Broken Bayou Page 2

  “I’ll be around,” I hesitantly assure while perusing a set of paintings. He does a running hop to show his excitement, and the only witness to my eye roll is the jazz player in the painting before me. Richie returns with an invoice that is within my budget, so I fish my credit card from my wallet. “When can I expect delivery?”

  “I’ll get Jimmy and Barry on it right now. They can be there within the hour. Too soon?”

  “Not at all. Thank you for the prompt service.”

  The lustful smile returns. “I pride myself on my prompt service.” I give him a questioning look. “No! I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t do everything prompt. I meant to say that I can take my time, but I deliver to you promptly.” This time my eyes widen. “No. I didn’t mean it that way, either. I mean…”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Richie, your sexual innuendos are wasted on me. All I want is to get settled into my new place so my time can be devoted to preparing for my job and maybe finding the spare time to read the new novels I picked up on the way down here. That’s it.”

  He sucks his teeth in a self-assured manner. “Sounds super boring. You know what they say about all work and no play, right?”

  “Richie…”

  “It’s Rich,” he interrupts.

  “Rich, may we please finish this transaction?” He licks his lips, and I thrust an index finger into the air before he can speak. “No.” His mouth opens again. “No,” I repeat, my finger giving a warning wave. He turns on his heel to run my credit card, and thankfully he remains silent when he hands it back to me. “I’ll be waiting at the apartment,” I say, immediately wishing I could reclaim my words.

  “For me?” he asks.

  “For the furniture,” I say with a sigh.

  He softens his voice, “Surely you’ll need someone to show you around town.”

  “I’m sure there are many women who would appreciate your attention, and perhaps even eagerly welcome your advances, but I’m not one of them. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but I’m very capable of doing things on my own, and frankly, I prefer it that way. I wish you lots of luck with your future endeavors. Have a nice day.” The two women still situated on the sofa giggle in response, while a deflated Rich retreats to his office. “I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings,” I offer as a sort of apology.

  “He deserved every bit of it, and a hell of a lot more. Never met such a spoiled, nasty, inconsiderate…”

  “Hey, that’s my boy you’re talking about,” Ms. Wrinkled Pant Suit proclaims.

  “Yes, and he’s my nephew. Don’t make him any less repugnant,” Cardigan returns.

  I leave the shop before the serious arguing begins, and I would have slipped out completely undetected if it hadn’t been for the stupid cow bell. They stop tormenting each other long enough to wish me a good afternoon before continuing on with Granny Brawl-Furniture Store Edition.

  Thankfully, the furniture delivery goes much smoother than the acquisition, and as soon as the men leave, I’m off to stock my new place. I offer up a quick wave to Agnes who has been peering through the window since the delivery truck arrived. Far from shocking news, it’s not returned. Instead, the lace curtains snap shut in what is becoming an all too familiar greeting.

  Later that night, as I slide into the freshly washed silky sheets, I cry. This jag is different than the others. Normally, my body is wracked with uncontrollable grief-filled sobs that go on for hours at a time. This time, a few lonely tears streak down my face as I think about how proud my parents would be of me for starting over. The pain is finally subsiding, and I’m so grateful I can finally function in the world of the living again that I believe some of those tears are ones of relief. My hurdle has been jumped. The mountain has been climbed. The new day has begun. Life is going to be just fine.

  Chapter Two

  Smiling, I rest the back of my head against the heavy wooden door once it’s closed. My office is double the size of my last one and much more suited to my position. The last one was basically a glorified cubicle farm. This office has huge paned glass windows that are trimmed in brilliant white and offer a pristine view of the oak filled quad below. Rows of cherry wood bookshelves beg for my collection to be placed upon them. I’m trying to decide what should go where when a soft rap on the door startles me.

  Upon opening it, I find a handsome man standing in the waiting area. He’s mid to late thirties with light brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and is smartly dressed in khakis, a lavender shirt, and yellow tie. His pale green eyes sparkle with excitement and perhaps a hint of mischief? He eagerly thrusts a hand in my direction.

  “Hi, Callahan Gage, head of the history department. Being that we’re going to be neighbors, I’d thought I’d pop in and say hello.”

  “Neighbors?” I ask with confusion.

  “Office neighbors. I’m right there.” He drops my hand to awkwardly point to his left.

  “Oh, office neighbors. Right. It’s nice to meet you, Callahan. I’m Cheyenne. Your name is pretty interesting. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Callahan used as a first name.”

  He quickly runs his fingers through his hair. “What can I say? Dad’s a huge Dirty Harry fan. Harry…”

  “Callahan,” I interrupt, and he nods.

  “The one and only. Most people call me Cal, though.”

  “Nice,” I say, and the room is awkwardly silent for a few long seconds.

  “The introductory announcement that was sent out to welcome you said you’re from Oklahoma. It’s really nice there. In fact, I spent some time at a conference in Oklahoma City, and I considered moving there.”

  “Really? What stopped you?” I return to my spot behind the desk while he remains propped in the doorway.

  “Too many cowboys to compete with for dates. I’d be lonely,” he teases with a wink. “Nah, just kidding. Not about the lonely part, just the cowboy part.” I cast him a smile. “Okay, I wasn’t kidding at all. It’s all true.” When he sheepishly hangs his head, I can’t hold back the laugh.

  “So, you’re from this area?” I ask, offering him a seat which he readily bounces into.

  “Yep, born and raised. I did move around a little for school, but I ended up coming back to town once my dad took a turn for the worse. He doesn’t need me to live with him or anything, but I do try to check in a couple of times a week to do some of the things that have grown difficult for him. You know, yard work and such. And, why am I telling you all of this?” he asks with a playful tone.

  A pain shoots through my heart, and despite attempting to hide my discomfort, Cal is all over it. “I’m sorry. Obviously, I’ve said something that upset you.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just… Nothing.”

  He leans forward in his seat to rest his elbows on my desk. “Do you have a sick parent?”

  I inhale deeply while trying to decide how to answer. Instinct tells me to snap at him with the hopes of making him leave. Basic decorum says just answer the man’s question. Decorum wins. “My parents are deceased.” Deceased feels better than passed on, dead, gone, or the myriad of other synonyms that float around my brain.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he answers. I anxiously await a barrage of questions that never comes, and I find myself really starting to like this guy. Funny, friendly, and cordial, yet respects boundaries.

  “Thank you,” I finally answer, shuffling a pile of books and papers. “Any helpful hints or words of advice before I head off to my first class?”

  “Advice?” He ponders the question for a minute. “Be confident. They prey on fear,” he answers ominously.

  “Are you telling me the murky swamps bear unusually aggressive english students?”

  He playfully tugs at his tie. “No, but it sounds good, right?”

  I laugh. “Indeed.”

  “You’ll be fine. Everyone here is super friendly. If you have any issues, you know where to find me, neighbor.”

  “Thanks. Oh, wait. Aren’t histor
y heads supposed to be gray haired bearded men who smoke pipes and wear tweed jackets with elbow patches?” Might as well show him that I have a sense of humor, too.

  Cal smiles broadly. “About as much as english heads are supposed to be matronly women who refuse to wear makeup, pull their hair back in tight buns, and carry huge wooden pointers to smack against their desks.” With a wink and a quick tap on the door jamb, he takes off down the hall. With renewed vigor, I gather the books and papers into my arms then make my way to the classroom assigned for the technical writing course I’ll be teaching.

  The typical hustle and bustle of students coming and going, finding seats, and scoping out the new teacher occurs, and though expected, it’s somewhat intimidating. For a split second, I debate my life choices, but reality is, I made my decision and now I have to deal with it.

  Though I start the class with some uncertainty and nervousness, I leave the class period pleased that I managed to develop the beginnings of good rapport with most of the students. However, like nearly every other class I’ve ever taught, there is one silent loner who draws my attention. His name is Billy Thibodeaux, and I silently wonder if he’s any relation to George and Agnes. His long black hair is greasy and unkempt, while his clothes are tattered and unwashed. He appeared disinterested the entire class period, yet he wasn’t disruptive or distracting. The one time I tried to sway him into participating in the class discussion, I was given a confused stare followed by a menacing grimace. I let it go at the time, but I will certainly be keeping a close eye on the young Mr. Thibodeaux.

  I’m exhausted, but taking some time to reflect on the past week, I realize how much I’ve missed having a steady routine, and I sincerely appreciate having the normalcy that has evaded me for so long. Mornings are spent preparing paperwork and teaching, lunch is for grading papers, afternoons include student conferences and administrative duties, while evenings find me curled up with a book before drifting off for a much appreciated good night’s rest.

  Only this night is different. As I’m getting out of the bathtub, a knock at the front door startles me. I quickly slide on a robe and peep through a hole I’ve made in the blinds. Nothing. I open the blinds further to get a better look, and a red blur streaking through the dimly lit courtyard catches my attention. I move to get a better view, but whatever is out there is long gone now. Shrugging it off as nothing, I close the blinds, but not before catching a glimpse of Agnes staring out of the upper story window. I shake off the unsettled feeling as best as I can before climbing into bed and opening my book.

  This disruptive pattern continues for a solid month, but it’s not enough to run me out of the apartment. I notice strange things in the courtyard, but never get an unobstructed view to make out what it is. I once thought it was a child, but quickly brushed that thought aside. What would a child be doing in the courtyard in the middle of the night? There were scratches at my window, but I assure myself that they are simply the rose bushes rubbing in the breeze. The knocks at the door, especially the ones that seem to come from inside the apartment scare the daylights out of me, but I realize it is likely the place settling. Certain it’s the move to Louisiana that has my imagination running wild, it gets easy to dismiss the things that go bump in the night.

  One day the charismatic Professor Cal surprises me as I’m at my desk grading papers during lunch. He lightly raps on the partially opened door while carrying two take out trays.

  “I know I’ve asked you to lunch several times before, and you’ve politely declined each time, but I sure would hate for this second plate to go to waste. Any chance you’d like to join me in the quad?”

  I offer him a slight smile. “That’s really nice of you, but I brought my lunch.”

  “Hmmm. What did you bring?”

  “An apple.”

  He shakes his head while pointing to the top box. “An apple? I happen to have piping hot shrimp stew, potato salad, buttery green peas, a nice hunk of French bread, AND there’s dessert—strawberry cake.”

  “That all sounds really delicious, but…”

  “But what? Come on. It’s far too beautiful a day to be trapped in here grading papers. Wait a minute…” He gives a look of extreme contemplation. “Is it the food you’re turning down, or is it the company?”

  I playfully roll my eyes. “It’s not the food because it smells wonderful.”

  “Ouch!” he says, clutching his chest with his free hand. “So it’s the company. That dagger went right through the heart, darlin’.”

  “Are you certain you’re not the drama professor?” I ask, putting my ink pen down.

  “Aren’t all teachers actors to a certain extent?”

  “Good point. So, shrimp stew, huh?”

  “Louisiana’s finest. Okay, that’s a massive exaggeration, but I can guarantee that it’s at least edible… I think.” He waves the plates under his nose and breathes in deeply. “Yep, edible at the very least.”

  I laugh as I come from behind my desk. “I suppose edible is good.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty hit or miss with our cafeteria.”

  “That’s good to know. All right, I’ll join you. Lead the way,” I say while grabbing a light jacket.

  Once downstairs he picks a spot away from the students sunning in the unusually brisk fall air then sets down the trays on a picnic table nestled under one of the ancient oaks. He points to me. “Coke, Sprite, Diet Coke, water…pick your poison.”

  “Water, please.” With that, he jogs to a nearby vending machine and returns quickly with two bottles of water.

  “Dig in,” he insists, producing two sets of plastic wrapped utensils from his pocket and holding them in the air. I snag the set closest to me and pop the top of the tray. I stare down in disbelief. “What’s wrong?” he asks through the slice of French bread in his mouth.

  “There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all of that, and I’m not sure what I was expecting when you said shrimp stew, but this isn’t what I pictured.”

  “No?” he asks, putting the bread down. “Should I get you something else?”

  “No! I’m not a picky eater, but I’m not used to eating like this. It smells really good.” After one forkful, I’m madly in love with all things Cajun and Creole. I may have moaned while eating, and Cal confirms it.

  He points to the food with his fork. “This isn’t even the good stuff. This is mediocre at best. I often forget just how different our cuisine is from the rest of the nation.”

  “My brain can’t comprehend anything tasting better than this,” I remark while greedily shoveling stew into my mouth. Cal chuckles.

  “Sorry,” I say as I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Not very lady like, I know.”

  “What? Are you kidding? I’m glad I finally found someone who appreciates it. Eat up!”

  “Where else can this be found? Is it available at most local places?” I query.

  “Pretty much, but I have a great idea. Let me take you out and show you around,” he insists. I freeze. Noticing my deer in the headlights look, he clarifies. “Just to be sure we’re on the same page here, this will in no way be a date of any kind. Consider it Southern hospitality—merely someone local doing the right thing by showing a new resident the area. In fact, I insist that you pay your own way; however, we’ll take my car. Depending on how far out of town we go, I’ll probably cover the gas, but I can’t guarantee it. I might make you chip in for fuel.” His playful tone sets me at ease.

  “If you’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience, I’d like that. I’ve wanted to explore, but I wasn’t sure where to start.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if it were inconvenient,” he says with a playful smirk. “Saturday? Nine o’clock?”

  “Sounds great. Should I meet you somewhere?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll pick you up from your place, which is…”

  “Are you familiar with the big blue Victorian on…”

  “George and Agnes’ place? Oh yeah. Everyone knows that
place. You’re in the garage apartment?”

  I give a questioning look. “It seems that my apartment is famous around these parts, or perhaps infamous? Oh, please don’t let it be infamous. Did something terrible happen there? No! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. There are these things happening that I can’t really explain, but I have used rationale to help them make sense if you know what I mean?”

  Cal laughs heartily. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  “Something did happen there?” My voice goes up an octave when I ask the question.

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about. I have a better story for you—a tragedy that happened right here on this very campus.” His voice is low and soft, like someone telling a ghost story. I’m already intrigued, so I make a “go on” gesture. “John Davidson was the president of the university back in the forties, and June Bastille was his secretary. John was married to Shirley, but June was, how should I put this?” He’s quiet for a moment.

  “Oh! So, he wasn’t exactly faithful to Shirley?” I answer when it suddenly occurs to me what he’s implying.

  “Exactly.” Cal returns his attention to his plate.

  “What’s their story?” I greedily inquire. I’m almost embarrassed to ask, but attributing it to basic human nature makes me feel less guilty about pleading for gossip.

  He tosses down his fork, and that sparkle returns to his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.” He quickly glances around, and once he’s sure we’re out of earshot from any passersby, he lowers his voice. “John had already retired by the time I got here, so I don’t know any of this first hand. Supposedly, John and June had been seeing each other for quite a while before his wife found out about it. She ran the local bakery, and John would pop in every morning for two reasons: one, to get coffee and a pastry, and two, to inquire about Shirley’s schedule for the day. I guess that it wasn’t out of the ordinary for a husband to ask about his wife’s day, but one day she got an unexpected cancellation for a major order, so she was able to leave early. She shows up at his office, and June isn’t at her post to announce Shirley’s arrival. Shirley cracks the door and finds them going at it hard and heavy. What does she do? Does she throw the door open and raise hell? Nope, not Shirley. She quietly shuts the door and leaves to come up with a plan.”