Dark End of the Street

I wiped away some more dried remnants of red pepper sauce I’d used at breakfast.

“Messy eater,” I said.

“No kidding. I’m sure all the women are impressed.”

“You’d be surprised.” I turned up my nose. “Do I still smell manure?”

Abby spoke up: “Am I not here? Both of you shut the hell up.”

Both doors were open and a breeze washed through the room as if coming from a machine.

“Maggie,” Abby said. “Yesterday morning I went back to Oxford for some of Daddy’s papers and some woman followed me. She pretended like she was a friend of yours and took me to this old gas station where these men grabbed me and took me to a casino in Tunica. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to worry you, but, Jesus, sometimes you can be so fucking hard on people.”

Abby didn’t seem like the girl who said fuck a lot and the word seemed a hell of a lot dirtier and hard coming out of her mouth. Just kind of hung there for a moment.

“So who is he? You really meet him in Memphis?”

“No, he helped me back at the casino. He killed a man trying to make sure I was safe.”

“God,” Maggie said, stubbing out her cigarette and looking at my face again.

The bluegrass band began to play outside and we walked to the porch to finish our peach cobbler. I balanced the cobbler and a coffee in my arms and took a seat between Abby and Maggie on the two-by-eight bench. The band had moved onto the back of a ‘fifties pickup and was picking out a combination of songs. “You Are My Sunshine” to “You Don’t Miss Your Water.”

Lately, it seemed that fun had to be engineered. I saw it all across the Quarter, bars that packaged phony Cajun and New Orleans culture in easy, digestible bites. There was something solid about wondering if you’d make it back from a night at the old Tips or playing a game of chance by leaving your car parked near the Rivershack. Now, we had House of Blues and the new Tips and daiquiri stands that had taken over smoke-filled piano bars unchanged since the ‘forties. I would’ve never guessed I would have ended up having a hell of a time with Abby and her surly cousin. But I did. Never plan a thing. A sure route to enjoyment.

Abby stirred melted ice cream around the last peaches and Maggie pulled out another cigarette. She had on those scuffed show boots and a clean white T-shirt that advertised Stetson hats.

The T-shirt was tight. Her breath didn’t stink.

When the band hit the last note of the William Bell song, Abby put down the cobbler, her eyes staring straight ahead. She hiked the elastic band of her sweatpants leg up to her knee and rubbed the tiny red bumps that had formed on her calf. Maggie picked up our bowls and walked back inside, the screen door banging the frame behind her.

Abby kept staring into the darkness.

“I want to go with you,” she said. “I want to help.”

“Let’s go down to the police station and we’ll talk about getting you some protection. I have to head back to Memphis.”

She shook her head and bit the edge of her lip. “You promised.”

“I promised to find your cousin and make sure you were safe.”

“You need me,” she said.

Maggie came back and took a seat, resting her back against the worn wall. She cracked open a fourth beer she’d gotten from somebody inside, and nodded along with the music. The Dobro and the mandolin melted into the crisp fall night, their notes twisting and falling with a sweetness of old memories. The music reminded me of times I’d failed to recognize as being the best I’d ever known.

I looked over at Abby. She’d had on the same old sweatpants for two days and they were stretched like socks over her running shoes. The knees had already become balled and dirty.

“Abby?” Maggie asked, blowing out some smoke. “Been picking up your folks’ mail and found something kind of strange. Letter from Memphis to your daddy. Did he always work with private investigators?”

“I guess.” I watched her as she wrapped herself tighter in my jean jacket.

I placed the cup of coffee by my feet and stared in each direction at the two women.

“Your daddy’s secretary gave it to me and said it was personal,” Maggie said. “Maybe you should take a look.”

Chapter 25

MAGGIE LIVED JUST a few miles from Taylor, at the end of a twisting dirt road lined with mounds of kudzu and honeysuckle vines. The house was white and old, an elongated box made of clapboard and tin, with fat Christmas lights dangling from the roof. Outside, thickets of rosebushes grew near short rows of corn and tomatoes, now withered and brown. A laundry line hung loose to the side of the house filled with flowered cotton dresses and extremely short pairs of pants.

“You live with a midget?” I asked after we parked and walked through the chilled fall night. The stars above were bright and crisp but a biting wind had kicked up and I saw a dark cloud curtain headed east.

“A son,” Maggie said in the darkness. “You know those little things that men help create but often leave?”