Broken Bayou Read online

  BROKEN BAYOU

  By

  Rhonda R. Dennis

  Broken Bayou

  Copyright © 2015 RHONDA R. DENNIS

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, Rhonda R. Dennis, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Yummy by Design

  Edited By: Donnette Freeman

  ISBN-10: 0991386841

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9913868-4-0

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prologue

  The light of the full moon offers no help as the driver of the battered blue van violently slams into yet another furrow in the darkened road. The sudden stop propels a severely sleep deprived and high-as-a-kite Earl against the dash. He reaches out and plants his palm squarely against the back of the driver’s head.

  “Damn it, Jinx! How about you just follow the damn levee instead of trashing an axle on this god-forsaken piece of shit cane road?”

  “Hey, I can’t control it! You’re the genius who said we need to stay off the main roads. Me, I think it don’t matter if we take the main road or not. We ain’t never been caught yet, and we ain’t never gonna get caught.” He takes a quick swig from a bottle of whiskey then lets out a loud howl.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly the thinker of the group, Jinx. Just shut up and drive.” He swipes the bottle from Jinx and quickly finishes the last of the alcoholic contraband they’d procured from the convenience store heist three days and two states prior. “Hey Shoe, you and Bones ready to go?”

  “Yeah, Earl. We’re ready.” Shoe, still riding high on the group’s week long binge, unsteadily rocks in the back of the van while tapping one of the large black bags.

  “Well, don’t just sit there! One more bump then start handing them out,” Earl demands. Shoe takes his hit before passing the remaining drug stash to his accomplices then unzips the bag closest to him to pull out the first sawed-off shot gun. He tries to hand it off to a jumpy, bug-eyed Bones.

  “Y’all said I get the MAC-10 this time.” The thin, wiry-haired man quickly stands to pout, but Jinx runs through another rut just as Bones is crossing his arms over his chest. The momentum sends him flying between the front seats.

  “You can’t even keep your ass upright! Like we’re going to give you the MAC? Get up and shut up! Move to the back and take two of the sawed-offs before I give you something to really pout about,” Earl says with a snarl.

  Bones rubs the knot forming on the back of his head. “Fine. But I get the Berettas, too, this time.” Once he’s up, he greedily shoves the pistols into the waistband of his acid-washed jeans before Shoe can stop him. Earl shakes his head with disgust and is about to say something when Jinx starts a profanity-laced tirade. It earns him another back-of-the-head smack.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Earl demands.

  “That!” Jinx asserts while pointing to the line of cars in the circular drive of the isolated antebellum plantation home.

  “Son of a bitch,” Earl mumbles under his breath.

  “I guess we gotta call it off,” Shoe offers.

  Earl takes one more snort from the stash, and a sneer that sends chills down Shoe’s spine emerges across his lips. “Why call it off? The more the merrier, right?”

  Jinx gives him a sideways glance once he stops the van. “You are one sick mother fu…”

  “I sure am! And don’t you ever forget it,” Earl interrupts as he takes one of the MAC-10s from Shoe. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter One

  Thirty years later.

  One of the key differences between Oklahoma and Louisiana is the color of the dirt. An obvious statement no doubt, but as I roll down a particularly lonely stretch of I-49, I reflect on it. If I’d have known that rich ebony soil would bring me comfort, I’d have left the rusty red stuff behind long ago. No more hills. No more tumbling rocks. No more widespread cowboy hats and massive belt buckles at every turn. Running away from issues isn’t supposed to be a good thing, but right now, as I finish the final leg of my journey from the farmlands to the swamplands, I can’t find a damn thing wrong with escaping.

  Teaching English at Oklahoma State was once fulfilling. I’m a great professor, admired and adored by my students. At least I was. I was the cool teacher; the one everyone wanted—the one who had to inevitably turn away students because my classes were already past capacity. It didn’t stop them from begging though. I truly felt sorry for them, their cute little puppy-dog eyes pleading for a coveted spot that I couldn’t give. However, about a year and a half ago that all changed.

  The depression that came after my parents died in a house fire left me wallowing in a pit of darkness and despair. No matter how hard I tried, escape seemed impossible. Even now, after months of intensive therapy sessions, progress remains slow because everything in Oklahoma reminds me of them. Cows, horses, expansive farms, red dirt: all reminders of what was stolen from me. A large part of my soul died when they did because my parents were my everything.

  Seeing the miles and miles of freshly plowed sugar cane fields has lifted a chest-crushing weight, and for the first time in months, I don’t feel asphyxiated. My sabbatical had come to an end, and truly, I had zero desire to reenter the classroom. However, things changed after hearing from a staff recruiter for Shadow Oaks University. This small college nestled deep in the Louisiana bayous found itself in need of a head for their English department, and since an article I’d researched about healing from depression suggested tossing my resume around cyberspace, I was contacted to interview. What started as a simple exercise to prove self-worth ended up being the breakthrough I’d paid thousands of dollars to multiple therapists for, but could never find.

  I wasn’t completely sold on the move at first; however, while visiting SOU’s campus for the final interview, I began to notice a trend. With each passing day, the constant grief and thoughts of loss began to subside. The landscape, the accents, the demeanor of the residents, the atmosphere in general, they were all refreshing and desperately needed. With hardly a second thought, I accepted the position as soon as it was officially offered to me.

  Following the oak-lined roadway as it snakes around the curves of a bayou, I feel a rush of excitement when I notice a huge painted sign welcoming me to Cane, Louisiana. Boxes fill my trunk and backseat, but they aren’t stuffed with mementos or household items, just books. I want a fresh start in every sense of the word—new furniture, new clothes, new household items. My past has to be jettisoned so I can secure a better future; one that won’t include constant crying jags, gut-wrenching reminders, and an overwhelming sense of despair. I vow to be done with that.

  George Thibodeaux, my new landlord, is trimming the hedges outside of the large blue Victorian he owns. Khaki shorts, a tank style undershirt, black socks, and sandals go quite well with his slicked-back sal
t-and-pepper hair and half-inch thick bifocals. Sweat copiously drips from his forehead, collecting to form neat little drops that fall from his matted chest hair. My stomach churns when he swipes it with his palm just before reaching out to shake my hand.

  “Miss Douglas, I’ve been expecting you. How was your trip?” he asks with a voice more feeble than I expect.

  “Please, call me Cheyenne. The trip was fine, thank you.” Swallowing hard, I lightly grip his outstretched hand then run it down the back of my pants once he turns away from me.

  “I have the keys to the apartment right here on the front porch. I trust that you’ll be okay with settling in yourself? I got a bad back.”

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely. I didn’t bring much with me so there’s not much to unload.”

  He casts an uncertain over-the-shoulder squint in my direction. “You know the place is unfurnished, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” I give a slight smile. “I’ll go furniture shopping soon. Is there a place in town, or must I go elsewhere?”

  “Hold up,” he says, shuffling into his house without another word. I’m left to admire the architecture of the structure which I estimate to be at least a hundred years old. My eyes follow the length of the white columns that contrast with the blue clapboard siding and continue all the way up to the turret on the right side of the home. Lace curtains in the highest window are pushed aside to reveal an elderly woman who appears to be scowling down at me. Fraught with discomfort, I offer her a scant wave which is not returned. Instead, she turns away from the window, and the curtains snap back to their original position.

  “Okay,” I draw out as I turn away from the house to admire the scenic bayou across the street.

  “Here.” Mr. Thibodeaux hands me a note with some scribble scratch on it. I’m able to make out a phone number, address, and despite my best efforts, the bottom line evades translation.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thibodeaux, but what’s this say right here?” I point out the offending text.

  “Don’t dick with her, Richie.”

  “Excuse me,” I say in a near whisper.

  “Richie. My sister’s greedy ass son owns the local furniture store. I’m telling him he shouldn’t take advantage of you.”

  My eyes widen. “Oh, okay. Thank you very much for that.”

  “No problem,” he says, once again wielding the hedge clippers. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Keys.”

  “Oh, yeah. Keys.” He fishes around in his pocket and produces a neon green We’re #1 keychain with two ancient-looking keys that dangle from the rusted ring. “Pull around back. That entire area back there is yours. I keep my car in the side garage over yonder, so the garage under the apartment is yours. The clicker is inside the apartment. The courtyard is yours to enjoy, but don’t steal the roses. The roses are for Agnes; don’t cut them. No late night parties, no men, or women if you swing that way, in and out all hours of the night, no repairs unless I authorize them. If you need anything, try to make it known between the hours of seven A.M. and seven P.M., with the exception of two to three. That’s nap time.”

  “Yes, sir. You don’t have to worry about any of that. I assure you, I’m quite boring.”

  He huffs slightly before continuing the onslaught of the holly bush he’s standing near. Fairly certain the conversation is over, I return to my car and park it in front of the specified garage. The bright sunlight glints off of a huge sugar kettle koi pond in the center of the courtyard, while a melodious welcome calls from wind chimes scattered throughout the flowering crape myrtles. I wander the red brick path and anticipate spending lots of free time reclined on one of the wooden benches with my novel du jour. Peeping up through the branches of a giant oak tree, I catch who I presume to be Agnes snatching shut the lace curtains covering the upper story window.

  “Ah, poor Agnes. You’re going to be so bored snooping on me,” I mutter under my breath as I leave the courtyard to climb the white wooden stairs leading to the apartment. Pushing the key into the lock, I’m excited to see what old-world charm the residence will afford me.

  With no time to spare in getting prepared for my new position, I’d only seen the apartment in pictures sent by the recruiter. While I was wrapping up final details in Oklahoma, she was working diligently to make my transition as smooth as possible; hence, one of the things I was least looking forward to, finding a place to live, was handled for me before I drove down.

  I’m instantly in love. Two huge picture windows flank a white brick fireplace, and the view overlooks the courtyard below. There is a door against the far wall that leads into the master bedroom. Glass paneled French doors open to a balcony with a cast iron bistro set and a selection of potted plants. The view is of the rose garden Mr. Thibodeaux spoke about. Gobs of brilliantly colored blossoms beg to be plucked, and I’m disappointed because he’s already warned me about doing such a thing. A small but functional kitchen, a huge bathroom with a claw foot tub, and a second bedroom that I plan to use as an office complete the tour.

  “This is good. This is just what I need,” I affirm, actually feeling somewhat positive when I say it this time. Eager to furnish the place, I don’t bother unloading the car. I plug the furniture store’s address into the GPS device, and I’m there within five minutes. The brightly painted building is smack dab in the middle of Cane, a town whose older wrought iron balconied buildings are reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans. Near the furniture store are two cafés, a police station, a bookstore, gift shop, and jewelry store. On the opposite side of the wide street are a law office, a feed and seed shop, a trendy clothing store, and a seafood market. I look forward to venturing further into Cane to see what other surprises the quaint town holds.

  An obnoxious cow bell announces my arrival at the furniture store, and two older ladies, one in a wrinkled pant suit, the other in a cardigan and polyester skirt, diligently work to rise from the sofa they are seated on. The first lady up, the one in the pant suit, extends her hand to the other woman who is still rocking back and forth to build momentum.

  “Please, no need to get up. Really.” I wave my hands in the sit down fashion.

  “It’s no problem, darling. What can we help you with?”

  A tall man I guess to be around my age of thirty-five suddenly bursts through a set of double doors in the back. Black dress slacks, a patent leather belt with matching shoes, and a ruby red dress shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest all look about a size and half too small for his build. His thick hair sticks straight up in a flat top, and the extra thick mustache adorning his lip reminds me of something seen in ‘70s B movies. “Aunt Ruth, stay where you are. Mom, I got this one. Y’all just continue to chat while wearing holes in the fine furniture I stock my store with. I’ll take care of anything this beautiful lady might need.” His mustache tickles the back of my hand when he goes for a kiss instead of a handshake. “It’s so hard to find good help these days, but me, I’m so soft-hearted and compassionate. How many sons would employ their decrepit mother, as well as their aged aunt? Not many I assure you.” He bows his head in a fashion that’s meant to show humility.

  “If you employed us, we’d be getting paid to be in this shop, Richie,” wrinkled pant suit says.

  His head snaps upright and his eyes are wide. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he asks through clenched teeth. She rolls her eyes and begins a fresh conversation with her sister. He ushers me away from them, then propping his elbow against the top rail of a bunk bed he whispers, “I’m sorry you had to hear that. They really are sweethearts. A little senile, but gosh I love them.” He gaze turns lustful. “So, what can I do you for?”

  “I just moved to town, and I’m looking to furnish my apartment.”

  “That’s a lovely accent you got. I’m really good at this. Let me guess—Georgia, right?”

  “Oklahoma.”

  “Damn!” He snaps his fingers. “So close.”

  I offer a fake smile. “Your uncle sent me, and
he said I should give this to you.”

  He scowls at the paper then crumples it as he shoves it into his pocket. “Yeah, well, so you must be the professor lady moving into the side apartment.”

  I’m a little thrown off by his comment. “How did you…”

  “Small town. Word travels fast, ya know?”

  I squint. “Hmmm. Interesting. Perhaps we could start with a sofa?”

  “I never got your name.”

  “Cheyenne.”

  “Awww, Cheyenne. Now that’s a real nice name. Are ya Indian?”

  “Yes, my father was part Native American,” I answer matter-of-factly.

  “I can see it. You kinda got that Indian look about ya.”

  “Thanks? Could we discuss furniture, please? I need a sofa.”

  “Sofa? Sure. As you can see, we have a great selection. It usually takes you ladies a while to pick out furniture, so why don’t you come get me when you finish and I’ll write up your ticket? Or maybe you’d like me to give you a VIP tour of the store?” He suggestively runs his finger across a vase that sits atop a sofa table.

  What a jerk! “No need; my mind’s made up. I’ll take this sofa, that recliner, these two arm chairs, this coffee table, and those matching end tables. I’ll need these two lamps, as well. Shall we move on to dinette sets?”

  He smirks while tugging his pants upwards. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.” He lets out some sort of purr-growl.

  “Down, boy. Moving on. I’ll take this dining set.” I point as I move to the bedroom furnishings. “This bedroom ensemble with that mattress, this rug, that rug, and that mirror. Done. Did you get all of that?”

  He stumbles over his words. “Uh, yeah. I think so.”

  “Good. Now please run the numbers, and I expect to get the best possible deal.”

  “You sure are a take charge kinda woman. I like that, too.” He giggles excitedly as he starts towards his office at the back of the store. He stops briefly, turning back to call, “Now don’t you go wandering off on me. I’ll be right back lickety split.”