Little Gale Gumbo (46 page)

“We can take a break,” she said.

“No. We're almost there.”

Finally inside the apartment, they reached the sisters' old bedroom and unloaded Charles onto one of the bare mattresses.

“Help me turn him on his side,” Ben said. “He'll choke himself if he gets sick.”

Dahlia did as he asked; then she followed Ben back out into the living room. She paused in the doorway, glancing back to take one last look at Charles, limp on Josie's old bed, his motionless face pinched with age, the freckles faded into the hollows of his cheeks.

Out in the hall, Ben locked the dead bolt on the apartment door. His color had darkened to scarlet. Dahlia could tell he was struggling to slow his breathing.

She moved to him, panicked. “I should stay.”

“No.” Ben turned to her, his eyes hardening with the order: “Go. Now. You can take the truck if you want. I'll come get it in the morning.”

“I can walk,” she said. “He's going to wake up eventually.”

“And when he does, I'll handle it.” Ben's voice was harsh now. He swallowed, wincing when he did. “I'm telling you to
go
.”

Dahlia put her hand over his, thinking his skin felt damp and cold, like her porch railing before the sun had dried the veil of fog from the wood. It took everything in her to move her feet down the stairs and step through the front door. On the street, she hesitated, staring up at the house, dread and fear stirring deep within her, growing as she turned toward the hill and headed home.

 

It's just the two of us now
, Ben thought to himself as he stood in the foyer and looked up the stairs to the apartment door. All these years later, and he'd lost Camille, and still Charles had crawled back to hassle them one more time.

Ben walked to the kitchen, wishing he could catch his breath. A cup of tea, he thought. That would calm him down. He didn't want to call Jack in a panic. It wouldn't look good. Better to be relaxed. After all, it could be hours before Charles came to. Jack would want to keep it all quiet, for everyone's sake. All he'd need to know was that Charles had violated parole. Jack would have him on his way back to Louisiana by morning. Josie would never need to know her father had been there.

The water came to a boil, even though Ben watched it furtively.

He poured his cup, pinched a slice of lemon into it, and carried his tea to the armchair where he'd watched six years of nights pass by since Camille had died. The first few sips went down smoothly. He'd take a few more, he decided; then he'd call the police.

But soon the cup was drained and he set it beside him, telling himself he'd just close his eyes for a minute. It had been a grueling night and he was so tired.

He woke to a banging. In the confused first seconds of consciousness he thought it was the pump or something twisted in the washing machine, but then he heard Charles's voice on the other side of the apartment door at the top of the stairs mixed in among the rapping and the jiggling of the knob.

“Let me out, you cocksucker!”

Ben rushed from his seat, catching the corner of the side table and knocking his cup and saucer to the ground, where they shattered across the brick hearth.

“Haskell!”

Ben climbed the stairs slowly, wondering for a moment whether Charles might be delirious enough to think he could force the door open with his own weight. His eyes dropped to the doorknob, watching it twist and jostle madly.

“Goddamn you, Haskell, let me out!”

Ben wiped sweat from his neck. The doorknob stilled.
Jesus
, Ben thought.
He's going to build up speed and ram the door
.

Ben hurried back down the stairs and moved quickly to the phone in the parlor, his hands shaking as he dialed the three numbers.

“Nine-one-one—what is your emergency?”

“This is Ben Haskell, over on Little Gale Island.” He swallowed, his throat so dry it hurt. The words came out fast and panicked. This wasn't how he'd wanted this to go, damn it. “Charles Bergeron's in my house and he's drunk and violent.”

“You say someone's in your house, sir?”

“That's right. His name is Charles Bergeron. He's violated his parole and I need an officer to come right away. Please.”

“Sir, where is the individual at this time?”

Ben carried the cordless phone back into the foyer, staring up at the apartment door, waiting for another pounding attack from the other side, but it never came. Instead, he heard a rush of movement farther in, then the crash of feet landing on the dormer roof.

Jesus Christ
, Ben thought.
He's climbed out the window.

“Sir . . . sir?”

A muffled, anguished sound outside. The cry of terror.

Ben's breath caught. “Dear God.” He whispered into the receiver, “Hurry.”

Then he hung up and rushed outside.

 

“Oh, God, no.”

Ben found Charles's twisted body in the middle of the gravel path that led around the house and he knelt down, struggling to turn him over. Charles didn't stir.

“Charles?” Ben tapped his cheek. “Charles, stay with me now. Stay with me.”

Ben hooked his arms under Charles and dragged him back to the house, feeling as if his whole head were on fire. He stopped only once to run a sleeve across his feverish face and didn't dare stop again. He told himself Charles could still be alive, that there could still be a chance if he could only get him inside. But at the porch, the pain behind his eyes grew blinding.

With one final heave, Ben hoisted Charles and himself through the front door before the numbness overtook his arm, then his leg, and he slipped out of consciousness, feeling like a leaf swept down a raging stream.

Part Five

Pour over rice and serve with French bread.

Thirty-four

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Josie opened the café at seven thirty. She loved the quiet moments of early morning, her precious routine of brewing that first pot of chicory coffee, then choosing the first song to play on the jukebox. Today she picked Dinah Washington's “What a Difference a Day Makes.” Fitting, she thought.

She'd already brought out two trays of muffins by the time she heard the bell. The Closed sign hung in plain sight, but Josie knew her first customer wouldn't let that stop him.

“Can I get a bowl a chowdah, deeyah?”

She laughed, turning to find Matthew standing on the other side of the counter, smiling warmly at her. It was all the proof she needed. He'd forgiven her.

“Not half-bad,” she teased, leaning over to give him a soft kiss. “But my accent's better.”

“Yeah, yeah. You've been here longer than me, that's all.”

“I have, haven't I?” Josie said, amazed. “Do you know I never realized that?”

“But you're still not a native, you know,” he said sternly. “So don't go getting all high-and-mighty on me, kiddo. Thinking you can dig clams or make whoopie pies or anything.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” She smiled, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Talked to Holly yet?”

He nodded. “I called her last night.”

“Does she know what you've decided?”

“Not everything. I told her my dad came to. I didn't want to get into the rest of it over the phone.”

“Of course not.”

“I was thinking, though. . . .” Matthew came around the counter, helping himself to a corn muffin while Josie poured him a cup of coffee. “Seeing as I am going to be living here again and I do know my way around this place,” he said, looking out at the café, “I thought maybe you could use an extra pair of hands for a while.”

Josie handed him his mug, excitement flooding her face. “You mean it?”

“Why not? Insurance will pay for a nurse for some of the time, so I'll have to find something to do with myself besides hanging out on the wharf with all the skateboarders.”

She grinned. “You should know we pool tips now.”

“Communists.” He winked at her. “Whatever happened to a little friendly competition?”

“You want friendly competition, open your own café.”

“So long as I can still get all the free gumbo I can eat.”

Josie squeezed his hand. “You never had to work here to get that.”

Dahlia's truck pulled in front of the window. They both looked up.

“I told her you were coming by,” Josie said.

Matthew smiled. “I figured you would.”

Josie gestured to the back. “Y'all understand if I excuse myself. I have a week's worth of gumbo to make.”

“Sure.” They embraced tightly; he kissed her forehead. “See you in a couple weeks, JoJo.”

Josie blew him a kiss as she pushed through the swinging door. “See you then, Matty.”

When she'd disappeared into the kitchen, Matthew turned to face the door. Dahlia came in slowly, stilling when she saw him behind the counter.

Matthew gave her a small wave. “Hi.”

Dahlia drew down her sunglasses. “Hi.”

“Pour you a cup?” he asked.

“Sure.” She came toward him with careful strides, walking as far as the counter but not coming around it. Matthew handed her a full mug over the case, and she walked to the end of the counter to fix it. “I hear you're coming back to the island for a while.”

“I thought I might,” he said, folding his arms. “See how long I can keep Pop comfortable in the house. The doctors think it won't work, but I think it's worth trying. He deserves that.”

Dahlia nodded. “How was he this morning?”

Matthew shrugged. “The doctor says there's always a chance for a full recovery, that it's still early, but . . .”

“He could make a lot of progress, Matty. Your dad's a determined man.”

“He was, once,” Matthew said with a sad smile. “We'll see.”

They fell silent, listening to Ella Fitzgerald while they sipped their coffees.

“How long will you be gone?” Dahlia asked.

“A week, maybe two. I have to talk to the school, pack up my things. Most of it's crap; I'm really just going for my dog.”

Dahlia grinned. “How is Hooper?”

“Oh, you know. Old and stubborn.”

“Like us,” she said.

“Yeah. Like us.”

They looked at each other, years of regret and love colliding.