Water Witch (4 page)

I stared at her, unable to respond. I’d last
seen Angelle about five months ago, when she and Trevor had flown
to Cyler to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with me. At that time,
her beautiful heart-shaped face still held the glow of a newlywed.
Now her cheeks were sunken, her complexion sallow. Dark circles
rimmed her light brown eyes. She wore a blue t-shirt and a pair of
jeans, both of which looked as if they’d come from the discard bin
at the Salvation Army.

Before I managed to say anything, Angelle’s
eyes welled up with tears, and she threw her arms around me. “I’m
so glad you’re here,” she whispered against my ear.

I returned her hug, holding her tight. She
was trembling, and she squeezed me back even tighter. Having a soft
spot for kids was one thing, but Angelle seemed traumatized, as if
those missing kids belonged to her. Something bigger had to be
going on. I was about to ask her if she was okay to drive, when
someone called out.

“Hey!”

Angelle and I turned towards the old woman
sitting in the Camry. She had lowered the back window to half-mast
and was waving a hand through the opening. “Dat damn door she’s
stuck, come get me out!”

“You don’t need to get out, Poochie,” Angelle
said. “We’re coming right now.”

“Mais den you bes’ hurry ‘cause I’m gonna
pass out in dis heat. Poo-yi, it’s hot!”

“You’re not going to suffocate, Poochie. The
car’s still running, and the air-conditioner’s on.” Angelle grabbed
me by the arm and led me to the back of the car. She signaled for
me to put my bag in the trunk.

As soon as she closed the trunk, the old
woman harrumphed loudly. “If dat air-condition is on, den de
summabitch is broke, cause I don’t feel me no air.”

Angelle gave me an apologetic look.
“Poochie’s the reason I’m a little late. Normally she’s at the B
and B right now, but she kept insisting she had to come with me to
pick you up.” Before I could ask what a B and B was, Angelle tapped
a finger against her left temple, looking even more exhausted than
she did five minutes ago. “Poochie goes a little off from time to
time, and she
never
shuts up. So take that as a head’s up,
we may not get any talk time until I drop her off.”

I gave her another quick hug and kissed her
cheek. “No need to apologize. We’ll talk when we can. I’m just glad
to see you.”

“Me, too.” Angelle squeezed my arm, then gave
me a real smile, albeit small. “Come on, let’s get going before
Poochie decides to pitch a hissy fit.”

“I heard dat,” Poochie yelled out the window
as we headed for opposite sides of the car. “What’s dat a hissy
fit?”

“Nothing, Pooch,” Angelle said, opening her
door. “We’re leaving, so put your seatbelt back on.”

As soon as I settled into the passenger’s
seat, Poochie scooted to the edge of the backseat and put a hand on
my shoulder.

“What your name is?” she asked, giving me
another toothless grin, her green eyes flashing questions yet to be
asked. She looked to be in her mid-eighties, and although her
manner appeared brusque, it held the confidence of a woman who felt
living eighty-some-odd years had earned her the right to say
whatever she pleased to whomever she pleased.

“I already told you her name twice this
morning, Pooch,” Angelle said, as she put the car in drive and
threaded her way into traffic.

Poochie frowned as if ready to say,
No you
didn’t
. I figured it was as good a time as any to jump in. If I
was going to be here for a couple of days, and Trevor’s grandmother
was going to be part of this, even if only by osmosis, then it was
probably better to get some of the basics locked down upfront. “My
name’s Dunny. And yours is . . . Poochie?”

She nodded vigorously, and her cap of white,
over-permed hair bobbled.

“Is that your real name?”

The old woman tsked. “What kinda mama you
think would give her baby girl a name like Poochie? No, dat name
came from my old husband, Maurice, may de good Lord rest him. My
for real name is Patricia. Maurice, him, he just cut dat short to
Poochie. So dat’s me, Poochie Blackledge. Before I had me a
husband, though, it was Poochie Babineaux. I come from St.
Martinville. My grandbaby, Trevor, he’s de one dat moved me over
here. You know how dat is when you get old, de young people think
dey got to take over everything. So, I figure I come live over here
for a little while, maybe save on some grocery money, you know.
It’s not too bad. And you, what your name is?”

I blinked at the onslaught of words.

“She just told you her name, Pooch,” Angelle
said, and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

I wanted to look out at the landscape, take
in the green, green, and more green, but Poochie would have none of
it. She tapped me on the shoulder again.

“Oh, yeah, dat’s true, you tol’ me you name.
Well, den, who’s you daddy? What his name is?”

I grinned in spite of her persistent chatter.
I loved the woman’s accent, her brassy, outspoken style. “My dad’s
name was Robert Pollock. But he and our mother passed away when
Angelle and I were little girls.”

“Oh, pauvre ‘tite fille.” Poochie shook her
head. “Dat’s so sad you don’t got

no daddy and no mama. What you mama’s name
was?”

“Victoria Pollock.”

“Aw, dat’s a pretty name. I had me a sister.
Her name was Valenteen, but she died long time ago, prob’bly
thirty-five, forty years now. Valenteen . . .dat’s almost de same
like Victoria, huh?”

I smiled. “Pretty close, I think.”

“Pooch, you already know all about our
parents.” Angelle slapped the blinker handle down a bit harder than
was necessary. “I’ve told you about them a bunch of times. Don’t
you remember?”

Poochie huffed. “What, de gubberment pass a
law dat says you can only talk about something one or two times den
you can’t talk about it no more?”

Angelle threw me a look, rolled her eyes,
then faced the windshield again with an exasperated sigh.

Poochie tapped my shoulder again. “Hey, how
come you wearin’ dem gloves like dat? You a little cuckoo in de
head? It’s too hot for gloves.”

“I just like wearing them,” I said.

“You know, dey think I’m crazy in de head.”
Poochie tsked and tapped her forehead with a finger. “But it’s not
true, no. Every once in a little while, a fewthings slip in and out
my head, but dat’s not too bad, huh? I believe everybody got
something dat slips out deir head sometime. What you think?”

Struggling to keep up with the constant shift
in topics, I only nodded.

“You see?” Poochie tapped Angelle’s right
shoulder. “You sister thinks de same as me. I tol’ you I’m not
crazy.”

“I never said you were, Pooch.”

“Yeah, but I know what y’all been thinking.
That I’m needin’ to go to de cuckoo house or to de ol’ people’s
house. Dey both de same if you ask me, but it don’t matter ‘cause
I’m not goin’ to neither one no how.”

Angelle had already turned onto Interstate
10, and I could tell by the way she was white knuckling the
steering wheel and pushing the speedometer past eighty she was
anxious to get wherever we were going.

“N-32!” Poochie suddenly yelled.

Angelle and I started at the outburst, and
although I figured it could prompt a barrage of words, not one of
them answering the question, I had to ask, “Why do you call out
Bingo letters and numbers?”

“’Cause I like how dey sound. You know how
when you go to de Bingo hall, and all de little balls is flyin’
around in de machine? Den dat machine sucks out one of dem balls,
and a man grabs dat ball, and he yells, ‘B-2!—N-38!—O-52!’ I love
when dat happens! It passes me de frissons all over. It makes me
feel good, like I’m dat much closer to win.”

“What’s a frisson?”

Poochie shook her body, demonstrating a
sudden shudder. “Like dat—like all de excitement inside you want to
come out all at de same time. I can’t go to de Bingo hall in St.
Martinville no more, and dey don’t got one where I live now, so I
got to make my own frisson. Let me tell you, when you my age, you
got to get all de frissons you can where you can get dem.”

I chuckled.

“So—how come you got dem gloves on?”

Angelle and I exchanged another glance, then
I turned back to Poochie. “Just giving my hands time to warm up.” I
hoped that would appease her, but I had a feeling not much appeased
her curiosity, that it was a constant state of being—hungry, fed,
hungry, fed, the cycle never ending. “My hands always seem to get
cold, no matter where I go.”

“Hmmm,” Poochie said, elongating the sound
until it reached a pitch of disbelief.

Before she could broach the subject again, I
quickly asked, “So what’s this B and B place Angelle says you go
to? Is it like a bed and breakfast?”

Angelle snorted. “
Far
from a bed and
breakfast.”

“No, dey don’t got no bed over dere, but
breakfast, yeah, sometimes When Vern feels like to cook.” Poochie
settled back in her seat and folded her arms over her ample bosom,
which caused her pink housedress to hike up over her knees. “Vern
Nezat, dat’s Sook’s husband, and Sook, her, she’s a cousin on my
poor husband’s side. Dey own de Bloody Bucket, and I go help over
dere most times during de week.”

“The Bloody Bucket?”

“Yeah, dat’s what I said.”

“It’s kind of like a combo grocery store and
bar and grill,” Angelle said, not taking her eyes off the road.

“They name a place where people buy food the
Bloody Bucket?” Sudden images of a slaughter house, cow innards and
blood strewn across the floor, came to mind, and I shuddered.
“Doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

“Sound’s worse than it is,” Angelle said.
“There’s a pier attached to the back of the building. That way if a
fisherman wants to come in for a beer and a burger, he doesn’t have
to worry about retrailering his boat. He just ties his skiff up to
the pier and goes into the bar from the back door. Most of them
come in straight out the marsh, shrimp boots and clothes all muddy
and bloody from the bait they’ve been cutting all morning for trout
lines. They used to keep their bait buckets on the back porch, too,
until Sook made them stop because it was drawing too many flies.
Anyway, that’s how it got its name, and—”

“Yeah, most de men over dere’s a bunch of
slobs,” Poochie interjected. “Vern don’t care how dey come in de
bar, long as dey buy beers, you know? Sook, her, she de one who
gets mad. She usually works de grocery side, but at de end of de
day, she’s de one’s gotta mop de mess left on de floor in de bar.
Poo-yi dat makes her mad.”

“What do you do over there,” I asked.

“Me, I stay to de grocery side, pass down de
aisles and clean de can goods. Corn, Beenie Weenies, okra, stuff
like dat. Dem can goods don’t sell too fas’, so dey get all dusty.
And I make sure nobody takes stuff in de store when Sook goes help
Vern in de bar.” Poochie must have seen me eyeing the folded metal
walker that leaned against the seat beside her because she promptly
added, “Oh, I jus’ use dat walker at de house. I got me some
very-close veins on my legs, you know, and sometimes it’s hard for
me to walk. At de Bucket, though, I use me a scooter. Vern and Sook
got me one so I could ride around de store fas’ if I need to.”

At last Poochie took a breath, unfolded her
arms and smoothed out her housedress so it covered her knees again.
“Now, you sister tol’ me you come out here to pass a little visit.”
She cocked her head and looked me dead in the eyes. “But me, I
think you here to help find dem li’l chil’ren. Dat’s true,
huh?”

Oh, God, she knew!

CHAPTER FOUR

My heart did a triple beat, and I glanced at
Angelle, who went wide-eyed and mouthed, “
I didn’t tell her
anything.”

“N-37!”

Angelle jumped, which caused her to jerk on
the steering wheel and the car to veer slightly to the right
towards an eighteen-wheeler. She quickly brought the car back on
track, then blew out a breath.

“You know how come I know dat?” Poochie said.
“Dat you come to help find dem chil’ren?”

“How,” I asked, the word coming out strained.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how she knew.

“Well, it’s like dis. I had me a feeling de
good Lord was gonna send somebody de last time I was out to my
prayer tree.”

“What’s a prayer tree?” I asked, and Angelle
shot me a,
Quit asking questions or she’ll never shut up!
look.

“Dat’s something, yeah . . . when I move over
here, Angelle, she don’t know what a prayer tree is neither. Dat’s
a shame y’all don’t have none where you come from. A prayer tree,
dat’s important. Back to my house in St. Martinville, I used me a
chicken tree, kept all de shoes for de souls in purgatory on de
right side of dat tree, and shoes for de people dat’s still alive
on de left side. Over to Angelle and Trevor’s I gotta use me a
china ball tree ‘cause dat’s all dey got. It’s not big like my
chicken tree . . .” She shrugged. “But sometimes all you can do is
work wit’ what you got, right?”

“Shoes?” I glanced at Angelle, but she stared
straight ahead, her thoughts obviously spiraling elsewhere. I
turned back to Poochie who continued to talk…and talk…

“Mais, yeah, shoes. Dat’s what I use to keep
close to de people I pray for. Sometimes when a person pass away,
de family’s worried dey didn’t pass right to heaven. Maybe dey did
too much bad, you know? So dey bring me a pair of deir shoes so I
can pray for de soul, ask de good Lord to let dem in heaven.”

“Why shoes?”

Poochie shrugged. “Just ‘cause. What I do is
tie de shoelaces together and throw de shoes up in de branches on
de purgatory side of de tree. Now if somebody wants me to pray for
somebody dat’s sick or hurt, like dey got a broke leg, den I throw
dem shoes up in de alive side of de tree.”Poochie grinned,
obviously confident that the explanation clarified everything
fully.