Never Smile at Strangers (13 page)

DR. BROUSSARD, THE Landry’s family physician, sat in the recliner in the living room with a faded fishing hat between his sun-spotted hands.

“She swears up and down that it’s your daddy,
cher
. And this is by far the best I’ve seen yore mama look in the past year.” He ran a hand against the gray stubble of his cheeks and chin. “I don’t think you girls have a thing to worry about.”

“But her sleeping medication might be making her hallucinate,” Haley insisted. “She doesn’t even believe in ghosts.”

The older man raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she’s never seen the dead until your daddy, dear. It’s not uncommon around these parts for people to see the dead, you know.”

Haley thought about Nana and her many tales about the early Cajuns, farmers and trappers who lived off the land in Nova Scotia. She talked frequently of the ethnic cleansing they’d endured by the British, their land taken away, how they had been separated from their families.

Nana believed that the Cajuns began seeing
many
ghosts after living and dying during
le grand derangement
, and that their ghosts followed them as they found their way to Louisiana. Nana had even claimed to see the dead while she sat in her rocking chair on the Landry’s back porch, facing the dark bayou. But Haley’s mother never had. She always said that Nana only told the stories because she was getting old.

“Do you think it’s possible she could become suicidal?”

“
Cher
, your mama’s goin’ through a hard time. Do I think she’s going to go off and leave her babies by themselves?” He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think she’s getting much better.”

“Would an antidepressant help?” Haley asked, wondering if a pill could really bathe a mind in calm denial and possibly help her mother.

The man shook his head. “Your mama doesn’t want to get herself mixed up with any dang antidepressant medications. She’s going to grieve it out, just like she should. It’s not always a bad thing for the mind to feel some pain. And in yore mama’s case, it’s perfectly normal. She lost the love of her life, you know.”

Broussard rose and brought his fishing hat to his head. “I’ll be back tomorrow after office hours to check in. I recommend that you spend some time outside of these here walls,
cher
. Death’s a sad part of life, but it still has its place. Try not to let yore daddy’s death eat you up so much. Let yore mama get better on her own accord. Her mourning will end when she’s ready.”

As Haley watched Dr. Broussard drive off, she wondered if he was right. After all, her mother seemed to be making progress, albeit slow. So what if she thought she was seeing her daddy’s ghost. If that’s what it took for her to get better, it wasn’t such a bad thing. . . was it?

ONE LIE DIDN’T necessarily beget another. Did it? That’s what Haley asked herself as she stepped into Mac’s truck. It was a question she’d been asking herself for days. It was Mac for Chrissakes.
Mac
. He would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. No one was perfect. Hell, she, herself, was far from it.

Mac had always been great to her and their relationship was unlike most. It was actually
good,
unselfish and healthy. Certainly not as passionate as her parents’ had been, but theirs had been rare. An almost fairy tale relationship, something she had dreamt of for herself when she was a little girl. But something she now understood was far from realistic. Her parents had been married for almost twenty years, but never ceased acting like newlyweds. You could see the extent of their love in the way they looked at each other, the way they treated one another, the way they touched. They had the type of connection you could feel when you were in a room with them. And although Mac didn’t look at her the way her father had always looked at her mother, he was very good to her. And they were comfortable together.

Although, daydreaming about Austin was something she did often, it was only a guilty pleasure.
Mac
was her man. He was the one who loved and wanted her.

As Mac threw the truck in reverse, she managed a weak smile.

“You’re smiling,” Mac said, sounding surprised.

Haley situated herself in her seat and reached out to touch his neck.

“What’s wrong with smiling?”

He eyed her. “I don’t know,” he said, forming each word slowly, as though he were suspicious. “It’s just been a while I guess. Seeing you smile. But it’s nice. It’s
real
nice.”

He threw the truck into gear and they headed toward Main Street, to the sno cone stand. Mac had taken the evening off from towing to spend time with her, something he never did, and they had the whole day to spend with each other. Time they hadn’t had in a long while.

“After sno cones, where do you want to go? Your pick. We can drive to Lafayette and catch a movie. Or we can go fishing? Whatever you’re in the mood for. The sky’s the limit today.”

“Mmmm. Let’s see a movie. We haven’t done that in ages.”

“Then a movie, it is,” Mac said, staring out at the road ahead of them.

Haley reached for her purse. She unzipped it and fished for her driver’s license. She’d need it to get into an R-rated show. She accidentally turned the purse at an angle and some loose change tumbled out, disappearing in the tight space between the passenger seat and the gear shift. “Dang,” she muttered.

The truck slowed and Mac killed the ignition. “Stay here,” he said, then hopped out. Haley forced her hand into the space to pick up the change and her fingers brushed against something smooth. She grasped it just as Mac opened the passenger door for her.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was a candy tin.

“May I, Miss Landry?” Mac was saying. He was trying to help her out of the truck.

Haley studied the little pink tin that Tiffany kept her breath mints in. And on many occasions, her marijuana. She turned it over and saw the familiar monogrammed TP.
Tiffany Perron
.

She tried to remember Tiffany ever being in Mac’s truck and couldn’t.

“What do you got there?” Mac asked.

She looked up at him. “It’s Tiffany’s. I found it between the seats.”

For a quick instant, Mac looked as confused as she felt. “Oh. She must have dropped it.”

“When was she in your truck?”

Mac rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “A few weeks ago. I picked her up. She was walking along Main Street. Said something about Charles dropping her off at Luke’s, and she didn’t have her car to get home.”

Thoughts swam through her head. Some making connections that made sense. Some not. But they were suspended in a heavy fog and she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of them.

Mac squinted. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah,” she lied.

He grinned. “Then let’s get us some sno cones.”

IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock on Friday evening and Tom still hadn’t come home. The kids were in bed. At least she thought they were. Who knew these days, Rachel thought, especially with Kelsey.

She tossed aside the book she’d been trying to read, pulled on her robe, and walked down the hallway to Kelsey’s room. She opened the bedroom door and waited for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw that her daughter wasn’t there. Anger swelled inside her, and she remembered the previous Sunday when the raccoons knocked over the trashcan out back, creating that awful noise.

She’d awoken in a panic and raced to Kelsey’s room. There’d been a heaviness in her gut, screaming of something terribly, terribly wrong. When she reached the bedroom, she found that Kelsey had snuck out her window.

That was the first night when she’d gone into Kelsey’s room to find her not there, her bed empty, the covers barely ruffled.

The next morning they’d had it out, both yelling at the tops of their lungs. Kelsey had said she hated her.

Hated
.

And that she was a horrible mom.

Horrible.

Her daughter’s words tormented her.

As she did that night, Rachel crawled into her daughter’s bed and awaited her return. Lying against the soft linens, she thought back to a time when she and Kelsey had been best friends.

Had anything happened to them besides puberty? Had it been something
she
did? She wanted to be closer to her daughter. She wanted Kelsey to trust her, to love her, to
like
her, but she knew she was partially to blame for Kelsey’s new attitude. She was supposed to be a mother first and a wife second, but for months, she had grossly reversed her priorities.

The room darkened. Rachel rose in the bed, realizing someone was standing in front of the window, blocking the moonlight. It was Kelsey. She was home.

Her mind raced as she tried to figure out how best to handle this one. Should she be angry again? Or could she be calm with her daughter and simply explain again the dangers of slipping out at night?

Rachel sat up straight on the edge of the bed and smoothed her silk nightgown with her palms. She then took a few long, deep breaths. Was now the right time to tell her that she was sorry for not being emotionally available? Yes, that’s what she’d do. She’d be calm. Kelsey would appreciate it and the two would begin to rekindle their relationship.

The room brightened again.

Where was Kelsey going?
Had she sensed she was in there and fled?

Rachel hurried to the window, getting there just in time to see a figure slipping into the woods. A figure much too large and tall to be her daughter.

THE FAN HUMMED loudly in the living room window, but did little to cool the Landry’s small house. The living room was the coolest room by far, and the place everybody congregated, whether they all liked each other or not—and as far as Erica could tell, they didn’t.

It was eight o’clock, and still over eighty degrees, although it felt hot enough to be a hundred. Haley was fixing crawfish
etouffe
in the kitchen, her shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail and an apron over her sundress. Sasha, having just woken from a late nap, sat at the counter, coloring, one of his nostrils crusted with snot.

Becky and Seacrest were in the adjoining living room. Seacrest was spread out on the large couch and Becky was sitting on the smaller one. They were watching a video countdown on VH-1.

Erica sat rigidly in a recliner, writing. It was the third time Haley had asked her over and only the second time she’d actually come. Since arriving an hour before, she mostly kept to herself. But there was something about being at the Landry’s that already felt pretty good. They were a troubled lot, but it still gave her a sense of what being part of a family was like. A real family.

She jotted down notes as she watched the two younger girls out of the corner of her eye. Mostly she watched Seacrest, the one who sat closest. The girl lay, twirling her long, dark hair around one finger, her full mouth pursed as though she were ready to say something. Every now and then she’d shift on the couch, moving a shoulder back and forth, and she’d sigh. On the other couch, Becky slouched, her chin upturned and her mouth set, staring impassively at the television.

When she first got there, Erica had overheard the two on the porch. Seacrest had been telling Becky about a boy she’d given a blow job to, and Becky’s admiration for the girl had been more than evident.

Haley wet a napkin in the kitchen sink, then reached over to wipe Sasha’s filthy nose. The little boy moaned and shook his head from side to side, resisting. The color he was using fell from his hand, and he cried out, bursting into tears.

Erica took a long drink of the Jack Daniels and Coke Haley had fixed her, then focused again on her notes. She was glad to be away from her house, away from Pamela and her senseless drivel. The woman had become a permanent, unwanted fixture, always pestering her for information, and trying pathetically to be her friend.

Outside, owls trilled on the small bayou, awaiting their nightly hunt. Erica’s father once told her that many of the older Cajuns believed owls were old souls, and that the superstitious ones thought when you heard one at night, you should get out of bed and turn your left shoe upside down to prevent disaster. Her father was Louisiana backwards. Of course, he’d believe in ignorant folklore like that. Erica, like her mother, had never in her life turned a shoe upside down. And she never would.

Mrs. Landry’s bedroom door opened and she shuffled out, carrying a silver dog bowl. Her clothes were carelessly mismatched and she was only wearing one sandal. With bleary eyes, the woman took all of them in one-by-one. Becky, Seacrest, Sasha, Haley and then Erica. Sasha sat in shock at the counter, as though a dead person had just entered the room, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Hi doodlebug,” she said.

Sasha sat silently, the color he’d been crying over, forgotten. Mrs. Landry moved across the living room and into the kitchen, patting the little boy on the head as she walked by. She filled the bowl with water, then headed slowly back into the living room.

An old, frail dog wandered out of her bedroom, its claws tapping loudly on the hardwood floor. It stretched its long body and a few of its joints popped. It glanced at Erica with near-dead eyes.

“Hi, Missus Leendry. You steel seek?” Sasha asked, finally finding his voice. His eyes were bug-like behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

Mrs. Landry smiled at the boy, but said nothing.

“Mama, this is Erica,” Haley said, walking into the living room and pointing to where Erica sat.

“Hello,” the woman said, not even making eye contact with her. Then she made her way to the screen door and set the water bowl on the porch.

“Want anything to eat, Mama? I’m making an
etouffee
?” Haley said. “I was going to carry some in for you after it was ready.”

The woman shook her head. “No, thanks, baby.”

Mrs. Landry opened the door a little wider and stepped out. The old dog followed her. Then the screen door slammed and Mrs. Landry was gone.

Erica got up and went the kitchen counter. “You okay?” she asked, concerned.

Haley’s face was drawn and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m. . . not really sure.”

***

LATER THAT EVENING, after the girls finished dinner, Haley got a prank phone call.

Erica was sitting at the kitchen counter next to her, pouring drinks. It was the third each of them had had that night. She had snuck the bottle of whiskey from her father’s private stash in the back of the kitchen pantry and gave it to Haley when she got there.

Since meeting Pamela, her father had turned into a wine drinker, so she knew that he wouldn’t notice the bottle was gone until Pamela was long gone, which, unfortunately, didn’t seem like it would be any time soon.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Haley asked. “Who is this?”

“Another prank call?” Becky called from her place on the couch once Haley hung up. “That’s like the third one today!”

“I’d be pissing my pants if I were you,” Seacrest said.

Haley hung up. “It was just a breather,” she said quietly, her eyes glassy. Erica had noticed early on that it took the girl less than a drink before she started to get drunk. But regardless, she always kept drinking. Erica knew that she was the one who had introduced alcohol into Haley’s life and now wondered if she’d done a good thing or bad thing. Thinking of this observation, she scribbled in her notebook.

Becky straightened on the couch. “That creeps me out. You know, it could be the guy who kidnapped Tiffany. And he keeps calling
us
.”

“Yeah, it could be a killer,” Seacrest said, sitting across from Becky. “He could be stalking you. Holy shit, he could be watching the house right now!”

“A keeler?” Sasha gasped, and a blue crayon tumbled out of his hand, onto the floor.

“She’s just joking, baby,” Haley muttered, and threw Seacrest a nasty look.

Haley’s face looked a little green.

Sasha climbed down from the barstool, trotted into the living room, and stood in front of Becky. He screwed up his round face.

“What are you looking at?” Becky demanded.

“Guess!” he squealed.

“No, Sasha. I’m not guessing.”

Sasha inched a little closer.

“Get out of my face, dammit,” Becky snapped. “Why are you staring at me!”

“Why’s yo face that culuh?” Sasha demanded.

Erica looked across the room at Becky. Squinting, she could make out orange streaks across the slouching girl’s cheeks and neck, even her arms.

“Go color in your stupid book, Sasha,” Becky spat.

Seacrest giggled from her place on the couch. “It’s tanning lotion gone wild. She put it on a little while ago. Why’d you put all that cheap tanning lotion on yourself anyway, stupid? I told you not to.”

Becky grabbed a bag of Doritos from the coffee table. She stuck one in her mouth.

“You have beautiful skin, Becky,” Haley said, stumbling on the words. “You shouldn’t. . . mess with it like that.”

“I like yo face da otha culuh,” Sasha said, his face serious. He took a step closer to Becky and stuck out his index finger. “Does it huht?”

Becky ignored him. “How can you say it’s beautiful? It’s so pale,” she whined.

“Pale can be beautiful,” Erica said. “My mother has pale skin, and she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Becky looked at her, uncertain what to say.

“I think she needs more color,” Seacrest piped up. “Not orange. But something. Maybe a lot of makeup. Like that pancake crap. Would cover all her freckles.”

“Nothing’s wrong with. . . Becky being pale,” Haley slurred. “And I don’t want to ever hear you call my sister stupid again. You understand me?”

Seacrest shrugged. “It don’t look healthy. And I was only joking when I called her stupid. You know that, right Becky?”

Becky nodded, but looked unsure.

Erica studied Seacrest. There was something in the girl’s eyes that bothered her. Not just her uncouthness or the fact that she seemed to be a bully, or the haughty way she carried herself, or even the anger she could tell the girl kept inside. There was something else.

“I mean it, Seacrest,” Haley repeated. “Whether you’re kidding or not. Don’t call her names.”

“Don’t cawl huh names!” Sasha squealed, his finger now pointed at Seacrest. He giggled, thinking Haley’s words were hilarious.

Seacrest raised an eyebrow. “Whatever.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then stood and stretched. Her gray and pink low-rise shorts that read Angel in bold red letters dipped low on her hips, exposing a long, olive torso and silver belly ring. The girl walked to the door and stepped into the sticky evening air.

“You hate her, don’t you?” Becky asked her sister when she was gone.

“Yes,” Haley said. “And I don’t understand why you put up with—” She hiccupped loudly. “Put up with her. She’s mean.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Becky said quietly. “Sometimes I don’t like her either. She seemed really cool at first, but I think she lies a lot.”

“Then why do you waste your time with her?” Haley asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t have any other friends.”

***

ERICA WENT OUTSIDE and found Seacrest sitting cross-legged in one of the two rocking chairs on the small porch. She dragged on a cigarette and its cherry glowed against the darkness.

Erica sat in the chair next to her and silently lit up. She rocked slowly back and forth as she dragged, a warm breeze hitting her bare shoulders. She thought of how her mother used to sit out on their own porch and rock facing the water. The nights she’d caught her crying uncontrollably.

Erica looked out at the bayou. She thought about the mud on its bottom, the mucky mess she sometimes dreamed was eating her up.

An egret took flight from the pecan tree above the house, its wings flapping loudly across the bayou. It quickly vanished into the shadows of the moss-draped cypress trees.

What was this Seacrest girl all about? Erica wondered. If she were a real writer, she told herself, she’d find out. She’d ask questions. There was no room for shyness or discomfort when your happiness completely depended on your success as a novelist. She’d have to suck it up and talk to people, even if some were vermin.

Setting her cigarette on top of an empty Pepsi can, she cradled the glass of Jack Daniels between her hands. “So, where do you live?” Erica asked.

The girl was quiet for a long moment. “Weston,” she said finally.

Erica nodded. “Seacrest is a different name. Kind of odd.”

“Yeah? Well, if you knew me, you’d probably say it’s fitting.”

Erica kept rocking, wondering where she should go from there. Sasha was crying inside the house, screaming about not being allowed to go outside. Becky was shouting for him to be quiet.

“Your mother drive you out here?”

Seacrest shook her head. “I usually take my bike. Sometimes I hitch.”

“Your mother doesn’t mind that you hitch?”

“She doesn’t know. She’s always working.”

“So why do you come all the way out here?”

“There’s no one in Weston,” Seacrest said, tapping ash into the can. “The place is a ghost town.”

Erica had been through Weston plenty of times since it touched most of Grand Trespass, but she’d never stopped. There’d never been any reason for her to. It was a town not much different than Grand Trespass. You blink a second too long and it’s gone.

A few months back, her father had dated a woman that lived in Weston. Pearl. She cringed just thinking about her. Her big hair, too dolled-up makeup, the smelly dollar store perfume she wore. Once she’d overheard Pearl telling her father that Weston was just a dead end, a no-good swamp and she wanted to escape. What Pearl didn’t understand is that Grand Trespass was no different. Who cared if it was a mile closer to civilization? A mile was nothing. Everyone seemed to want to get out, but hardly anyone would. Erica would be an exception.

“What does your mother do?” Erica asked.

“Sells Avon.”

Avon. So she was one of those women. Loud, pushy, always trying to sell you something you didn’t need.

“Your father?”

“Salesman.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

Seacrest shook her head.

“They happy together?”

“Who?” Seacrest asked, and snubbed out her cigarette.

“Your parents.”

Seacrest’s eyes shone against the night. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Can’t you see I’m trying to relax?”

Seacrest reminded her of herself in some ways. The anger. The sarcasm. The unwillingness to be the Stepford equivalent of everyone else.

“You have a hard time being nice to people, don’t you?” Erica said.

“No.”

“Think it was nice making Becky feel bad about herself tonight? Embarrassing her? Telling her and Haley that someone could be watching this house?”

Seacrest regarded Erica, her eyes slits. “I was telling Becky the truth. I don’t just say what I think other people want to hear. I think she’s pale. So the fuck what? And if I think she’s pale, I’ll tell her.”

She kicked off her sandals and stood. “And some sick-o keeps calling this house and hanging up. I think it could be a killer. Becky thinks so too, she’s just too afraid to say it. The girl’s too fuckin’ afraid of everything.”

She sauntered down the concrete steps, to the pier.

Erica stood so she could see Seacrest over the tall bushes. When the girl reached the rotting wood of the pier, she stopped and pulled off her t-shirt and her shorts. Then, fearless of the gators and moccasin that overran the dark water, she dove in.