“Jack is missing.”
I sighed, resigned to letting him steer our conversation. “Yes, he is.”
“Your heart aches again. His does too. Hopes. High. Dashed. Love. He reflects over his life.”
“Like what?”
“Crossroads and missed opportunities. He has more regrets than the very old. Wishes he’d never lied to you.”
“So do I.” He’d lied with as much skill as he read people. I rose and walked over to the lookout slot, scanning as if I could see him.
Even though I feared I could never trust him again, I still loved him.
“He wishes he could have seen you just one last time.” Matthew’s tone turned sly. “I could show you his reflections.”
Trespass in Jack’s mind? But then, he had listened to the tape of my life story—without permission. “What he’s thinking about right now? Show me.”
“From his eyes,” Matthew whispered.
A vision began to play, so immersive that the world around me faded away. As Jack’s memory became my own, I was transported into the ramshackle cabin he’d shared with his mother. Through an open doorway, I could smell the bayou, could hear frogs and cicadas.
His mother was smiling down at him. She’d had stunning good looks, with her tanned skin, high cheekbones, and long raven hair. Jack had gotten his coloring from her.
But shadows laced her gray eyes as she introduced him to two visitors.
Maman calls me over to meet them: a middle-aged woman and a girl around my age, maybe eight or so. Everyone says Maman and I are dirt poor, but this pair doan look like they’re doing much better.
“Jack, this is Eula and her daughter, Clotile. Clotile’s your half sister.”
She’d been tiny, all skinny legs and big soulful eyes. Sadness filled me because I knew Clotile’s ultimate fate.
Less than nine years from that day, she would survive an apocalypse—only to be captured by Vincent and Violet.
Clotile had escaped them, just long enough to shoot herself. Jack still didn’t know why. Had she committed suicide to give him a chance to get free? Or because she couldn’t live with what the Lovers had done to her?
I tell Maman, “I doan have a sister.” I got a younger half brother though. Earlier this summer, Maman had driven us all the way to Sterling to show me my father’s mansion. She said it should’ve been ours. We’d watched Radcliffe and his other son, Brandon, tossing a football in the front yard.
My half brother kind of looked like me. But this girl’s scrawny with light brown hair and pale skin.
“You two got the same father. Radcliffe.” Maman can barely say his name.
“Maybe, Hélène.” Eula snorts. “I’m giving it one in three.”
Clotile gazes at the ceiling. I get the sense she’s embarrassed that she can’t pin down who her père is—but kind of used to it too.
Eula strides toward me and grasps my face in a way I hate. “Oh, ouais, you got his blood, for sure. Not that it matters anyway. You’ll never get a dime out of him.” She drops her hand. “You and Clotile go play. Your mère and me are goan to have a couple of drinks.”
When Maman drinks she turns into a different person. I give her a look that says, Doan do this. But she gazes away. What’d I expect, me?
Clotile takes my hand with a wide smile, and we head outside. She’s sweet enough, I suppose. And she can’t help being my sister.
I take her out onto the floating pier I’ve pieced together, showing her how to check traps. She watches in amazement, like I’m turning water into wine or something.
Out of the blue, she says, “I think you are my big brother.”
I doan know how I feel about that. She’s not bad company, doan talk a lot. Her stomach’s been grumbling, but she woan admit she’s hungry. At least I’ve learned to feed myself, can hunt and fish and cook my take. I could help her out now and again.
“Maybe I am.” Then I scowl, kicking a trap back in the water. Just what I need—another mouth to feed!
A loud truck rumbles down our muddy track of a driveway, parking in front of the cabin. Two men stomp inside, hailing greetings, making our mothers laugh.
I can hear a metal opener tinking against beer bottles, can hear the throat of a bourbon fifth against a shot glass. They turn up music on a radio I “found” a couple months back and pair off.
The zydeco doan disguise what’s happening inside. For the first time, Clotile looks upset.
I figure I’d do just about anything to keep this scrawny little fille from crying. “We can borrow a pirogue and paddle out farther. I got more traps, me.”
She latches on to this like a bass on a line, and we doan get back for hours.
Near sunset, we creep up the cabin steps. “Stay behind me, girl,” I whisper. When Maman’s beaux get drunk, they always need to swing their fists—usually at her or me.
Inside is all a mess. Eula and a man are naked and passed out on the couch I got to sleep on. Clotile shrugs at that sight like she doan care, but her cheeks are red, her eyes glassy.
Maman’s door is open—I hear a man snoring from the bed—but I know better than to glance in that direction.
Beside the couch is my stack of library books; liquor’s spilled over them. It makes me so angry, like I need to swing my fists.
Clenching my jaw, I snag a few beers out of the icebox. Clotile doan miss a beat, grabbing the bottle opener. We head back out to the pier. As we watch the sun set between two cypress trees, she pops open beers for us, like she’s been doing this for a while.