Whispers of the Bayou Page 5

“Are you going on an airplane?” she asked, reaching for a piece of paper. “Will you bring me back a toy?”

  Tess chattered on and on, and I answered her endless questions as simply as I could without really listening. Though we often drew and colored together at playtime, the picture I began to draw now had nothing to do with quality interaction for my child and everything to do with creating a good likeness of Jimmy Smith, the man who had come to my office with the symbol in the painting. I wanted a likeness to give to the police and to museum security, not to mention to bring down and show Willy Pedreaux. On the phone, he claimed not to know who the man might have been or what he wanted, but maybe if Willy saw a picture of the guy he would recognize him. As all of this symbol business was connected somehow, I thought it couldn’t hurt to try. I only wished I had caught a glimpse of my attackers in the alley so that I could draw them too.

  I sketched the face for a while then traded out the black pencil for brown, disappointed that it wasn’t as easy as I had thought it would be to capture on paper the likeness of a man I had seen in person only once. I kept erasing, redrawing, shading, and erasing again, and as I did I gained a whole new respect for police sketch artists. When I was nearly finished, I just stopped and stared at it for a moment, knowing I hadn’t gotten it quite right but that it was the best I could do. I glanced at Tess’s picture, which featured an elaborate series of different-colored scribbles.

  “That’s good, honey,” I said. “Very colorful.”

  “Thanks, Mommy,” she replied, glancing at mine. “I like yours too. But why did you draw the telephone man?”

  My hand paused in midair, my heart suddenly in my throat.

  “What?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “That’s the man that fixes the telephones.”

  “Here in our apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All the time?”

  “No, just once.”

  “When?”

  She paused, trading a pink crayon for purple.

  “I don’t know. Six or seven years ago, maybe.”

  “You mean days? Six or seven days ago?”

  “Or ninety-two. I’m not sure.”

  Heart pounding, I pushed back my chair.

  “Was it this week, Tess?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “I don’t know, Mommy. Like for the whole SpongeBob.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He just went around fixing all the phones. I don’t know. Why are you asking so many questions? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, baby. You’re not in trouble.”

  “But you have an angry face.”

  “I am angry, but not at you. I’m upset with Rosita. She knows she shouldn’t have let a stranger into the house when the two of you are home alone, that’s all.”

  “Is she in big trouble?” Tess asked, looking at me with a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Someone getting into “big trouble” was usually Tess’s favorite thing to watch—as long as it was someone other than herself.

  “Kind of,” I replied, moving to the charging station near the door and grabbing Nathan’s cell phone. “You stay here, honey. I’ll be right back.”

  Letting myself out of the apartment, I padded down the hallway to the elevator area, where I stood as I dialed Rosita’s number. Once I had her on the phone and explained why I was calling, she confirmed that a pale man with a skinny mustache had indeed shown up at our door on Thursday in a uniform, carrying ID and a work order, so she had let him in. She said that he had stayed about fifteen minutes and then left.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  I wanted to scream at her for being so stupid, so careless. But I tried to put myself in her place and had to admit that ID and a work order politely offered by a man in uniform could be convincing if done well.

  “Do not ever let anyone into our apartment unless we have told you to expect them. Understand?”

  “Si, Miranda, I understand. Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Rosita. Bottom line, that guy was not from the telephone company. We don’t know who he was or what he wanted, but he wasn’t here to fix the phones.”

  She launched into a panic-filled monologue, trying to guess at what his real intentions had been. Despite the parts that were in Spanish, what I picked up was that she thought he was a robber, there to case the joint; or a rapist, looking for a victim. Thinking of my own brush with violence today, I waited for her to calm down and then had her explain to me exactly what rooms he had gone in and what he had done. She hadn’t kept a real close eye on him, she said, but from what she could remember, all he did was go into the kitchen, fool with the telephone in there for a while, and then leave.

  “Was he doing something with the phone,” I asked, “or the wires?”

  “The phone itself, I think.”

  I didn’t know much about telephones or electronics, but I had seen enough spy movies to know that definitely sounded like he was placing a bug. A real telephone repairman wouldn’t have messed with the phone itself at all, just the lines.

  Rosita offered up such profuse apologies that by the end of the call I was actually apologizing to her for upsetting her so. Turning off the phone, I returned to the apartment, set the phone back on the station, and headed down the hall to Nathan’s study, to tell him that the same man who had come to the museum with the symbol in the painting had also been here, inside our apartment. Just picturing that creepy man with his pinky ring and his caterpillar mustache in my home, alone with Tess and Rosita, made me so nauseous I thought I was going to be sick.

  Nathan’s reaction was equally intense, and he was dialing the police before I had barely finished telling him the news.

  While we waited for them to arrive, I gave Tess a quick bath and got her settled on the couch with some of her favorite picture books. Rosita and her husband came over as well so that she could give her statement about the fake repairman and his entry into our home. I was concerned that the whole brouhaha might frighten Tess, but she took all of it in stride, merely excited to see what big trouble was brewing now.

  The police stayed long enough to hear what we had to say, take a copy of my sketch as evidence, and do a cursory examination of the telephones. Almost immediately they found something they told us was a “drop out relay,” a cheap little bugging device that could be bought at almost any electronics store for under twenty dollars. They bagged the device as evidence and suggested that we hire a security company to come in and do a full bug sweep in order to find the receiving end of the drop out relay system and to check for other listening devices in the apartment.

  In the end, they agreed to circulate my sketch of the suspect, though they doubted it would do any good. If caught, the guy could be charged with stalking, criminal mischief, and possibly even burglary, even though nothing seemed to have been taken. We were advised not to keep our hopes up, however, as the chances of finding him were slim. Being Manhattan, a nonviolent, nontheft problem like ours wasn’t exactly going to be top priority. Strangely, the cops never asked us what we thought the intruder might have been hoping to hear by bugging our phones. I was glad it didn’t come up, as I had no good answer for that question myself.

  Rosita and her husband left with the police, and as Nathan shut the door behind them, I couldn’t help thinking how quiet our apartment suddenly seemed. Tess was finally tired and fading fast, so Nathan scooped her up and carted her off to bed with barely a protest. Once she was asleep, he and I moved to the bedroom where we sat side by side on the bed and wrote notes back and forth, hashing out plans for how to proceed from here. Afraid there might be other bugs in the place, we spoke as little as possible.

  Obviously, the specter of danger hovered over us no matter what plans we made, and in the end it was decided that Tess would fly south with me to go and stay with Nathan’s parents in Texas. With her safely out of harm’
s way, I would meet with Willy in Louisiana; meanwhile, Nathan would stay here to coordinate the bug sweep of the apartment and generally keep an eye on things. I insisted that he also continue to get ready for Sunday morning, when he would be representing his architectural firm at the grand opening of a megachurch in Connecticut that he had helped to design. He had worked so hard, I hated the thought that these problems might mess that up.

  Just in case there were more bugs here, Nathan went to a neighbor’s apartment to use their phone and make arrangements with his parents. While he was gone, I packed bags for myself and Tess and then went onto the computer to see what I could do about flight arrangements. My intention was to detour through Houston, where Nathan’s parents lived, and drop Tess off with them there. But I was still struggling to find something available when Nathan returned and handed me a bunch of scribbled notes, one of which said that if I couldn’t get us routed through Houston, his sister Quinn could actually pick up Tess in New Orleans. Quinn was driving home tomorrow from Florida State and could easily detour through the city on her way. Unless I wanted to wait two days for an available flight to Houston, that looked like our only choice. I added Tess to my flight to New Orleans in the morning, printed our itinerary, and shut down the computer. Using the printer, I also made a few more copies of the sketch I had drawn of Jimmy Smith, one for Nathan to take to Bill at the museum and the rest to bring along with me on my trip.

  In bed I finally got up the nerve to actually let Nathan see the tattoo on the back on my head. As I took down my ponytail, I was afraid he would be repulsed, but instead of recoiling away he simply reached up one finger and gently touched it.

  “I just can’t believe it was here all along and we didn’t even know it,” he said softly. “To me, that’s the most bizarre part. I thought I knew every inch of your body.”

  His warm hand moved down my back, caressing it. I could feel the invitation in his hand, not to mention in his voice, but with all that was going on, I simply wasn’t up to what he had in mind. I lied and told him that after today’s assault in the alley I felt a bit too vulnerable to be physical with him just yet.

  “Oh, gosh, of course,” he said, sounding so remorseful that I instantly felt guilty myself. “What was I thinking?”

  “It’s okay, really,” I assured him, turning off the lamp and trying to make up for it by snuggling against him.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around me, kissed my forehead, and relaxed. Soon he was lightly snoring away. Next to him, I lay awake for a long time, eyes open to the darkness, thinking again about the Plexiglas divider of the taxicab. Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe I did live my life separated and apart. I didn’t want to be that way, necessarily, but it was all I knew. Even with my own child, I had always felt less than connected, less than adequate as her mother. I tried, but I simply couldn’t find it within myself to form the sorts of bonds that most people took for granted.

  Carefully extricating myself from Nathan’s slumbering embrace, I scooted across the wide bed and turned to my other side, facing away from my husband. My eyes filled with tears as I thought of today’s conversation with AJ. Maybe when I lost all of those memories of my first five years, I also lost my ability to bond. If that were the case, I realized now as one tear slid sideways from my eye to the pillow, then there was no hope for us as a couple. Nathan wanted a true partner, not a roommate. In theory, I wanted that too.

  In reality, there was a wall of Plexiglas between us so thick I doubted anything could ever take it away.

  FIVE

  Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?

  Are thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?

  The limo service came on time the next morning, just as I was hurrying Tess to finish her cereal.

  “Come on, T-square,” Nathan said, swooping in to urge that last spoonful into Tess’s mouth. “It’s time to roll.”

  He turned his back to her and squatted down so that she could get on for a piggyback ride. Once aboard, she squealed with delight as he swayed side to side, pretending to lose his balance. He grabbed the suitcases and I picked up the carry-ons, and to the sound of our daughter’s giggles we made our way to the elevator. I gave my husband an appreciative nod as we moved inside and pushed the button for the lobby, grateful for his attempt to keep things light this morning and make our daughter believe that this abrupt change in plans was simply one big adventure.

  We emerged from the elevator to find the driver standing near the intercom, waiting to take our luggage. Handing the bags over, we followed the man outside and watched as he began loading them into the back of his blue-and-yellow van.

  “I thought we were going in a limousine,” Tess said, the laughter suddenly gone from her face.

  “A limousine service,” I corrected as I dug in my bag for a tip. “It’s just an expression.”

  “All right, T,” Nathan said, sliding Tess from his back to the ground. “Make sure you watch out for alligators while you’re in Louisiana. You know what their favorite snack is, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Five-year-old girls!” Nathan cried, kneeling down to her level and pretending to make a snack of her arm.

  She giggled some more as he got her settled into the seat and safely buckled up. After a hug goodbye, he emerged and turned to me. Our farewell was much more subdued, a simple exchange of brave smiles followed by a lingering hug and kiss.

  “Don’t worry. This will all be over soon,” he whispered as we pulled apart. “Then we can concentrate on us.”

  I knew he meant for his words to be encouraging, but as I climbed inside and buckled my own seat belt, I couldn’t ignore the surge of panic that rose up within me.

  How could we concentrate on us when the problem with us was me?

  Tess talked all the way to the airport, a nearly nonstop monologue that continued as we made our way through check-in, security, and even onto the plane. Once we were in the air, though I wanted peace and quiet so I could think, I forced myself to focus on my child and listen. I knew that she was excited and nervous, and that chattering was her way to process this sudden, unexpected trip. As she prattled on, I was just glad we had the row to ourselves so that her talking wasn’t bothering anyone else but me.

  I dug through Tess’s carry-on bag to find something to distract her, finally pulling out her favorite puzzle, a brightly tacky piece of King Tut memorabilia I had bought for her in a last-minute purchase at a museum shop while on a business trip. On the open tray table in front of her, Tess quickly took apart the sarcophagus and put it back together again, saving the jeweled headpiece for last, as always.

  “He has pretty eyes, like Daddy,” Tess said, running one tiny finger across the Egyptian’s face. “I miss Daddy.”

  “I know you do,” I replied lightly. “But you’ll have lots of adventures to tell him about when we get home.”

  Tess grew bored with the puzzle and asked for her favorite storybook instead. I put the puzzle away and pulled out Garamond and the Gator, a beautifully illustrated Cajun folktale that Nathan had given her last Christmas. Tess absolutely loved the book and had made us read it to her at least twice a day for months. Secretly, I wondered if the story appealed to some basic instinct inside of her, that portion of Cajun heritage that had come down from my paternal grandmother. As I read the story to Tess now, letting her find for the millionth time the crab, the spider, and the crawfish that were hidden in the elaborate drawings on every page, my hand reached absently for the French twist at the back of my head that artfully hid the bald patch.

  What kind of family tattoos a child?

  Maybe it was a Cajun thing, a right of passage or a ceremonial ritual. At the library yesterday, as a part of my search for an ornate cross inside a bell or an upside-down shield, I had gone down the path of every country and heritage for which I could find literature, studying their symbols and icons, both modern and ancient. I hadn’t found a match for my tattoo anywhere, but
perhaps much of Cajun history and icons were more verbal than written anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time an entire offshoot culture had preserved its history in oral form.

  “Turn the page, Mommy,” Tess scolded me now. “You’re not paying attention.”

  I did as she instructed, reading the next page of text with extra enthusiasm.

  What kind of family tattoos a child? I wondered again after I finished reading and waited for her to find the crab, spider, and the crawfish. Had my mother done this to me while she was still alive? If she had, wouldn’t AJ have known about it?

  According to AJ, she and my mother had been extremely close their whole lives, best friends as well as sisters. They had grown up on the “wrong side of the tracks,” as AJ put it, though both had escaped their humble beginnings—AJ by running off to New York City to try her hand at modeling, my mother by marrying the handsome and wealthy Richard Fairmont, who brought her to live in his family home across town. That was the same home I was heading to now, the one that had been left to me by my grandparents.

  “Do you see the crawfish, Mommy?”

  I pointed to the tiny lobsterlike creature peeking from behind a bucket, knowing that even when AJ and my mother lived a thousand miles apart they were in constant touch; AJ said the two of them had written letters almost daily and spoken via long distance once a week. We knew each other’s details, was how she had explained it to me yesterday, and nothing in her life or yours or your grandparents, for that matter, ever indicated anything strange or unusual, at least not until I found this tattoo. Strange and unusual was right.

  “Read, Mommy,” Tess commanded with a groan.

  I took a deep breath and kept going. I had hoped Tess might nap on the plane, but I realized now that she was obviously nowhere near sleep, feeling her usual morning peppiness times ten. I gave up on having any quiet time for my own thoughts and focused on her energy and enthusiasm instead. We interacted for the rest of the flight and somehow between the puzzles, picture books, and toys—not to mention a welcome soda and snack from the flight attendant—we managed to get through the next few hours.