Dark Paradise (2 page)

Mama senses me hovering. She rolls onto her backside and holds out her hands.

“Don't just stand there gawkin' like an idiot, help your mama up,” she says.

With a heavy sigh, I trudge to her side. I grit my teeth and lift her to her feet while she flops like roadkill. Upright, she lists sideways. A strong wind would blow her over. The vomit-and-stale-beer stench of her breath makes my nose crinkle when she throws her skinny arm around my shoulders.

“What you been up to today?” She tries to trail her fingers through my ponytail, but they snag on a knot I missed. She jerks her hand free, uncaring that it causes me pain since she's purposely deadened her own feelings with booze. Mama can't cope with her life without a bottle of liquor in one hand. It's like the chicken-and-the-egg question. Which came first? Was her life shitty before she became an alcoholic, or had booze made it worse? I can't see how it could be better, but maybe I'm naive, or as stupid as she always calls me.

I rub at the sting on my scalp. “Why are you home so early?”

She sways. “Can't I miss my baby girl?”

“Missing me never slowed you down before. What makes tonight any different?”

“Why you so squirrelly? You act like you don't want me here.” She pulls back far enough to look me over. “Expectin' someone or you all dressed up with nowhere to go?” She cackles, slapping her leg like she's told the funniest joke ever.

“Georgie Dubois's coming out.”

“Why? I know the deputy's not comin' to see you.”

I grit my teeth on the snappy comment that hovers on the tip of my tongue. “Found a dead girl floating in the bayou.”

Mama pulls her arm back and strikes cottonmouth quick.

I end up flat on my back with stars dancing before my eyes. My cheek burns. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, then focus in on the shadow hovering over me with clenched fists. “God damn it! Are you crazy?” I roll over and stagger to my feet. She steps forward again, fist raised.

“Don't you dare, Mama!”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain. Or threaten me.”

“I haven't threatened,
yet
. But I swear, you hit me again, I'm out of this rat hole you call a house. I've earned enough scholarship money to move into an apartment.”

“Why you sayin' such things, Malaise?” Tears fill her eyes.

Money.
The only thing that still touches Mama's fickle heart.

“You just backhanded me, Mama! What? Do you expect me to keep turning the other cheek until you break it? Or accidentally kill me like that girl I found…”

Mama's mocha skin drops a shade, and she sucks in a breath. I don't think it has to do with any feelings of regret. No, it has to do with the girl. She hit me after she heard about George coming out for the body.

“Why do you look so scared?” Suspicion makes my voice sharp. “What did you do?”

Mama staggers toward the house.

“Don't walk away from me,” I yell. “What's going on? Georgie will be here any minute. If I've got to cover for you, then I need to know why or I might let something slip on accident.”

Mama makes it to the stairs and collapses onto the bottom step. She buries her face in her palms. Shudders wrack her body. “I need a drink, Mala. There's a bottle in my bottom drawer. Bring it out to me.”

“That's not a good idea…”

She lifts her head. Her dark brown eyes droop at the corners, and I see the faint trace of fine lines. Strangest of all, her eyes have lost the glazed, shiny appearance they held a few minutes earlier.
The news shocked her sober.

“I'm not askin' again, Malaise. Get in there if you want to hear the story.”

I
scramble up the stairs. It doesn't take but a minute to find the bottle hidden under her nightgowns in the dresser drawer. The seal on the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red remains intact. She must've been saving it for a special occasion. That doesn't bode well for the direction of the conversation we'll be having in a moment. I don't bother with a glass. Mama always says, “Don't need one for beer. Don't want one for liquor.” I ease down the staircase. She doesn't even look up, just holds out a shaking hand.

“Want a swig?” she asks, opening the bottle with a deft twist. A slight smile dances on her lips. “No? My, my, such a good girl I got. Funny thing is, girl, I was just like you at your age. Thought I was better than my mama. Thought she was trash.”

Silence fills the space between us, but I twitch first. “That's not how I feel—”

“Don't lie. I see it in your eyes. You'll learn different when your time comes.” Her chapped lips purse. She takes a long drink and sighs. “Come on over here. Sit by me,
cher
.”

I shuffle forward then stop.

She stretches out the arm not holding the bottle. “Come on, I won't bite.”

When I sit down beside her, she pulls me close, and I lay my head on her shoulder. For a long minute, we sit in silence, staring out toward the woods. The sun has almost reached the tips of the moss-draped trees, and the clouds have turned crimson and gold. Day and night. Love and hate. One can't exist in the world without the other. They come together at twilight—the perfect symbol for my chaotic feelings for Mama because, as much as I hate how she treats me when she's drunk, I still love her.

“Mama, I'm sorry I cursed you,” I whisper, head tilting to stare into her pensive face.

She squeezes my shoulders. “Don't worry,
cher
. I won't be around to hurt you much longer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I had my death vision and I'm gonna die. Soon. I'd hoped to keep the news from you for a while yet, but I need to set my affairs in order before I pass.”

I snort and pull free of her embrace. “That's silly, a death vision.” The wellspring of anger reserved just for her crazy shit has been tapped, and it bubbles up again. “The drink has you hallucinating.”

“Wish that was the case, Malaise. The day's comin'. I'm not sure exactly how or when, but it's tied to that girl you found. I dreamed about her.” She takes another drink then burps. “S'cuse me.”

I shake my head. Mama, the epitome of a southern lady.

“I don't believe in dreams that foretell the future.” My arms fold across my chest with a chill that caresses my spine like an accordion being played by a zydeco master. “You're just
crazy
—”

She rolls her eyes at me then shakes her head. “Sure, I'm crazy. I know I am, but it's those dreams that done drove me nuttier than Ida Jean's fruitcake, not the other way around. After I die, the visions will pass on to you like mine came from my mama and hers from her mama, and so on, all the way back to mother Africa. Then you'll sit on my grave and beg my spirit to teach you how to control the horrors you see.” She takes another drink. “Maybe I'll have forgiven you by then and will help you out.”

“I'm not sitting on your tomb. That's creepy. And I'm the one who should be forgiving you,” I say, voice rising. “Why you always got to turn things around and make yourself the victim?”

“Talk to my bones and find a bottle of whisky. Both'll be your best friends. Helps ease the pain of dreaming of deaths you can't change.”

I roll my eyes, careful not to let her see. No use arguing when she refuses to listen. “Tell me about the girl.”

“Long black hair? Blue eyes to match her fancy sundress?” Mama sits the bottle between her legs. “A spoiled, rich brat from town.”

“Yeah, I guess. You met her before?”

Red and blue flashing lights and a siren drift from the end of the long driveway leading to the house. The patrol car's wheels had rolled over rain-filled puddles that splattered the sides with mud during its close to thirty-minute journey through unpaved woodland.

Mama reaches for the railing and uses it to pull herself to her feet. “I'm going to bed. You tell little Georgie Porgie to tell his daddy hello for me. We go way back, me and Dubois senior. He'll remember me.”

Does that mean Georgie's dad and Mama did the nasty back in the good ol' days?
Eww.
“Yeah, sure,” I drawl.
Thanks, Mama. Scarred for life with that image.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shove the thought of Mama dying into the farthest recesses of my mind. As much as she drives me crazy, I love her. The idea that she won't be around forever terrifies me.

George parks his patrol car and steps out with a scowl. My gaze travels over his body. I compare the change in his appearance. It's been a month since he went to the graveyard shift, and the beginning of a Dunkin' Donuts belly stretches his starched, tan uniform shirt, but he still looks mighty tasty.

He catches me staring. A smile lights up his face. “Hey, Mala Jean.” He waves me over. “Dixie said you found a body?”

“Uh yeah, down in the bayou.” My feet tangle together. I must look as drunk as Mama when I stumble over to him on wobbly legs.
Stupid feet.
“Just you coming for her?” I ask, glad my voice doesn't shake too. I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans.
I am a professional.

George blushes, a light dusting of freckles standing out against his pale skin. The setting sun brings out the fire in his reddish-gold hair. “Sheriff Keyes, Andy, and Bessie are out on Route Seven. A bunch of buffalo broke free of McCaffrey's pasture and ran out into the road. It caused a major pile-up.”

“Merciful heavens, anyone dead?”

“Four buffalo got killed. No human fatalities, but some pretty serious injuries. A little boy needed to be flown over to Lafayette. The sheriff's ETA is in an hour with the coroner.” He remembers to take a breath before continuing, “So, where is my crime scene?”

“About half a mile away. Got a flashlight? It'll be dark by the time we get there.”

George climbs back into his car and comes out with a long-handled flashlight and his shotgun. He pulls a mini-flashlight from his duty belt and hands it over.

“Okay, let's go,” I say, leading him into the woods.

He walks with the shotgun pointed skyward, alert for trouble. His eyes scan the dense foliage completely oblivious to my desperate attempts to keep the conversation going so I don't have to think about our destination. How can silence be so deafening?
Say something. Anything.

George clears his throat. “How's your ma? She been staying out of trouble? I haven't seen her at the station for a few days.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and my steps quicken. I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “Mama's doing just fine, Georgie.” Somehow I manage to answer without my voice betraying the immense humiliation I feel. Why did he have to go and irritate me by bringing up Mama? “I'm sure she'll be real grateful for your concern over not seeing her in the drunk tank.”

God love him, but it takes a few seconds for the sarcasm to sink in.

“Oh, Mala, you know I didn't mean anything bad by that. I hadn't seen her is all, and I usually see her every weekend…uh, this isn't going too good for me, is it? Might be better if I shut up, huh?”

My eyes roll at George's horrified tone. He has a good soul, not a mean bone in his body, and the faux pas leaves him flustered. Wanting to put him out of his misery, I look over my shoulder with a forced grin that I hope doesn't scare him. “Don't worry. You mess with me, I mess with you.”

“Still, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Truth be told, I'm a little nervous.” He gives me a sideways glance. “I wouldn't say this to anyone but you 'cause…”

“'Cause you know I'll have your back?” I arch an eyebrow and echo his relieved smile. “Stop avoiding the subject by buttering me up with compliments. What's wrong?”

His hand tightens around the shotgun. “Fine, but don't laugh. Swear.”

I cross my heart.

“I've never seen a corpse before, and Sheriff Keyes expects me to work the crime scene alone until he arrives with the coroner.” He pauses, and I give him a blank face—the expression I hide behind whenever someone says something hurtful. Or in this case, to keep from laughing my head off over seeing big, bad, ex–football player, super-cop Georgie shaken. It makes him a little less superhero-like and more human.

He gives me a relieved smile. “I don't want to make a fool out of myself.”

“Don't worry, I won't let you do anything stupid, like vomit on the body,” I tease. A slight chill in the air makes me shiver, and I wrap my arms around myself for comfort. I smell the sulfur stench of the water before I see the girl's body lying on the muddy bank. “There she is.”

George plays the flashlight across the corpse. “Oh Jesus, damn it,” he whispers, voice choked up. “It's Lainey—Elaine Prince.”

“
Lainey.
” I sigh the nickname. Knowing it makes her feel real. She didn't before, not totally. I turn to George, unable to face her glazed stare. “She's exactly how I left her.”

“O-oh, well, that's good.”

We stand side by side over her body, coming to grips with the harsh reality of her death in our own ways. Seeing her again stirs up volatile emotions I refuse to contemplate too closely. I can't afford to look weak, and breaking down in front of George is not an option. Finally, I can't take the silence and ask, “You gonna pass out?”

“Nah, I'll be fine. I knew Lainey.” George clears his throat. “She's…she was a couple of years ahead of me in school. I had a huge crush on her in ninth grade.”

He squats down beside Lainey and pulls her dress down over her legs. I almost remind him to put on gloves, but it doesn't matter. Any evidence probably washed away in the swamp.

“Lainey comes from a good family,” he says. “Her father's a well-respected preacher. Her mama's always donating time. You know, doing good deeds like feeding and clothing the poor. They'll be crushed.”

My rubber boots squelch in the muck as I hunker down next to him. “Prince, huh?”

The name sends tendrils of unease down my spine. The image of Landry Prince's gray eyes form in my mind. His heavy stare followed me whenever I walked past him at school. I memorized his schedule last semester to avoid going to the places where he hung out with his friends. I'd shaken him until a few weeks ago when he started coming into Munchies on the weekends when I work a second job—not sure why he finds my waiting tables so fascinating. The irritating thing is he never speaks to me. Hell, he doesn't even come in alone. He has a different bobble-headed girl clinging to his arm each time, but do his dates keep his attention from turning to me like a needle drawn to a lodestone? Nope!

George glances over at me. The shadows make it difficult to read his expression, which means he can't see how freaked out I am either. “Her younger brother, Landry, went to your school.”

My chest tightens. I can't breathe. I close my eyes and focus on drawing in air.

Crap, she
is
related to him. My juju's the worst today.

“Mala, are you okay?”

I twitch, blinking in George's direction. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Oh, yeah, Landry got accepted to play football at the JC. I've seen him on campus.”

I try to picture Landry's face, but I've always avoided studying him too closely because he makes my stomach squiggly. The only image that forms clearly is of eyes like the sky before a hurricane. The rest of his features blur and morph into his sister's bloated face and dead-eyed stare. My stomach sours like I ate a tainted batch of crawfish, and I swallow hard. Desperate for a distraction from how queasy I feel, I walk over to a downed log and sit down. “He's never said two words to me, but he struts around campus like he's the king and we're subjects who must bow down before him. He's an arrogant jerk.”

Landry watches me, Georgie, like I'm a deer he's tracking.
I shiver, rubbing my arms. I've had boys interested in me before. Some hate me. Others are scared or curious because of the witchy rumors. But Landry…he creeps me out but also strangely fascinates me. I can't tell what he's thinking, and the touch of his eyes on my skin feels…electric, like when thunder rumbles overhead just before lightning strikes. I hate it.

George follows and sits beside me. His arm brushes mine. “Sounds about right from what I know of Landry, but Lainey was a good person.” I can't see his eyes, but I feel his gaze fall on me. “You know, Mala, you've never gone out of your way to try to get to know folks. Not everyone has it out for you.”

I tense up. Of all people, he knows better than anyone the sort of special hell my life has been. “Maybe if I hadn't been bullied all through high school, I'd be more social, Georgie. I can't help that I didn't always have clean clothes, let alone name brands…” I trail off, feeling hot and sticky.
Hellfire! Arguing over the body of a dead girl. How low could I get?
“Look, I have my reasons for not liking Landry, but this is his sister, and I don't mean to disrespect the dead.”

George blows out a breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. “No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have said anything. It's not the time or place.”

“But you
did
say it.”

“Yeah, I did. 'Cause it's true. And life's kind of short to leave things unsaid, don't you think?”

No, I've never thought that.
I draw in a deep breath. His fresh, clean scent washes away the scent of decay. George bumps his shoulder into mine, and I almost tumble off the log.