“No, you haven’t.”
“And Jell-O.”
We smiled at each other, remembering a time of backseat car rides, roller-coaster birthdays, make-believe, and Nancy Drew searches for lost friends. A simpler time. A time when Harry and I were a team.
Eventually, conversation shifted to Obeline.
Should we call ahead, give warning of our upcoming visit? Obeline was barely six when we’d last been together. Her life since had been rough. Her mother was dead, perhaps her sister. Bastarache had abused her. She’d been disfigured by fire. We disagreed on the warmth of the welcome we’d face. Harry felt we’d be greeted like long-lost friends. I wasn’t so sure.
When we settled the check it was well past ten. Too late to phone. Decision made. We’d arrive unannounced.
Our motel was across the inlet from the restaurant. Heading back down Highway 11, I guessed we were recrossing the Little Tracadie River Bridge No. 15. I remembered Hippo’s story, pitied the hapless soul who’d stumbled onto the crankshafted corpse.
I had only one revelation that night.
When Harry wears jeans, she goes commando.
Harry insisted on pancakes in the morning.
Our waitress was squat, with maraschino lipstick and wispy hair somewhere between butter and cream. She provided copious coffee, advice on nail polish, and directions toward the address Hippo had given me.
Highway 11, then east on Rue Sureau Blanc. Right turn at the end of the green fence. Then another. What’s the family name?
Bastarache. Do you know them?
The wrinkled lips crimped into a thin red line. No.
Obeline Landry?
That’ll be all, then?
Even Harry couldn’t cajole the woman into further conversation.
By nine we were back in the Escalade.
Tracadie isn’t big. By nine-fifteen we were turning onto a residential street that might have fit into any suburb on the continent. Well-tended flower beds. Neatly edged lawns. Fresh-enough paint. Most of the houses looked like they’d been built in the eighties.
Hippo’s address took us to a high stone wall at the far end of the block. A plaque gave notice of a residence beyond. An unclasped padlock hung from the rusted iron gate. Harry got out and swung it wide.
A mossy brick drive bisected lawn losing out to weeds. At the end loomed a brick, stone, and timber house with a weathered shingle roof. Not a mansion, but not a shack, either.
Harry and I sat a moment, staring at the dark windows. They stared back, offering nothing.
“Looks like Ye Olde Rod and Gun Club,” Harry said.
She was right. The place had the air of a hunting lodge.
“Ready?”
Harry nodded. She’d been unnaturally quiet since rising. Other than a brief tete-a-tete concerning her aversion to underpants, I’d left her in peace. I figured she was sorting remembrances of Obeline. Bracing herself for the scarred woman we were about to encounter. I was.
Wordlessly, we got out and walked to the house.
Overnight, clouds had rolled in, thick and heavy with moisture. The morning promised rain.
Finding no bell, I knocked on the door. It was dark oak, with a leaded glass panel that yielded no hint of a presence beyond.
No answer.
I rapped again, this time on the glass. My knuckles fired off a sharp
Still nothing.
A gull looped overhead, cawing news of the upcoming storm. Tide reports. Gossip known only to the
Harry put her face to the glass.
“No movement inside,” she said.
“Maybe she’s a late sleeper.”
Harry straightened and turned. “With our luck, she’s in Wichita Falls.”
“Why would Obeline go to Wichita Falls?”
“Why would anyone go to Wichita Falls?”
I looked around. Not a neighboring structure nearby.
“I’ll check in back.”
