Didn’t they have voodoo shops in New Orleans?
The next thought after that was too horrible. Don’t farewell, fare forward.
At the entrance, the information lady was waiting for me. “There you are,” she said. “Your sister’s waiting for you.” She turned the key and I walked out into the cool, damp night.
June was all huddled on the steps, a forlorn ball of misery.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She looked over. “At least you showed up.”
The mourning wasn’t for me; my automatic guilt rolled away like a backpack with a broken strap. “Where’s Stan?”
The streetlights were bright. You could tell she’d been crying. “I don’t know! And where were you, anyway? I thought you went back to the motel without me.”
I sat down beside her on the steps. The granite was cold through my pants and coat. “I wouldn’t leave you. I went to the South Seas, like you said, and there were these huge boats… I guess I fell asleep. I had the weirdest dreams! I dreamt Deane—”
“There’s no answer at the motel,” June said. “Do you think they ran away?”
Such a picture wouldn’t materialize. “Maybe separately, but not together.”
“You’ve got a point.”
June pulled her coat tighter around. A wind was picking up off the ocean, which we could see glimmering in the moonlight, right past the palm trees. The view was really fine. The dark, the breeze, the water. Those canoes gliding off into the swamps, transporting the souls of the dead.
“What’re we going to do?” In situations like this, it was better to be the little sister.
“We’ll walk back,” June announced. Her voice was filled with confidence again, now that she had her troops to order.
“Okay.”
We marched down the stairs, full of purpose and direction.
“It’s about five miles,” June said. “We’ve walked that far before. Remember last year when we snuck out at Aunt Edith’s?”
“The good vending machine?”
“That was over three miles each way. From the Mission Beach pier to the Pacific Beach pier.”
Aunt Edith had been more angry at what she perceived as our lying—that we had walked so far, even that we’d been able to find our way to the drugstore with the good vending machine—than at our disappearing during “nap time.” Nap time was what relatives made up when they tired of taking care of you.
The beach air and the late hour, reminding me of grunion runs, suffused me with sweet homesickness. “Remember Moni?” I asked.
Brad and Kirk, our cousins, were Aunt Edith’s sons. Brad was only a month younger than I, but he already had a surf board, which he stretched between his twin beds and slept on at night, complete with blanket and pillow. I’d always called him Bread, because he was nice and squishy like a loaf of Wonder. Kirk, though, was a whole other story. He was a year older than Deane—seventeen—and he never wore shoes. Moni, his girlfriend, didn’t either. Kirk had his hair in a blond ducktail and he smoked cigarettes like someone in the movies. Moni wore her hair with the top part teased up in a beehive and the bottom part hanging down, like Kim Novak in Bell, Book, and Candle. Deane said that Moni was a goody-goody, but everyone else said she was cheap. You could tell Aunt Edith wasn’t too keen on her, just by the tone of voice when she offered potato chips or Cokes.
“White jeans,” said June.
Kirk and Moni liked to wear tight white jeans with their bare feet.
“I wish we’d move to the beach,” I said. “Any beach.”
We rounded the corner of the cobbled street we’d been walking on. There was no traffic in sight, though you could hear it whooshing nearby. An old fort stood elegant in the moonlight. The give and take of the waves was soothing.
“I’d like to ride a horse on the beach.”
“Or run with a big dog.” I’d like to have one of those furry white ones, the kind that pulls sleds. “Maybe we’ll move here.”
Then we’d never go to New Orleans.
“Maybe we’ve been left here.” June dug her hands into her coat pockets.
My stomach queased. “Do you think they found out about the money?”
“I don’t know.” June’s voice indicated that was exactly what she did think.
Maybe when we got back to the motel, Stan and Linwood would be long gone, and the police would be waiting instead.
Or maybe they’d decided to turn us in, in trade for Deane. Two little ones for a big one…
“June?” My heart was really pounding. “What if they liked Deane so much more that—”
“There’s the car!” June shouted.
Sure enough, there was our car, pulled halfway off the road. Stan’s form slumped over the wheel.
“He’s dead!” I cried. But it didn’t seem very real.
June was already running toward the car. I ran after, our footsteps crying out on the concrete.
She sure could run. The bags of money pounded painfully against my chest. “Stan!” she shouted.
I kept running, running, the heavy bags beating with each stride.
“Pet!” she yelled. “He’s drunk!”
Abruptly, my feet stopped. When I looked up, the car was only ten feet away.
June stood to one side, under the streetlamp. Her arms were akimbo, and her face was set in a perfect mask of indignation and disapproval. And rage. You didn’t want that face mad at you.
He was drunk, all right. A loud, contented snoring issued from his slumped shape, arms hugging the steering wheel, face pressed into the spokes. The bourbon fumes were impressive.
I shook his shoulder. “Stan?”
“Wazzat?” He jerked upright a moment and then collapsed again.
“Now what?”
June shrugged. “Let’s go back to the motel.”
“And leave him like this?”
“Why not? He left us.” She was strictly Old Testament.
I looked around. A phone booth gleamed about half a block away. “We should call the motel.”
June shrugged again but handed me the matchbook with the telephone number.
The desk rang Stan and Linwood’s room. The phone was picked up on the ninth ring.
“Yes?” Linwood’s voice was sobbing.
“This is Pet. We’re—”
“Honey, are you okay?” She could barely get the words out.
“I’m fine, but—”
“Is June all right?”
“She’s fine, but—”
“Oh, honey, isn’t it terrible!” Her voice choked on hiccups and tears.
“Stan’s not that drunk,” I lied.
“Our beautiful house,” Linwood moaned. “My paintings! Nana’s wedding veil. Your baby books.”
A terrible cold chill racked my body. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t Stan tell you?”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, honey!” Linwood was choking again. “Our house! They burned our house down!”
All I could see was Roberta, her beautiful body melting in the flames.
“Everything’s gone,” she said.
“But who…”
“Those boys did it! Those terrible boys who ruined Deane!”
Tommy.
“Her trial…” Linwood trailed off. “It was sort of a warning.”
June wasn’t going to take this very well. I wasn’t taking this very well. “Look,” I said, suddenly as clear as a piece of Saran Wrap. “We’re stuck up here and Stan’s too drunk to drive.”
“Very well,” said Linwood. “You girls stay right there. I’m calling the police.”
Chapter Thirteen
Outside of Mobile, on the old road along the Gulf, you really begin to feel you’re on your way to New Orleans. All those enormous houses, white columns, and golf course lawns. And the peaceful, disinterested water to your left. No waves, no noise, only flat glimmer.