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It was eight o’clock, and still over eighty degrees, although it felt hot enough to be a hundred. Haley was fixing crawfish etouffe in the kitchen, her shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail and an apron over her sundress. Sasha, having just woken from a late nap, sat at the counter, coloring, one of his nostrils crusted with snot.
Becky and Seacrest were in the adjoining living room. Seacrest was spread out on the large couch and Becky was sitting on the smaller one. They were watching a video countdown on VH-1.
Erica sat rigidly in a recliner, writing. It was the third time Haley had asked her over and only the second time she’d actually come. Since arriving an hour before, she mostly kept to herself. But there was something about being at the Landrys’ that already felt pretty good. They were a troubled lot, but it still gave her a sense of what being part of a family was like. A real family.
She jotted down notes as she watched the two younger girls out of the corner of her eye. Mostly she watched Seacrest, the one who sat closest. The girl lay, twirling her long, dark hair around one finger, her full mouth pursed as though she were ready to say something. Every now and then she’d shift on the couch, moving a shoulder back and forth, and she’d sigh. On the other couch, Becky slouched, her chin upturned and her mouth set, staring impassively at the television.
When she first got there, Erica had overheard the two on the porch. Seacrest had been telling Becky about a boy who she’d given a blow job to, and Becky’s admiration for the girl had been more than evident.
Haley wet a napkin in the kitchen sink, then reach over to wipe Sasha’s filthy nose. The little boy moaned and shook his head from side to side, resisting. The color he was using fell from his hand, and he cried out, bursting into tears.
Erica took a long drink of the Jack Daniels and Coke that Haley had fixed her, then focused again on her notes. She was glad to be away from her house, away from Pamela and her senseless drivel. The woman had become a permanent, unwanted fixture, always pestering her for information, and trying pathetically to be her friend.
Outside, owls trilled on the small bayou, awaiting their nightly hunt. Erica’s father had once told her that many of the older Cajuns believed owls were old souls, and that the superstitious ones thought that when you heard one at night, you should get out of bed and turn your left shoe upside down to prevent disaster. Her father was Louisiana backwards. Of course, he’d believe in ignorant folklore like that. Erica, like her mother, had never in her life turned a shoe upside down. And she never would.
Mrs. Landry’s bedroom door opened and she shuffled out, carrying a silver dog bowl. Her clothes were carelessly mismatched and she was only wearing one sandal. With bleary eyes, the woman took all of them in one-by-one. Becky, Seacrest, Sasha, Haley and then Erica. Sasha sat in shock at the counter, as though a dead person had just entered the room, his mouth hanging wide open.
“Hi doodlebug,” she said.
Sasha sat silently, the color he’d been crying over, forgotten. Mrs. Landry moved across the living room, and into the kitchen, patting the little boy on the head as she walked by. She filled the bowl with water, then headed slowly back into the living room.
An old, frail dog wandered out of her bedroom, its claws tapping loudly on the hardwood floor. It stretched its long body and a few of its joints popped. It glanced at Erica with near-dead eyes.
“Hi Missus Leendry. You steel seek?” Sasha asked, finally finding his voice. His eyes were bug-like behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
Mrs. Landry smiled at the boy, but said nothing.
“Mama, this is Erica,” Haley said, walking into the living room and pointing to where Erica sat.
“Hello,” the woman said, not even making eye contact with her. Then she made her way to the screen door and set the water bowl on the porch.
“Want anything to eat, Mama? I’m making an etouffee?” Haley said. “I was going to carry some in for you after it was ready.”
The woman shook her head. “No, thanks, baby.”
Mrs. Landry opened the door a little wider and stepped out. The old dog followed her. Then the screen door slammed and Mrs. Landry was gone.
Erica got up and went the kitchen counter. “You okay?” she asked, concerned.
Haley’s face was drawn and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m. . . not really sure.”
***
LATER, THAT EVENING, after the girls finished di
Erica was sitting at the kitchen counter next to her, pouring drinks. It was the third each of them had had that night. She had snuck the bottle of whiskey from her father’s private stash in the back of the kitchen pantry and gave it to Haley when she got there.
Since meeting Pamela, her father had turned into a wine drinker, so she knew that he wouldn’t notice the bottle was gone until Pamela was long gone, which unfortunately didn’t seem like it would be any time soon.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” Haley asked. “Who is this?”
“Another prank call?” Becky called from her place on the couch once Haley hung up. “That’s like the third one today!”
“I’d be pissing my pants if I were you,” Seacrest said.
Haley hung up. “It was just a breather,” she said quietly, her eyes glassy. Erica had noticed early on that it took the girl less than a drink before she started to get drunk. But regardless, she always kept drinking. Erica knew that she was the one who had introduced alcohol into Haley’s life and now wondered if she’d done a good thing or bad thing. Thinking of this observation, she scribbled in her notebook.
Becky straightened on the couch. “That creeps me out. You know, it could be the guy who kidnapped Tiffany. And he keeps calling us.”
“Yeah, it could be a killer,” Seacrest said, sitting across from Becky. “He could be stalking you. Holy shit, he could be watching the house right now!”
“A keeler?” Sasha gasped, and a blue crayon tumbled out of his hand, onto the floor.
“She’s just joking, baby,” Haley muttered, and threw Seacrest a nasty look.
Haley’s face looked a little green.
Sasha climbed down from the barstool, trotted into the living room, and stood in front of Becky. He screwed up his round face.
“What are you looking at?” Becky demanded.
“Guess!” he squealed.
“No, Sasha. I’m not guessing.”
Sasha inched a little closer.
“Get out of my face, dammit,” Becky snapped. “Why are you staring at me!”
“Why’s yo face that culuh?” Sasha demanded.
Erica looked across the room at Becky. Squinting, she could make out orange streaks across the slouching girl’s cheeks and neck, even her arms.
“Go color in your stupid book, Sasha,” Becky spat.
Seacrest giggled from her place on the couch. “It’s ta
Becky grabbed a bag of Doritos from the coffee table. She stuck one in her mouth.
“You have beautiful skin, Becky,” Haley said, stumbling on the words. “You shouldn’t. . . mess with it like that.”
“I like yo face da otha culuh,” Sasha said, his face serious. He took a step closer to Becky and stuck out his index finger. “Does it huht?”
Becky ignored him. “How can you say it’s beautiful? It’s so pale,” she whined.
“Pale can be beautiful,” Erica said. “My mother has pale skin, and she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Becky looked at her, uncertain what to say.
“I think she needs more color,” Seacrest piped up. “Not orange. But something. Maybe a lot of makeup. Like that pancake crap. Would cover all her freckles.”
“Nothing’s wrong with. . . Becky being pale,” Haley slurred. “And I don’t want to ever hear you call my sister stupid again. You understand me?”