression on my face. But I’m smiling inside. It’s nice to see him happy for a change. He’s been so distant and withdrawn the past week.
Andy hasn’t been alone in feeling lost and abandoned. When one of the official people called us orphans, the word bypassed my ears and went straight to my heart like a dagger. Orphans. I still don’t believe it. But the uncertainty is weighing on me—not knowing what’s happened to Mom and Dad or if we’re ever going to see them again. Plus the fear of what today, and every day from now on, brings with it.
The car is a convertible, but the top is up and the windows are tinted a dark gray. Obviously, there’s a driver inside, but there’s no one visible through the dark glass. The rumbling sound of the exhaust stops, and everything becomes quiet. Even the locusts seem to be holding their tongues. Or whatever they use to make that irritating sound. We wait for the driver to emerge, but nothing happens for what seems like a very long time. Finally, the car door opens slowly, and a tall man wearing sunglasses steps out.
Andy leans toward me. “Is that him?” he whispers.
“I guess so,” I whisper back. But I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the face. He’s supposed to be Dad’s brother, but he looks nothing like Dad. There isn’t anything familiar about him, and nothing sparks a memory.
Of course, it’s been twelve years since I’ve seen our Uncle Conrad. I was only two years old the last time he was here, and my memory of that day is a bit fuzzy at best. Andy wasn’t even born yet. The only thing I remember about him is a faint image of a green army jacket with polished brass buttons on it. But that could be something I recall from a photo of him. The uncertainty about who this man really is, and what’s going to happen next, makes me uneasy and more than a little nervous.
As we watch, he turns his back on us and removes a couple of bags from inside the car. He’s heading toward the veranda now and getting closer with each step. Suddenly, I don’t want him here. He doesn’t belong here. Why can’t he just get back in his fancy sports car and drive away?
But it’s too late for that. The court decided that Andy and I need someone to watch over us. Someone to keep us safe the way Mom and Dad did when they were here. I’m so confused I don’t know what I should be feeling. I just want Mom and Dad to come home.
He’s almost to the porch now, and he’s smiling at us. As he gets nearer, my smile starts to fade when something confuses me. The sun is reflecting from a strange object at the end of Uncle Conrad’s arm. It looks like metal. Large. Silver. Shiny, like the chrome on his car. What is that thing? As he gets closer, a flurry of horror rushes through me as I realize what it is.
Oh, God!
It’s a claw.
Chapter Three—Blueberries and Silver
The shiny metal claw is attached to our uncle’s arm where his left hand used to be—where his left hand should be. I keep staring at the thing in disbelief as he comes ever closer. My gaze fixes on it, and I search my brain trying to remember seeing it before. There’s no memory of it. But it’s not the kind of thing you would ever forget. Even a two-year-old would remember a hideous thing like that.
Andy sees it, too, and his eyes are wide and serious when he looks up at me. He’s about to say something, and I shake my head before anything embarrassing comes tumbling out of his mouth.
My heart pounds inside my chest as our visitor climbs the veranda steps and sets his luggage on the porch. He stares down at me without speaking. I stare at his sunglasses, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my own shocked expression looking back at me from the silver mirror lenses.
A moment later, his serious face softens into a smile. As if on command, the locusts stop their monotonous buzzing when his lazy southern drawl floats into my ears. “In case you don’t remember, I’m your favorite uncle. Conrad.”
I can’t help smiling back. “I know,” I reply, nodding my head. “You’re our only uncle.”
He shrugs as his smile gets wider. “Oh, well. You can’t blame a feller for trying.”
“Well, since you’re our only uncle, you must be our favorite. I’m Robin,” I say, offering him the best smile I can come up with. I’m trying not to look at the thing attached to his arm, but my eyes won’t leave it alone.
Andy’s voice pulls my attention from it when he introduces himself. “I’m Andrew. Andrew Sherwood.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Andrew Sherwood,” our uncle says. He extends his hand.
“You can call me Andy if you want to,” my brother replies as they shake hands.
Our uncle turns his attention back to me. “Any news about your parents yet?”
Of all the questions he could have come up with, why that one? I lower my head and stare at my shoes. Why did I wear these things? They’re cramping my toes and making my feet sweat. His mention of Mom and Dad brings tears to my eyes again, and I try to blink them back before they can escape. My throat is too tight to answer his question, so I shake my head in reply as an uncomfortable silence surrounds us.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Uncle Conrad says as he reaches inside one of his bags and pulls out a small brown paper sack. Something rolls around inside the sack when he waves it in front of my face.
My hand moves forward, reaching for it. “What is it?”
Before my fingers can make contact with the paper sack, he raises it out of my reach. “Not for you, sweetheart,” he says.
The new warmth on my face tells me my cheeks are flushing. Why is he calling me sweetheart? I shrug one shoulder. “Okay. But what is it?” I don’t really care now. I’m only trying to fill the silence and keep our poor excuse for a conversation going.
He transfers the sack from his real hand to his other one, and the shiny jaws of the metal claw snap closed on the paper. It reminds me of the kind of pincher a gigantic metal crawfish might have. It’s creepy, really. I’m still trying not to look, but it’s like a magnet, pulling my eyes back every time I shift them away.
“Is it peaches?” Andy asks, looking up at the sack.
Uncle Conrad smiles down at him from behind his mirrored sunglasses and shakes his head. “Nope. It’s blueberries!” His other hand, his real one, retrieves a few of the dark blue berries from the sack and pops them into his mouth. “Mighty tasty, too. I want your cook to bake me some muffins.”
“That sounds great,” I reply, trying to act and sound as normal as possible, even though my heart still lurches every time I glance at his horrible metal claw. “I love blueberry muffins.”
“Me, too,” Andy chimes in. He’s staring at the claw hand too, but his expression is now more one of curiosity than shock. I guess all boys are intrigued by mechanical things.
Our uncle bends down and drops the blueberry sack into the larger bag. “Not for you two,” he says as he stands up and taps his wide chest with his thumb. “Those berries are just for yours truly.”
I try to disguise my shock at such a comment by giving him a fake smile before replying. “Well, I’m sure Mrs. Deffenbaugh can make you some muffins.” My shock changes to anger, but I don’t say what I’m thinking. If you’re going to be a rude and selfish jerk, I won’t tell you that you need to make sure she has her hearing aid turned on. Otherwise, she’ll just gaze into your eyes, smiling and nodding, and you’re liable to end up with a big surprise.
My mental conversation with Uncle Conrad is interrupted when Warner, our old white-haired butler, opens the screen door and shuffles across the porch toward the luggage. “Let me get those bags for you, Mister Conrad,” he says as he picks them up.
“Thank you, Warner,” I say. I hold the screen door open for him as he carries our uncle’s bags inside. Warner heads for the steps, humming a tune to himself as he waddles up the curving staircase. About halfway to the landing, his old hand loses its grip. One of the bags lands on the step. Even from our position on the veranda, the loud tinkling clatter of the contents is easy to hear.
“Damn it! Be careful with those!” Uncle Conrad screams up at him when he hears the noise.
When I glance through the screen door and see the expression on Warner’s face, it’s a dead giveaway that he’s as shocked as I am by our uncle’s sudden reaction. It makes me wonder what that bag contains that’s so important. But I don’t ask. I’m starting to like our favorite uncle less and less the longer he’s here. An uncomfortable silence surrounds us until Andy speaks up. I can hear the nervous uncertainty in his voice.
“I really love your car,” he says. “It’s far out, man.”
Uncle Conrad smiles down at Andy and ruffles his hair. “Far out? Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, Andy.”
Andy’s eyes go wide. “What secret?”
“That’s Silver.”
Andy furrows his brow and shifts his glance to the car. “Really? It looks white to me.”
“Nope. Silver. With a capital S. It’s my faithful steed. Like the Lone Ranger’s white horse. Silver. You savvy?”
It takes Andy a moment before he’s nodding. “Oh, yeah. I savvy.”
I’m not as familiar with the Lone Ranger as Andy is. He’s the television watcher. But I’ve seen the show a couple of times, so I savvy right along with Andy.
Uncle Conrad squats down beside him. Even though their eyes are on the same level, Conrad’s are still hiding behind the mirrored lenses. “Did you know that Silver was almost killed by a buffalo before the Lone Ranger found him?”
Andy shakes his head. “No way!”
“Yep. It’s true. He was. The Lone Ranger and Tonto found him and nursed him back to health.” His smile suddenly fades as he turns away from Andy and gazes toward the south where dark clouds are building on the horizon. His voice is monotone and unfamiliar when he speaks again. It’s almost a whisper, and it seems as if he’s talking to himself. “That was episode number four. I remember that.”
Andy glances at me. I understand his confused expression, because I’m feeling a little confused myself by the strange turn the conversation has taken. Conrad spins back around and faces Andy. A nervous smile crosses our uncle’s face as he speaks. “You know what I’m thinking, Andy?”
Andy shakes his head. “No.”
Conrad points his claw hand over his shoulder. “By the look of that dark sky, I’m thinking we may have some bad weather in store for us later this evening. We wouldn’t want to take a chance on having a big bolt of lightning strike old Silver out there, would we?”
Andy shakes his head again “No. No, we sure wouldn’t want that.”
Warner is coming back down the staircase now. He’s no longer humming, and there’s a wary expression on his face. Uncle Conrad adjusts his sunglasses on his nose, and yells through the screen door.
“I left my keys in the car, Warner. Be a good fellow and put Silver in the garage when you get a chance. And I don’t want to find any scratches on it later.”
Warner stops for a moment at that comment. He shakes his head and continues toward us, coming slowly through the doorway and onto the porch, nodding as he passes us. “I’ll take care of it right now, Mister Conrad.”
The screen door slams shut behind him, and he shuffles down the veranda steps. A moment later, Warner is squeezing his big body into the driver’s seat of the small car. The engine springs to life with a roar, and he drives the car toward the garage and carefully pulls it inside.
I love Warner. He’s been with us for as long as I can remember. Some might consider him what they call slow, but he’s a lot smarter than most people realize. He just likes to take his time and think things out. And I know he loves Andy and me. Maybe not as much as he loves his old mule, Beau Diddly, but he still loves us. Especially Andy.
It’s obvious that the disappearance of our parents has upset Warner a great deal. There’s a dark sadness in his eyes now. He tries to act like his old, jovial self, but it’s as if the joy’s been drained out of him. He’s quieter than usual, and he’s been spending a lot more time on the veranda the past few days, smoking his pipe and staring down the driveway as if he’s waiting for something. Or someone. I do that a lot myself lately—except for the pipe-smoking part.
There isn’t a lot to talk about with an uncle we don’t really know, so our conversation dries up in a short while. Andy fills the awkward silence with his question. “Can I go look at your car?”
Our uncle nods. A second later, Andy is off the porch, down the steps, and running across the grassy terrace toward the garage. Uncle Conrad calls after him. “Don’t leave any fingerprints on it, Andy boy. If you do, I’ll have to find an axe and chop your hands off.”
He raises his metal claw. The jaws snap open and shut, biting at the air, and a shiver runs through me as their sharp click! echoes beneath the veranda roof.
Andy is almost to the garage by this time, and his mind has apparently gone to that place where the minds of eleven-year-old boys go whenever a fancy car is involved. It appears he hasn’t even heard our uncle’s strange comment.
I wait for Uncle Conrad to say he was kidding. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even laugh, like people usually do when they’re teasing about something. Instead, he just smiles at me from behind those silver mirror sunglasses, as if there was nothing at all wrong with what he said.
A moment later, he’s rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. “That drive wore me out, kiddo,” he says. “I’d like to rest a while before dinner, if you can show me where my room is.”
We go inside to the foyer and head toward the staircase. Neither of us speaks as we climb the stairs to the second floor. I don’t know what Uncle Conrad is thinking about, but I’m still trying to figure out why he would say something like that to Andy. As we pass the round window at the landing, lightning flashes in the dark clouds on the horizon and catches my eye. It’s still several miles south of us, over the bayou, and too far away for the thunder to reach my ears.
It looks like a big storm, and it’s heading our way.
Chapter Four—Presumed Dead
When we reach the landing at the top of the stairs, I point to the left. “It’s this way.”
The heels of his leather shoes click on the hardwood floor as we head down the long hallway and toward the room near the end.
“Here we are.”
The brass knob turns quietly in my hand, and I open the door for him. The room is quite masculine, with nautical-themed wallpaper and heavy blue drapes on the tall windows. A large framed painting of a sailing ship on a rough sea, its pennant flying in the wind, hangs on the wall at the head of the bed. The pale blue chenille bedspread compliments the drapes, and white pillow shams add just the right amount of contrast.
Apparently, Warner was right when he told me our uncle would be happy with the décor of this bedroom. Uncle Conrad squints when he removes his mirrored sunglasses. His pale gray eyes have a shallow look to them, and they jump around nervously as he looks down at me. His voice is almost a whisper, and it kind of gives me the creeps when he says, “Very nice.”
After showing him to his room, I leave quickly. I’m not feeling very comfortable being around him, especially after the comment he made to Andy about the fingerprints and the axe. It gives me a queasy feeling in my stomach to think about it. So I try not to as I leave and head back down the hall.
I retrace my steps to my own bedroom, close the door, and turn the key in the lock. Uncle Conrad is still occupying my mind. He’s irritating me, and I need to get him out of my head, so I lie on my bed and listen to my new Zenith Royal transistor radio. It’s too early in the day for Wolfman Jack’s show on the Mighty 1090, so I turn the plastic knob all the way to the left to pick up our local station. Tommy Edwards finishes singing “It’s All in the Game” in that dreamy voice of his before the disk jockey makes his announcement. “You’re listening to WTUL in New Orleans: 550 on the AM dial.”
The news comes on. A quick turn of the other knob gives it a little more volume. A few minutes later, the news is over and The Four Seasons are starting in on “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” A hot spark of anger and frustration warms me. The news is over and they didn’t say anything about Mom and Dad. Again. In fact, they haven’t even mentioned them for a couple of days now. It’s as if everyone has forgotten they’re still missing. It’s not fair! And it’s not right.
My anger moves aside. Despite what the song is saying, tears fill my eyes when I glance at the newspaper clipping taped on my wall.
July 11, 1963—New Orleans, LA.
No Wreckage Found—
Millionaire Jonathan Sherwood and Wife Presumed Dead
The sound of my radio fades slowly into the background as I stare at the article and realize how powerful words can be. Before that newspaper was printed, my parents were only missing. Now, one word—Dead—jumps off the page and screams at me from inside my head. Dead. It sounds so dark, so depressing and so final. But just because it’s printed in a newspaper doesn’t make it true.
The article is fairly short, and it doesn’t give much detail, really, except to say that their small private plane disappeared somewhere over the bayou. It tells how the rescue team has given up hope of finding anything, and they’ve called off the search. Why would they call off the search? If I were older, I would take off and comb that bayou from one end to the other until I found them. Honestly. I don’t care if there are tons of snakes and spiders down there.
It just makes me angry that they’ve given up. Grown-ups give up too soon when things aren’t as easy as they’d like. It’s only been a week now. Seven days. That doesn’t seem like a very long time. Then again, sometimes it seems like forever.
The article talks a little about our family, and it mentions me. And my brother. I tried to show it to him, but he refused to look, waving me off as he hurried away. Andy hasn’t mentioned our parents, not once, since it happened. Our names show up at the very end.
They leave a daughter, Robin Summer Sherwood, 14, and a son, Andrew Guy Sherwood, 11.
It’s the first time my name has ever been in a newspaper. I truly hope it’s the last. I’m glad they didn’t include a picture, especially one with this kinky hair.
Sometimes, when I read about how they’ve given up the search, it makes me want to give up, too. My heart sinks, and I think about ripping that stupid piece of paper off my wall and throwing it away so I don’t have to see it ever again.
I look away. I tell myself that they’re gone and to forget about them. Forget about what they looked like. And how they sounded. And how they laughed. And how they always made me feel safe when they were around. I tell myself that I never had parents. A guilty feeling flows over me for even thinking such a terrible thing. I start sobbing again.
You just can’t forget some things. They’re kept too deep in your heart to ever forget them. It’s impossible to forget your mother’s sweet smile or your father’s comforting voice. I can’t help thinking they’re still alive, and they’re trying to find their way home. And it seems like I should be doing something besides just sitting here and waiting for them to show up. But I don’t know what it would be.
I jump off my bed and underline the word Presumed with my new Paper Mate ballpoint pen. The pictures of Mom and Dad smile back at me from the newspaper. That makes me feel better, somehow. Mom’s smile makes it seem as if she isn’t angry with me any longer, the way she was when they left. It doesn’t mention that we were having an argument just before she climbed into the plane with Dad—an argument about something that now seems really stupid looking back on it. I was so upset I didn’t even tell them goodbye. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
I’m not ashamed to admit that the article makes me cry every time I read it, especially if my radio is turned on and Skeeter Davis is singing “The End of the World” the way she was the day their plane took off from the grass landing strip on our estate. I can’t help it, and sometimes crying it out makes me feel a little better.
But that only happens at night now. Well…usually. There hasn’t been much time lately for crying during the day. Our house has been like Grand Central Station since it happened. Actually, it was more like a parade at first, except there was no marching band. People were coming and going from the estate every hour of the day in a solid stream, like a row of ants on the sidewalk. Most of them were what you would call official people. They’re the ones who have to figure out what to do with orphans when things like this happen.
They all seemed very nice, smiling a lot and talking softly while they scribbled notes in their little binders. They drank a lot of coffee in the mornings, especially the police officers and detectives. And the social workers drank gallons of iced tea and lemonade in the afternoons. I don’t want to be rude to them, and I haven’t been so far, but it kind of irritates me that they keep coming back here instead of spending their time looking for Mom and Dad.
They asked a lot of questions about our relatives, and one of the official ladies told me they needed to find someone to watch after us. That seems unnecessary, since our parents are probably going to be coming home any day now. I told the lady that, but she just smiled at me, nodding her head, and kept asking about our relatives.
After racking my brain, the only person that came to mind was Dad’s younger brother, Uncle Conrad. I told her we haven’t seen him since he went away, but she said we were going to be seeing a lot of him pretty soon. Pretty soon turned out to be today. And it’s been a strange day so far. Maybe it just seems that way to me. I had a hard time getting to sleep last night, not knowing what the day was going to bring, and Dad used to say that your mind can play tricks on you when you’re tired. Maybe Uncle Conrad isn’t as weird as he seems.
I’m yawning as I head back to my bed and lie down. My radio is still on and Dinah Washington is singing “What a Difference a Day Makes,” soft and slow. The next thing I know, the deep rumble of distant thunder wakes me, and the clock on my night table tells me it’s almost time for supper.
Chapter Five—Roast Beef and Episode 183
Monday evening
The summer storm that’s been brewing all afternoon arrives. It starts out slow and gentle, like a love song. Before long, it’s flashing and grumbling like a lovers’ quarrel. Or like the storms they show on those spooky TV movies late at night. Usually on Fridays. The temperature has dropped noticeably, too, and the wind drives the rain against the tall windows at the far end of the expansive dining room as Andy and I enter.
Mrs. Deffenbaugh has already brought our dinner to the table, and Uncle Conrad is lighting a fire in the fireplace with a brass Zippo lighter. When he snaps the lid of the lighter closed, a memory comes flashing back. The clicking. It was so long ago. I was only two years old, but I remember it. Uncle Conrad was leaving. We were standing on the veranda. Mother was holding me, and Dad was shaking my uncle’s hand. Conrad’s left hand was in the pants pocket of his army uniform. That’s where the sound was coming from as he flipped the lid of his lighter open and closed. That was before he got that metal claw where his hand used to be. It’s funny how things like that hide inside your head for so long and then come popping out when you least expect it.
The dry wood sends out an angry crackle as the fire takes hold, and the rumbling of the storm seems to fade into the background. Our uncle’s silver claw snaps around another log and drops it on the fire, sending a fountain of golden sparks dancing up the chimney, and the three of us head toward the table. Uncle Conrad seems a little unsteady on his feet, and when he gets closer, the smell of liquor hits me. Andy must smell it too, because he’s wrinkling his nose when our eyes meet.
Before I can stop him, Uncle Conrad sits at the head of the table. He should know that’s Dad’s chair, but it’s too late to say anything now, since he’s already sitting there. He appears quite large and imposing in his dark blue suit, and the bright white of his shirt is a stark contrast with the blood-red tie. The silver cufflinks match the metal claw sticking out of his sleeve. It feels wrong for him to be sitting in that chair.
Andy and I are on the long sides of the table, adjacent to our uncle and sitting across from each other. After filling the crystal glasses with water from the pitcher, I slip my feet out of the too-tight patent leather shoes and wiggle my toes back to life. I try to be nonchalant as I sniff the air to make sure my feet aren’t sending out any strange smells. I breathe a sigh of relief when my nose gives me the all-clear signal.
“This is certainly a beautiful roast,” Uncle Conrad says. His claw moves slowly toward the serving fork, and I jump when it snaps closed around the handle. He raises it and stabs the sharp tines into the roast. His right hand picks up the long carving knife, and he slices off a thick portion, which he places on my plate. “Would you like more, Robin?” he asks me in his rich, deep drawl that seems a bit slower now, as he slices off another piece.
“No, thank you,” I answer, shaking my head. I grab a warm, soft biscuit from the bread tray and reach for the butter dish. “That’s plenty for me.”
“I’d like a lot,” Andy says.
“Would you?” Uncle Conrad asks. The carving knife keeps moving back and forth as the slices drop onto the platter. He looks toward Andy. The smile on our uncle’s face suddenly fades and a strange darkness comes into his eyes. “You’d like a lot? Are you a greedy boy, Andrew? Don’t you remember what happened to Lobo Lawson in episode 183?”
Andy glances at me and shrugs his shoulders. He looks back at our uncle. “No. Who’s Lobo Lawson? And what happened to him?”
Uncle Conrad stops carving and stares up at the ceiling. It seems as if he’s talking to himself when he continues. “‘Lobo Lawson’s Greed,’ it was called.” He leans across the table, furrowing his brow as he glares into Andy’s face. “He got greedy. He got greedy, and the Lone Ranger took care of him.” The table shakes when he stabs the carving knife into the roast and a clear stream of juice squirts out of it. “You’ll take what I give you, Andy boy, and you’ll be happy about it. You savvy?”
A nervous giggle floats out of me, as I think he’s teasing or maybe reciting something from the Lone Ranger episode he just mentioned. When his head snaps in my direction, the look on his face tells me he’s serious—as serious as a heart attack, as Dad would say.
Andy is wearing a confused expression. He’s not saying anything, but his eyes are wide and there’s a question in them as he looks across the table at me and mouths the words, Lone Ranger. I shrug one shoulder in response.
“How old are you now, Andy?” our uncle asks as he drops a small slice of roast on Andy’s plate. “Eight? Nine?”
Andy shakes his head and looks down at his plate. The expression on his face is obviously one of disappointment as he eyes the tiny ration of meat he’s been given.
“He’s eleven,” I say when Andy doesn’t answer. “He’s small for his age.” As soon as the words cross my lips, I realize they might be embarrassing for my brother. It’s too late to take them back, so I try to think of something positive to counteract their effect. “But he’s very smart for his size. Honestly.” After saying it, I realize I’m not helping matters. Before I can come up with anything else, our uncle is speaking.
“Eleven?” Uncle Conrad appears surprised and shakes his head. “Well, when I was your age,” he continues as he slides several slices of the roast onto his own plate, “I was lucky to get anything. Our parents weren’t rich, like yours were, but they always seemed to have enough money to buy your greedy father whatever his little heart desired. He was older, of course, and always the favorite. They must have thought he deserved a lot more than I did, just because he was their firstborn and heir to the throne, you might say.”
His eyes take on an unfocused gaze as his fork pushes a slice of roast around on his plate. “It wasn’t because I didn’t try.” He leans back and lets out a long breath as he shakes his head. All expression seems to drain from his face as his eyes dart from left to right.
A moment later, he leans forward and glances from me to Andy before he continues. “I tried so hard, tried with all my might to be worthy of their love and attention. But it was never quite good enough. My efforts to please them never came close to my brother’s accomplishments in their eyes. That’s why he always got the new clothes and the new toys—all bright and sparkly. Then, when he tired of them, he passed them along to me. Passed them along and acted like I should be grateful for his old hand-me-downs.”
He stops speaking as he concentrates on spooning the fluffy mashed potatoes on all three of our plates. When he’s finished, the serving spoon makes a loud clink as he drops it into the bowl. A strange smile crosses his face as his claw snaps closed around the handle of the gravy boat. “But I got even with him one Christmas. His six-shooter with the silver bullets disappeared that day. He never found it.”
He’s moving the gravy boat toward my plate. I watch as a stream of thick brown sauce flows out and onto the white mound of my mashed potatoes. He’s unsteady, and I quickly position my hands on either side of the boat to guide it, being careful not to touch the metal fingers holding it. A few dribbles end up on the white linen tablecloth as he moves the boat away from my plate and heads toward Andy’s to repeat the process.
Our uncle seems like a different person than the man we were speaking to on the veranda a few hours ago. There’s a melancholy mood about him, and his words surprise me. I almost feel sorry for him in a strange sort of way. But he’s either confused or he’s lying—at least about part of it. As he slops the gravy on his own potatoes, I recall a time when Andy and I were fighting over a toy. Dad told us we should learn to share. He said we should be grateful for our good fortune, and that he and his brother didn’t have nearly as much when they were kids. But he always shared what he had with Uncle Conrad. He told us that one year he even changed the nametags on some of his own Christmas gifts to “Conrad” instead of his own name.
Maybe Conrad doesn’t remember it that way, or maybe he was the greedy little kid instead of Dad. It could be that he’s just mad at the whole world because he’s stuck with that metal claw instead of a real hand. He sets the gravy boat on the table, and his metal claw snaps open to release the handle. His expression has changed, and his next words are an even bigger surprise.
“And now,” he says, “I’ve been given his two children. And what a bargain they are.” He points his claw hand at Andy. “We’ve got Shrimpboy here, who’s way too small for his size. I mean, way too small for his age. And we’ve got a freckle-faced girl who looks like Little Orphan Annie with all that kinky red hair. To be honest, I have no desire for either of you.”
My heart sinks, but I try to hide my uneasiness. I’m fidgeting now, nervous and uncertain about where our conversation is heading. I glance across the table at Andy, who looks uneasy. I don’t understand why our uncle is saying such hurtful things. Maybe he’s teasing us, just to see how we’ll react.