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  Ellen reached to touch his hand, but he jerked it away as if hers were hot. “I am sorry, I just wanted to thank you. Can you at least come sit with us?” No. “Will you at least talk to us?” No. “We won't hurt you. We are just worried about our friends and your Mr. Mac.” He nodded. “Does Mr. Mac live with you in your cabin?” No. “Does he live here in this house?” No. “Who does live with you?” No answer. “Okay, Windy, your turn."

  Windy picked up a sweet cake and offered it to Henry. He looked at it, refusing at first, and then suddenly grabbing it from her hand, careful not to touch her. “Would you like another?” Yes. “Come and get it then.” No. “Okay, let's try another route. Henry, do you like Mrs. Atwater?” Yes, and a little smile. “Henry, please talk to us.” No. “I think we have been here before. Okay, Henry, does anyone but you and Mrs. Atwater and Glenda live here?"

  "Mrs. Woodward, not Glenda.” His voice was quiet with a sharp tone.

  "I am sorry.” Windy answered. “I heard Mrs. Atwater call her that, so I thought it was alright for us to call her that, too."

  "Mrs. Woodward. Mrs. Woodward, not Glenda."

  Windy shrugged and looked at Ellen, who tried again. “Henry, does anyone but you and Mrs. Atwater and Mrs. Woodward live here?” Silence. “You didn't answer, so I think that means someone else does live here. Is it Mr. Mac or Mr. James?” No. “Okay, who sleeps in the other bedroom at your cabin?” Silence.

  "We are certainly not making any headway here,” said Windy. “I am going to brave the elements and bring in a couple bottles from the endless bar. Preferences?"

  Ellen shook her head. “While you are gone, I will go check on Mrs. Atwater. Henry, would you like to go with me?” He nodded yes, but when Ellen reached for his hand, he pulled away as if burned. “Okay, Henry, would you like to go first, or after me?” He did not answer but took off at a dead run, out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Well, so much for getting acquainted."

  When she reached the elderly woman's bedroom, Henry was helping her out of bed. She saw Ellen and smiled. “Hello, dear. Henry tells me your Eartha went out and has not returned. Perhaps I will come down for a spot of tea and conversation. Henry, light a lantern for Miss Ellen to carry, as the stairway will be dark. Kindly, dear, what time might it be?"

  Ellen had to keep from laughing aloud at the “Miss Ellen” form of address but replied, “It is near six. Are you hungry? We will make those sandwiches and soup, if you like. Henry has been good enough to light the antique wood range for us."

  "It may seem like an antique to one so young as you, but rest assured it is used regularly. We have many power outages out here. Never are we without the ability to cook and keep ourselves warm. Now, Henry, when we get to the kitchen, fetch several large pots and put one under each of the leaks on this floor. Do not bother with the rooms above us. You may enter the rooms of our guests, too, to catch the leaks and move anything out of the way that might get wet. Do you understand?” He nodded, smiling at her with what Ellen would have called love, or adoration, at least.

  Windy had finished making sandwiches and warming soup when they arrived. Ellen helped Mrs. Atwater to the chair at the head of the kitchen table, prepared and served her tea. She set four place servings of tableware and napkins.

  Mrs. Atwater watched, and then spoke firmly. “Only three are necessary, my dear. Henry will not join us. He will eat by himself at the little table and chair in the corner. It is not correct for him to share our table. He is, however, welcome to the food you have prepared and will eat when we are finished. Now, Windy, is it all ready? I find I am terribly hungry."

  The young women were amazed that she should exclude Henry but kept their silence. Obviously, Mrs. Atwater was a tried and true Southern lady who had never acknowledged the Civil War, the freeing of the slaves, or anything that followed. It was her home, so they had no choice but to quietly accept her demeanor.

  "Quite good, ladies, for I expected less. You are both well taught and have made the best of a bad situation. Now, get your favorite drinks from the bar and some ice in an ice bucket. Henry, when you are done eating, please prepare me some tea and bring it to the parlor before cleaning up. You may have as many as you like of those darling little cakes Mrs. Woodward made, but do not make yourself ill as you did last time. Come now, ladies.” She offered one hand to Ellen and lifted her skirt a scant half-inch off the floor as she glided out of the room.

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  Chapter 13

  The tea arrived. The fire was banked and burning warmly. The temperature of the room seemed to have dropped, and the storm outside only increased in volume and noise. Thunder rolled almost endlessly, and lightning bolts continually lit the room. Hurricane shutters did only so much, they found, listening to the beating the old house was taking. It had seemed less frightening in the warm kitchen, but the parlor was where Mrs. Atwater seemed most comfortable.

  Windy cleared her throat and asked, “Mrs. Atwater, if you are not too tired, would you mind continuing your story about the plantation? You have been through many such storms as this, I am sure, but we have not, and we are more than a bit scared. Listening to you has a calming effect on me, at least, and I would appreciate hearing more of your story."

  The lady smiled and nodded. She did not see the elbow Ellen jabbed into her friend's ribs as if to say, “You are so phony."

  "Yes, dears, I would like to tell you more. It is a sad story, for the most part. Such savage things happen in our world. Are you sure you want to hear it? I should send Henry to his cabin, as it upsets him to hear."

  "Oh, please, don't send him out in the storm. His cabin was losing its roof when we were there. Maybe his room mate will come here too,” Ellen spoke.

  Mrs. Atwater looked startled. “His roommate! Wherever did you get such an idea? Henry lives there by himself. Now, if you would rather I not send him home, so be it. He can stay in the kitchen until I call him. Windy, will you please relay that information to him?"

  "But, Mrs. Atwater, Henry mentioned a Mr. Mac who would worry...” Ellen started to speak.

  "My dear, please remember that Henry spends a lot of time by himself. Also, that he is, how I shall say this ... not quite right. He makes up things and lives in his own little world. Perhaps this Mr. Mac is a figment of his imagination.” Her response left no room for further discussion on that subject.

  They took their seats, and Mrs. Atwater began. “I married David Wainscot Atwater when I was barely more than a girl. Sixteen to be exact, and he was thirty-four, a widower with three children. He owned a large plantation bordering ours, so that made my daddy happy, hoping the marriage would bind our lands. Fortunately, he did not live long enough to see what happened.

  "Such marriages were common in those days, as life was hard and so far away from cities, it was not unusual for women to die in childbirth with only darkies and other women to help with the birthing. That isolation saved us from wars, rebellions, and news beyond our immediate community. Oh, we did have a few marauders now and then over the years, but we took care of them, one way or another. There are many unmarked graves around, as no one ever knew their names ... or cared, for that matter.

  "We wed on my birthday, here in this very parlor. Like my mother, I had several children in a few short years. David II was born first, then Matilda, Clarence, Charles, and Cassandra. My last was Glenda.” She hesitated before and after saying that name, letting it sink in before she continued.

  "Another dreadful fever hit, and so many of us died, including Mr. Atwater's three children as well as my Charles, Cassandra, and Clarence. That left me with only David, Matilda, and Glenda. Mr. Atwater was delirious with grief for his lost children, far beyond the fever that consumed him for weeks. In his state of mind, he blamed me for their deaths. There was no consoling him, and he ignored the deaths of our children together, as if they did not matter. He would shout at me, accusing me of murdering them so David could inherit everything ... David, who was his names
ake and now his only son. When he finally came out of the fever, he was not the same man. His delusions still haunted him, and he was filled with hate.

  "He began to beat David with the cane he now used. He would slap the girls, knocking them to the floor, calling them hideous names. He was much worse to me, violating me in our room that once knew only happy love. Soon it became even worse. He would do it anywhere it suited him, even when the children were present.

  "When David was eleven, he found me in bed, battered and beaten. He saw the blood on my legs, as I lay unconscious from the worst beating ever, and he knew what his father had done. Children in those days, particularly ones who lived where they could see the mating of animals, often were worldlier than their city cousins. He found his father at the top of the stairs. He began shouting and crying, at which my husband raised his cane for the last time. David grabbed it in midair, and they grappled for a minute before he lost his grip. That unbalanced his father, who fell backwards down the stairs, breaking his neck.

  "No one was sorry, I least of all. He had become a cruel man who treated his family worse than he did the servants. We buried him with no preacher and no words over his body. Just dug a hole and rolled him in. When anyone asked, we just said he took a fall and died. That was the Lord's truth, and the Lord's will was done.

  "Our slaves were servants now, but as news seldom reached this far, they had no idea that they had been freed when the war was over years before. We had always been good to them and continued to be. We fed them well, clothed them, and allowed liberties that polite society ignored.

  "David was especially smitten with a mulatto woman who gave him several children, although we ladies were not supposed to know. She became more and more possessive and demanding of him, even so far as to suggest he marry her. That was so outlandish, aside from illegal, he laughed at her. He told her enough was enough and said he was going to sell her and her children. In a pique of anger, she threw herself on him as he lay in her bed, hitting and scratching his face. He told her to stop, but instead, she found his gun in his pants beside the bed and pointed it at his head. David, being David, would have laughed again, and probably did. She pulled the trigger.

  "The slaves covered his head, as there was so little left that was recognizable. My fury knew no bounds. She had murdered my son, my only living son, in cold blood. I ordered a tub of boiling water placed in the middle of the slave quarters, and from a tree above, she was dropped a few inches at a time into the water. Her screams were music to my ears, so overwhelmed I was with grief. Now, I question how I could have been so cruel, but she did deserve it.

  "Before she died, I asked her if she wanted to watch her children die as she would die. Had she begged me to let them live, I would have agreed. Instead of answering, she spat in my face. As I looked into their shocked little faces, I saw the resemblance to my son. To have killed them would be killing David over again. Instead, once she cried her last in the boiling water, I told the foreman to get rid of them among the slaves in other plantations.

  "But no one wanted the one who was not all there, so I allowed him to be returned. He has lived on the plantation ever since. His name is Henry."

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  Chapter 14

  She arose, asking Ellen to help her to her room, saying that she was too tired to continue. She would finish the story in the morning.

  Ellen returned downstairs and found a full water glass of bourbon waiting for her in Windy's shaking hand. “Thank you! She called Henry the minute we got upstairs, and he was cooing to her and helping her get ready for bed. There is a pallet rolled up in one corner, so I think he will sleep by her all night."

  They sat in silence listening to the storm, each in her own thoughts. Their thoughts were of their missing friends and the story they had heard, when they heard a door closing somewhere in the cellar story of the house. The wind had propelled the air through the foyer into the parlor where they were. “Eartha, is that you?” Windy jumped to her feet and ran into the vast darkness where the firelight and dim lantern did not reach. “God, we have been so worried about you. Where have you—?"

  The body she ran into was not Eartha. It was a tall, wet creature with a grip of steel as it held her arms, propelling her backward through the parlor door. As they moved into the light, she could see it was the man from the bayou ... the man who had warned them of the alligator. He dropped his hands from her arms and stepped away toward the fireplace. No one spoke until he turned his dark eyes on them.

  "Is Henry here? He is not at his cabin."

  Ellen answered. “Yes, we brought him here. Are you Mr. James or Mr. Mac? We left you a note at the cabin. He is upstairs with Mrs. Atwater.” As an afterthought mostly because of his haughty attitude and her desire to make him aware that she was no stranger to the secrets of Black Bayou, she added, “with his grandmother."

  "Ah, I see the old lady has been spinning her stories again. Sometimes Henry seems the brighter of the two. She lives in a world of her own with shadows, demons, and fanciful people. You can believe little of what she tells you. Sometimes she knows us, sometimes not. She is a sweet, charming thing but out of touch with reality. It is not uncommon to find her at the head of the dining room table with place setting all around, courtesy Henry, while she has discussions with her long-gone children."

  "I find that hard to believe. She seems lucid to me.” Windy sensed a mockery in his words and resented it. “And you did not answer our questions. Are you Mr. James or Mr. Mac?"

  "I don't give a damn what you believe. I do not lie, and no, I am not Mr. James. Mr. James does not seem to be around either, but that is no loss. What are you drinking? I could use a shot or two.” He did not wait for an answer, but picked up the bourbon bottle from the table and lifted it to his lips. He swallowed several times before lowering the bottle and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  "It appears I will have to get some fresh bottles. I am sure neither one of us wish to partake after you drank from the bottle.” Ellen was angry. “You, sir, have no manners at all. And you are dirty, sarcastic, dripping all over Mrs. Atwater's parlor, crass, and less of a gentleman than an alligator."

  He burst out laughing. His face broke into a smile, showing bright, even teeth. He pulled his hat off, bowed at the waist like a cavalier, and said, “You forgot slovenly, uncouth, rude, disheveled, course, derisive, and sardonic. Oh, yes, and cynical. Feel free to add to your list of the things you deem improper about me. In the meantime, let me tell you I have been out looking for your friend. Both of them, actually. I found the little red car in the bayou, but the little gal wasn't in it. Frankly, that is not a good sign. Could mean she was swept away, but who knows?"

  As he talked, Ellen could not help herself from noticing the fine blond hair that grew long on the back of his neck, the deep blue of his eyes, the laugh lines around them, the growth of his whiskers. She had always been attracted to tall, dark men, but ... there was something about this man...

  "And more bad news. I found a shoe and one of the quilts from the parlor here down in the mud of Black Bayou, where you all were yesterday, playing with the alligators. If she wandered between the mama and her nest ... well...” He let the sentence drop. He did not have to tell them again.

  "She would not have done that. For sure! She would have heard the alligator's hiss and moved away. Besides, what would she have been doing down there anyway?” Windy wanted to know with a voice filled with anger.

  "Why she was there? Hell, how the hell am I supposed to know? As for hearing the gator, not a chance in this storm. In daylight, I will go back and search some more, but I don't want to be food for her family any more than you do. Besides, it's too dark to see anything, and a flashlight only reaches a few feet in this mess outside. Now, if you don't mind, I am going upstairs for dry clothes, then outside for a shower in the rain. If either of you want to join me, feel free.” Without a word, he turned and left the room.

  They stood looki
ng at one another, both crying. His words had been slow to comprehend, now they had to face the reality of it. The located car, shoe, and quilt all pointed to an end they did not want to accept. Instead, it was easier to vent their anger and fear toward the man who had told them. It was purely a case of ‘kill the messenger.'

  Ellen ran after him, shouting, “I don't believe you. Why are you lying to us? Come back here and tell the truth.” Sobbing, she collapsed on the lower stairs. Windy came to her, and together they huddled and cried horrible sobbing wails. When the man came back down, he was carrying clothes. He stepped around them on his way to the kitchen, then outside.

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  Chapter 15

  The storm intensified, though how it could both amazed and frightened the two women. They had exhausted themselves with their tears and grief before moving back to the parlor. They pushed two sofas closer to the fireplace, added logs, and wrapped up in the musty quilts scattered around the room. Nightmares and the storm kept them both from sleeping soundly. About midnight, a particularly loud and long roll of thunder woke them both. They held hands as they moved across the foyer to the bathroom hidden under the stairs. While there, they were sure they heard the sound of voices in the foyer, followed by a door closing. When they returned to the parlor, the tall figure of the man from the bayou was leaning against the fireplace mantle, drink in hand.

  "Can I offer you a drink? I brought in several fresh bottles so you won't have to partake after my germ-filled mouth has touched the bottle. I checked on Mrs. Atwater, and both she and Henry are sleeping as babes, not even hearing our little storm outside."

  "How can you call this a little storm?” asked Windy. “And yes to the drink. Straight Kentucky Bourbon if you have it.” He looked at Ellen, who nodded wordlessly. He poured and handed each a tall glass nearly full, but neither objected.