Read Online Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) by Susannah Sandlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susannah Sandlin
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that when Ceelie came out on weekends and, during the summer, for whole weeks or two at a time. That had been in the years after her mom left, until she’d turned sixteen and her dad forbade her to visit anymore.
Forbade her because of what she’d learned at this table and had been stupid enough to let him catch her doing.
Those had been bittersweet years. At the time, she’d thought her dad sent her here so often because she loved Tante Eva so much. Looking back as an adult, she thought maybe Dad had simply been overwhelmed that the woman he loved had packed her bags and taken a bus out of town in the middle of his afternoon shift at the gas plant. All while their eight-year-old daughter was trying to learn multiplication tables in her third-grade class.
Now? She thought he’d sent Ceelie to stay with his Tante Eva not only to give his daughter a mother figure but to give himself private time to mourn the life he’d lost. He’d have struggled to make sense of it, would have wanted to figure out how he’d misjudged the character of his wife so badly. Would have needed to vent his anger where his daughter wouldn’t see him.
The day her mom ran off to Texas or California or wherever she’d ended up—not running toward anything but simply away from them—Ceelie had come home from school to find a silent house and, on the kitchen counter, a white sealed envelope she’d instinctively known was not hers to read. Unsure of what else to do, she had taken her favorite teddy bear and crawled in her parents’ bed to wait for Daddy to come home. Afraid he wouldn’t. Afraid she’d be alone.
Dad had been trapped in a dead-end, dangerous job that eventually served up a cancer cocktail, and he had gotten stuck with a confused, lost daughter to raise by himself. No wonder he’d made her promise to leave Houma the first chance she got.
Now, here she was, back on Whiskey Bayou, which made Houma look like New York City.
Humming that damned song she couldn’t finish but couldn’t get out of her head, Ceelie dragged over one of the kitchenette chairs and sat in front of the throwing table. The memories in this cabin were visceral, palpable things, and maybe seeing this table explained why they were pummeling her with such force. She rarely thought of her mom’s cut-and-run anymore, but the ghosts had paraded past her like Mardi Gras floats since she’d gotten off the bus in Houma and found a driver willing to bring her down here— down da baya , as the old-timers said.
Ceelie moved the candles to the northeast and southwest positions before realizing what she’d done. Even through the eau de Pine-Sol , they smelled sweet, like the water lilies she remembered from being here as a kid. Most likely, Tante Eva had poured these candles herself. Ceelie remembered rows of new candles hanging at the end of the side porch, waiting for Tante Eva to bless them before she’d bring them into the house and light them.
A fine lot of good those blessings had done. Ceelie wrapped the candles in a paper towel and placed them in the middle of the drawer, then took the fragile, yellowed chicken bones and settled them one by one into the satin-lined carved wooden box Tante Eva kept for them.
“Bones gotta have a special place of respect,” she’d told Ceelie more times than she could count. “You treat them right and they’ll always speak true.”
“The bones never lie,” Ceelie whispered, placing the last one—a tiny skull—into the box and closing the lid.
She settled the box in the drawer along with the rolled-up square of leather that Tante Eva had told her was a gift from the greatest mystic in the parish. Ceelie didn’t remember his name, only that he’d lived even farther down the bayou.
Ceelie splashed some water on her face and neck before picking up her guitar and going back to the porch. She’d forgotten how quiet it could be out here during the heat of the day, even with the occasional buzz of an outboard
Forbade her because of what she’d learned at this table and had been stupid enough to let him catch her doing.
Those had been bittersweet years. At the time, she’d thought her dad sent her here so often because she loved Tante Eva so much. Looking back as an adult, she thought maybe Dad had simply been overwhelmed that the woman he loved had packed her bags and taken a bus out of town in the middle of his afternoon shift at the gas plant. All while their eight-year-old daughter was trying to learn multiplication tables in her third-grade class.
Now? She thought he’d sent Ceelie to stay with his Tante Eva not only to give his daughter a mother figure but to give himself private time to mourn the life he’d lost. He’d have struggled to make sense of it, would have wanted to figure out how he’d misjudged the character of his wife so badly. Would have needed to vent his anger where his daughter wouldn’t see him.
The day her mom ran off to Texas or California or wherever she’d ended up—not running toward anything but simply away from them—Ceelie had come home from school to find a silent house and, on the kitchen counter, a white sealed envelope she’d instinctively known was not hers to read. Unsure of what else to do, she had taken her favorite teddy bear and crawled in her parents’ bed to wait for Daddy to come home. Afraid he wouldn’t. Afraid she’d be alone.
Dad had been trapped in a dead-end, dangerous job that eventually served up a cancer cocktail, and he had gotten stuck with a confused, lost daughter to raise by himself. No wonder he’d made her promise to leave Houma the first chance she got.
Now, here she was, back on Whiskey Bayou, which made Houma look like New York City.
Humming that damned song she couldn’t finish but couldn’t get out of her head, Ceelie dragged over one of the kitchenette chairs and sat in front of the throwing table. The memories in this cabin were visceral, palpable things, and maybe seeing this table explained why they were pummeling her with such force. She rarely thought of her mom’s cut-and-run anymore, but the ghosts had paraded past her like Mardi Gras floats since she’d gotten off the bus in Houma and found a driver willing to bring her down here— down da baya , as the old-timers said.
Ceelie moved the candles to the northeast and southwest positions before realizing what she’d done. Even through the eau de Pine-Sol , they smelled sweet, like the water lilies she remembered from being here as a kid. Most likely, Tante Eva had poured these candles herself. Ceelie remembered rows of new candles hanging at the end of the side porch, waiting for Tante Eva to bless them before she’d bring them into the house and light them.
A fine lot of good those blessings had done. Ceelie wrapped the candles in a paper towel and placed them in the middle of the drawer, then took the fragile, yellowed chicken bones and settled them one by one into the satin-lined carved wooden box Tante Eva kept for them.
“Bones gotta have a special place of respect,” she’d told Ceelie more times than she could count. “You treat them right and they’ll always speak true.”
“The bones never lie,” Ceelie whispered, placing the last one—a tiny skull—into the box and closing the lid.
She settled the box in the drawer along with the rolled-up square of leather that Tante Eva had told her was a gift from the greatest mystic in the parish. Ceelie didn’t remember his name, only that he’d lived even farther down the bayou.
Ceelie splashed some water on her face and neck before picking up her guitar and going back to the porch. She’d forgotten how quiet it could be out here during the heat of the day, even with the occasional buzz of an outboard
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