West 57th Street. Amy hugged Cat goodbye and got into a cab.
After seeing her friend off, Cat quickly flagged a taxi to take her home. She was running a bit late, and would have to hurry to be ready in time.
Chapter 7
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana – Present Day
Always an early riser, Alan made his way downstairs, following the aroma of freshly percolated coffee. Morning sunlight poured into the bright expanse of the kitchen through the room’s large, East-facing windows, creating fat stripes of light on the wide-planked floor. On the far wall, the home’s original brick fireplace spanned the entire width of the room, giving it a rustic atmosphere. Evangeline had laid out a platter of fruit and a basket containing freshly baked biscuits, still warm, on the long, wooden kitchen table.
Always one step ahead of him, she had timed the coffee so it would be hot and strong just as he arrived downstairs. He poured himself a steaming mug, helped himself to a couple of her biscuits, and headed for his favorite breakfast spot.
From the kitchen, which was in the back of the house, he traveled along the wide center hallway past the double parlor on his left and the dining room and library on his right. He stepped out the main door onto the expansive porch that fronted the entire louver-windowed main floor.
The Louisiana humidity was already playing hell with his arthritis, and the day had just begun. He set the plate of biscuits and the steaming mug on a side table, smoothed down the stubborn wisps of his snow-white hair, and lowered his aching body onto one of the cushioned wicker rocking chairs arranged along the gallery.
The fragrant scent of crepe myrtle reached him from the gardens beyond the west corner of the house. He bit into a still-warm biscuit and sipped his coffee. When the biscuits were gone, he removed the cigarette from his shirt pocket where he’d tucked it before coming downstairs. He’d quit smoking many times over the years, but the craving had never left him completely. He still indulged in the habit occasionally. After lighting up, he settled back in the rocker to enjoy his smoke in the quiet of the early morning.
He had grown to love the place he now called home, and he thought again of how much he owed to Evangeline. None of it would have been possible without her help. He closed his eyes, remembering the day she had taken them in almost thirty years ago.
* * * *
Louisiana, October 1980
Late on the morning following his escape from Chicago, Alan crossed the Louisiana border. The past twenty-four hours were nothing more than a jumbled blur.
Catherine had noticed blood on his clothes and it frightened her. He’d pulled over to change his shirt but, even afterwards, she’d continued to cry for most of the previous afternoon and evening. Finally, exhausted and unable to shed any more tears, she’d fallen asleep. He stopped once more to lay her in the back seat and cover her up. Then he’d driven all night along the back roads, heading south. The images of his dead wife and daughter haunted him more and more with every mile he put behind him.
Finding Catherine had spurred him to action. Had he remained in the field, it would have jeopardized everything. As he drove into the black night, he found he was too numb to care. When it began to pour, the swishing sound of the wipers and rain drumming on the car roof sounded like a death march, background music to the nightmarish movie playing over and over in his head.
It was not until the sun came up the next morning that some semblance of sanity returned to him. Catherine woke early after a fitful night’s sleep and began to cry when she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings. He stopped at a Denny’s when they crossed over into Louisiana to try to get some food into the child. She barely touched her favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, however, and drank only a little of her milk.
“Where’s mommy, Grandy? I want mommy,” she said in a small quivering voice. “And Nanna.” Her rosebud lips trembled.
“I know you do, sweetheart.” Consumed with guilt, Alan stroked the child’s hair, and was instantly reminded of Kate. Catherine was the part of his wife and daughter that had survived, he told himself. He would die before he let any harm come to her. “I’m here and I’m going to take care of you, I promise.”
The little girl stared silently at her grandfather. A transition began, the only way her young mind could deal with the fact that her mother might not be coming back. She started the process of forgetting, of burying the memory of waking up in the car alone and the sight of her grandfather’s frightened face.
The blank look on her face tugged at his heart, although he was relieved she had stopped crying. The poor child just looked worn out. He would have to find a permanent stop, and soon.
By five o’clock that afternoon, having driven a fair way past Houma, he was ready to collapse. He had to pull over. Turning onto a dirt road, he brought the car to a stop under a large oak tree and hoped it would not be noticed by any nosy passersby. Catherine had fallen asleep again, her tiny face as white as a ghost’s. He put his head back, closing his eyes to rest a few moments before carrying on.
* * * *
On the highway bordering the bayou, Evangeline Mercier rolled along in her new Valiant, humming a chorus of the closing hymn as she headed home from Sunday afternoon Mass which, in the small town of Marécage Noir, was held at four o’clock. She loved her hymns and she loved driving her new car, so she was in fine spirits as she turned onto the dusty road leading to her house. At fifty-two, Evangeline was still a handsome woman, tall and slim. One would not describe her as pretty; hers were more the strong good looks a woman could carry with her well into old age. She lived alone in a neat, one-story house outside the tiny bayou town of Marécage Noir, where she had moved with Henry after they married, and where she had remained after Henry passed away twelve years ago. Evangeline, who hailed from Acadia, had thought about moving back there when Henry passed on but, after some contemplation of the matter, decided to stay on in the little house they had shared.
Perhaps because the Priest had mentioned Martin Luther King during the sermon, her thoughts lingered on the turbulent years of the sixties when, as an adolescent living with her mother, brother and grandmother in a clapboard house just outside of Crowley, she had remained insulated from much of the social unrest that had swept the country. For the most part, she’d been too preoccupied adjusting to her own circumstances.
Evangeline had what her grandmother used to call ‘second sight,’ and it was in 1965 that her gift had first manifested itself. It was an event forever seared into her memory. She had been eleven years old on the September day that had changed her life forever. As she drove along, she recalled that morning and how it had started out like any other.
The air had felt stagnant and heavy, thick with humidity, as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen. The moss draping the trees outside the kitchen window hung motionless as Evangeline joined her mother, grandmother, and seven-year-old brother, Claude, in a breakfast of corn-meal mush, what her mother used to call ‘coush-coush.’ From the transistor radio on the windowsill, the only place it could pick up decent reception, a blues tune, ‘Canal Street’ or ‘Dusty Road’ maybe, played in the background as she took her place at the table.
Claude nattered on excitedly about the field trip to Lafayette he was to attend with his class. Evangeline, busy daydreaming about Charlie Robetaille, the boy who sat next to her in school and on whom she had a terrible crush, paid little attention to her brother’s conversation. Then Claude said something about his teacher, nasty old Mrs. Semple, that made her laugh and
