Voodoo River

She thought harder. 'Lawrence didn't really have nothin' to do with Leon, but Leon and Junior were close. I remember Junior sayin' somethin' 'bout some gal. I guess there couida been some gal mixed up in there.'

'Like maybe Leon got killed over a girl?'

'Well. I guess.' Chantel pulled deep on the cigarette, then flicked the butt out into the yard. A skinny Rhode Island Red hen picked it up, ran a few feet, then dropped it, squawking. The other chickens circled it, cocking their heads for a better look, then ignored it. Chantel said, 'The gals did flock around Leon, let me tell you. He was a beautiful boy, and, my, he could talk. Charmin'? I was just a baby and I remember that. Robert used to get jealous! Oo!' She crossed her arms and leaned forward on her knees, enjoying the memories. 'You know, I haven't thought about that in years. Here it is, sometimes I can't even remember Leon's face, but I remember that.'

Mrs. Williams came to the door, still with the big purse, still with the pissy expression. 'You don't have time for all this, now, girl. You have to get back to work.'

Chantel nodded without looking.

'You late, that Jew'll get after you.'

Chantel closed her eyes. 'Ada!'

'Well, he's a Jew, isn't he?'

'Ada. Please.'

Mrs. Williams harumphed and stalked back into the house. Chantel Michot said, 'That woman is such a trial.'

I said, 'Think about Leon. Maybe you'll remember something else.'

She stood up. 'I may have something. You wait here.' She went into the house and came back a few minutes later with a King Edward cigar box and sat with it on her knees. 'This is mostly Robert's things, but there's some stuff from Leon in here, too. Lord, I haven't looked in here in years.'

She opened the box and stared down at the contents, as if the letters and snapshots and papers within were treasures awaiting discovery. 'You see Leon? Here's Leon right here. That's Lawrence and that's Junior and that's Daddy.'

She handed me a yellowed Kodak snapshot with a little date marker on the white border: 1956. An older man was standing in front of an enormous Chevrolet roadster with three boys. Mr. Williams and his sons. Lawrence and Junior and Leon. They were light-skinned men with delicate features. Leon was the smallest, with large expressive eyes and long lashes and an athlete's carriage. He would have been twelve. She said, 'We had some good-looking men in this family, but that Leon, he was plain pretty.'

'He's handsome, all right.'

She fingered through handwritten notes and birthday cards and a couple of elementary school report cards and tiny black-and-white snapshots of older black men and women, all neatly dressed and stiffly formal. 'My momma gave me these things. She said these were the little bits of us that she held dear. This is me. This is Robert and Lawrence. Oh, my God, look how young.' She smiled broadly and the smile made her seem younger and quite pretty, as if for a moment she was free of the weight of the five children and the crummy job at the sausage factory. 'Robert was killed in the army,' she said. 'He died in that Tet thing.' That Tet thing.

'Uh-huh.'

She lifted out a white government envelope, its edge ragged from being torn, now yellow and flat from the years in the box. We regret to inform you… There were spots on the envelope. I wondered if they were tears. 'They gave him a medal. I wonder where it is.'

I shook my head.

Mrs. Williams reappeared at the door. 'You are going to be late now.'

'I am busy, Ada.' Sharp.

Ada shook her finger at me. 'You are going to get her in trouble with that Jew.'

'Ada!'

Mrs. Williams stalked away.

She said, 'Oh, here's some of Leon's things.' She lifted out two brown newspaper clippings, the originals to the articles I'd read/on the LSU microfiche, brittle and brown and very likely untouched since the day her mother had cut them from the Ville Platte Gazette and put them in the King Edward box. She took out more bits of paper and photographs and passed them to me. Leon sitting on a tractor that looked a million years old. Leon and a swaybacked mule. There were a couple of Mother's Day cards drawn in a child's hand and signed 'Leon,' and a poem he had written. She handed me things as she found them, and she was still fingering through the box when I opened a piece of yellowed notebook paper filled with the doodles you make when you're bored in class. Most of the page was class notes about the Louisiana Purchase, but in the borders there were finely detailed pencil drawings of Sherman tanks and World War II fighter planes and the initials EJ EJ EJ. LW +EJ.

I was wondering about EJ when I saw a little heart at the bottom right-hand corner of the page. The kind kids draw when they have a crush on someone. And that's when I knew about EJ, and all the rest of it, too.

Inside the heart Leon Williams had printed I LOVE EDIE JOHNSON.

Edie Johnson. Edie Boudreaux.

Edith Boudreaux wasn't Jodi Taylor's sister. She was Jodi Taylor's mother. And Jodi's father was Leon Williams.

CHAPTER 16

I folded the paper and handed it back to her and twice she spoke and both times I had to ask her to repeat herself. I love Edie Johnson. When we had gone through the rest of the things, she said, 'Does any of this help?'

'Yes. I believe it does.'

She nodded, pleased that her effort was of value. 'You wanna take any of these things, you may.'

I smiled. 'No. These are your precious things. Keep them safe.'

She put the papers back in the King Edward box and closed it. 'I wonder if they'll ever catch that man who killed Leon.'

'I don't know.'

'It's been so long now. I can't imagine anyone would care.'

I patted her hand and then I stood. 'Somebody cares, Chantel. Somebody somewhere cares. I've always believed that.'

She gave me a nice smile and we finished our lemonade and then I left. I followed the back roads north to Ville Platte, checked out of the motel there, then stopped by the Pig Stand and bought a link of boudin for the road. I told Dottie that my business here was finished, and that this would be our last time together. She laughed and told me that I'd be back. She touched the place beneath her eye as she had done before and said she had the second sight. I wished that she would have used it earlier. Jimmie Ray might still be alive.

I ate the boudin as I drove back to Baton Rouge and listened to the same female radio evangelist screaming about plague-carriers from abroad and once more crossed the big Huey Long Bridge and arrived back at the Riverfront Ho-Jo at 1:40 that afternoon.

I didn't bother trying to call Sid Markowitz or Jodi Taylor. I booked the first available flight back to Los Angeles, checked out, then phoned Lucy Chenier's office from the lobby. Darlene said that Lucy was in and asked if I wished to speak with her, but I said no, that I was at the Riverfront and would walk over. Ten minutes later I rode the elevator to the Sonnier, Melancon amp; Burke offices. Lucy's smile was wide and bright, and she seemed glad to see me. Something ached in my chest when I looked at her, and the ache increased when I took her hand. I said, 'I think I've come to the end of the line on this and there are some things we need to talk about. I'm going back to Los Angeles.'

She stopped smiling, and said, 'Oh.'