The Devil Always Collects Read online

  Reaching into a brown and green paper bag, the kind you get at Whole Foods, she produced a shoebox-sized wooden chest (circa 1930) and tiny silver key and said, “This box was entrusted to us by your mother shortly before her death. She instructed us to give it to you only after your father had joined her. None of us knows what’s in it. We were afraid you would leave before we had a chance to give it to you. The box has not been opened for more than 17 years.”

  What could it contain? Jewelry, perhaps? Was Mom worried that someone might steal it if she left it with my father, considering his condition? I wanted so badly to open it but could not bear the thought of any more memories or any more pain. Not here, with these ladies, not here, where the past was so close. I would wait till I returned to New Orleans. I needed to find my way back to normal, my crazy life in New Orleans. I left the pain of Silbee so long ago and I didn’t like being dragged back into it.

  “We hope that whatever it contains brings you comfort.”

  With that short speech, they left, piling into a Chevy van. I watched them waddle off and thought how dedicated they must have been to my mother to do her bidding after all these years. Small town people take care of each other. They are connected. Their lives might be boring, but they are authentic, I thought.

  Though I wanted to know what was in the box and was tempted to open it, I reaffirmed my decision to wait till I returned to New Orleans. I just couldn’t take any more right now. I still had to go to my family home and go through my father and mother’s things and even that agonizing chore would have to wait till tomorrow. Sleep was what I needed.

  As the sun announced a new day, I awakened and stumbled my way to the in-room Keurig. I placed the dark roast container in the machine and pressed the magic button. Soon I had the caffeine jolt I needed. After consuming two cups in my room and another in the hotel lobby, I was off to my old family home, a rambling white farmhouse with three bedrooms, a kitchen not updated since the 90s, and wide plank floors. No one was living in the house now. My mother’s garden was overgrown, and the fruit trees needed pruning—but that had been the case for years. My father had long ago leased the land to a large corporate farming conglomerate. As I unlocked the front door – it still stuck, I noticed – and walked into the musty-smelling, cold living room, I stuffed down memories and set to work. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been: most of my mom’s and dad’s clothes were already gone, and I’d taken some dishes, kitchenware and books to New Orleans. Mostly I was concerned about paperwork. I was the executrix of my dad’s estate, and little as he had, I knew bureaucracy always finds a way to make your life difficult.

  As I combed through stacks of old files, I ran across correspondence from a Chicago law firm plastered with more legal gobbledygook than should ever be written on any one page. The gist was that they were trying to settle with my father for poisoning the well water on the farm. They represented Armak Chemical Company. The name threw me for a while until I realized that I knew the company as the ACC, a household name. No one called it Armak. ACC made bug sprays, pet collars and many other household items such as air freshener. I wondered how long our well had been poisoned. I grew up in this house drinking water from that well. Was I poisoned? I wanted to know more but the letter contained broad language and no details.

  I spent the rest of the day packing boxes and depleting my cell phone battery arranging for the Two Lost Boys Moving Company to take all of the possessions in the house to a storage facility I rented in New Castle.

  I was done, I thought. And then I remembered the attic. I climbed the attic steps and entered a time capsule. Old things, keepsakes, Christmas decorations and a cardboard box. I looked in the box, expecting to find my old school progress reports and my first place science fair ribbon, but I found something much more disturbing. The box contained legal documents. Mom and Dad were involved in a lawsuit against ACC. I read that an experimental pesticide and herbicide combination was used on my family’s corn farm. My parent’s farm was one of five corn farms in an ACC pilot program. The two chemicals seeped into our well and contaminated our drinking water. There was some evidence that ACC’s two products caused cancer. Did this explain my mother’s early death? According to the documents, my parents settled their claim for $75,000. I knew nothing of this. Why had they kept it from me? I read only five pages of the hundred or so in the box. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks. This was too much for me to take in right now. I had just buried my father yesterday. My last living relative was gone. I weaved the four flaps of the cardboard box together to seal it. I set the box aside and decided to ship it to New Orleans. I wanted, needed, to read all of it, but I couldn’t face any of it at the moment.

  I went back to my hotel. On the way, I stopped and bought a bottle of red wine. I wanted a Pat O’s Hurricane – or three – but settled for the wine. I needed to run away into the make-believe world of Mandy Morris. My world, once so settled, so normal, was upside down. Why would my parents keep the poisoning of our land from me? What happened in the lawsuit? I had to know.

  Then my phone chimed.

  “Hi, Alexandra, it’s Tom,” the text read. “I am Brad’s friend. We met at Pat O’Briens. I am sorry to hear of your loss. Call me if you would like to talk. 504-555-5983.”

  Tom, I thought. How sweet. This was totally unexpected. I barely even knew Tom. Except that I couldn’t stop thinking about how he was the hottest thing on the planet, and I wanted him to be my prince and take me to the ball. But he didn’t know any of that.

  Wine secured, I made my way back to the hotel. I really should answer Tom, I thought. But what would I say? After a much-needed shower, I tore the plastic off the little hotel drinking cups, converting one into a wine glass, and begin the process of numbing my senses. Maybe after a couple glasses of wine, I could talk to Tom. Two cups turned into four, and the bottle was empty.

  Properly anesthetized, I texted Tom, “I’ll call when I am back in N.O.” and fell asleep.

  Chapter Six:

  Stalker Trouble

  The morning brought that all too familiar day-after feeling, my mouth dry, and cobwebs clouding my thoughts. Coffee was what I needed. Why did I start getting drunk anyway? It’s a habit I picked up in New Orleans. Maybe the buzz softened the hard edges of life. Maybe it was living alone...Note to self: Don’t drink so much. Coffee, on the other hand, was now an essential component of my blood. Two cups downed, I headed to the old homeplace to meet the movers.

  Who would name their company Two Lost Boys Moving Company?

  Wiley and Riley, that’s who. The two Baker boys. Their father used to say to them as they were growing up, “You two boys are so lost, you couldn’t find the ground if you fell down.” He said it enough, the name stuck. Their garage band was called The Lost Boys Band, their dogs were named Missing and Gone so what else would they call their moving company?

  Lost or not, within four hours they had the furniture I sat on as a child, framed family photos removed from their wall perches and gads of boxes neatly tucked in my storage shed. Everything except for that box that I taped up, took to the UPS store and sent to my house. I took a 7:20 PM flight to New Orleans and was asleep in my own bed by midnight. My mind raced over the events of the last few days. I woke up, cried, went back to sleep only to wake up from a bad dream and cry again. The feeling that I was alone, truly alone in this world, overwhelmed me. What would happen to me? Did I have anyone in my life who would even miss me?

  Morning blended into night and I started my coffee ritual. Coffee didn’t help this time. I looked in the mirror. There was only me. I had looked at my image in that mirror hundreds of times and seen the same reflection. But it was different now. I saw Alex, the orphan. I began to sob and them to cry, bending at my waist unable to stand erect.

  I reached for my phone and called Sarah, the closest person to me left in my life.

  By the time she picked up, I was crying uncontrollably
. “Sarah, IIIIIIt’s Meeeee,I’mmmmm Hooooome!

  Without hesitation she said, “I’m on my way to your condo now.”

  Love is a wonderful thing. As soon as Sarah arrived, I felt better, her kind brown eyes crystal clear. Her voice, that amazing, healing voice. It sounded like rain sounds when you’re a kid, something that reminds you how safe and warm you are in bed.

  “Pack some clothes, you’re staying with me,” she said.

  I didn’t argue. I slinked to her car deflated, depressed and demoralized. It was a short trip to her house on St. Charles Avenue. Somehow, though, just being in her presence picked me up.

  “This will be your room as long as you want to stay, Alex,” Sarah said.

  “This room is amazing. I even have my own bathroom,” I said looking at the tall ceiling, framed with crown molding, olive colored walls and light airy curtains pulled back revealing ten foot wood-framed windows. “Thank you, Sarah. The last few days have been so difficult for me.” I wanted to tell her more, but I was just too emotionally drained. We sat in her great room and drank a glass of Pinot Noir. We talked about work, Mardi Gras, everything but our real problems. Like Sarah had problems. She was the most together person I knew. I dreamed of owning a house like hers some day, stately, with wide pine floors and cypress beams. I rented a small condo but the economy made it impossible for me to buy a house.

  The next morning Sarah woke me up with a cup of coffee and a big smile. It was Saturday.

  “You want to go with me to the shelter?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I answered. Really, it was just what I needed. I could talk to the ladies about their lives and play with the children. I wouldn’t have to think of my father’s death, the cancer chemicals in our well, or the isolation and loneliness I’d been feeling.

  We drank coffee and chitchatted for a while and then Sarah’s expression changes and she looked at me with a serious light in her eyes, “Alex, I need to talk to you about something before we go to the shelter.”

  Holy shit, I thought, what was about to happen to me now? More troubles? I nodded at Sarah, signaling her to continue.

  “Alex, I have a stalker. It’s been going on for more than three months. It started with hang-up telephone calls, then a low whispering voice on the phone saying things like, “It’s only a matter of time.” Gradually it has escalated to greeting cards. Some of them have a photo of me in my car or going into our office building.”

  “Oh shit, Sarah, that’s so scary! I did notice you had several locks on the door but I thought that was just a New Orleans thing. Have you been to the police? Do you know who it is?”

  “I think it is Mark, my ex,” she said.

  “The creep who tied you up and, you know, abused you? I thought the judge told him to stay away from you?”

  “He was ordered not to come near me, but he thinks he’s above the law. I reported it all to the police and they are supposed to be investigating. I hate to burden you with this, but I just thought you should know since you are staying with me.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I’m not scared. I’m a farm girl with a mean left hook.”

  Farm girl, who was I kidding? I left the farm years ago to become a city girl. I drink too much and hang out in bars. That’s not what farm girls do. They marry, have kids and cook. Every day on the farm was a perfect replica of the one before, made by a nano-chip planted in all farmers’ brains and produced by a farm life copy machine. At least that’s what I always believed. Seemed to be true before I found out I could be poisoned by some corporate experiment. And, yes, I was scared shitless of both the poison and of Sarah’s stalker!

  Sarah and I headed for Laplace. Going to Laplace from New Orleans required traveling over marshland and the lower banks of Lake Pontchartrain. When you looked down from the elevated highway, you saw swamp, dotted with cypress trees, and muddy water. I couldn’t help but think that criminals disposed of weapons, evidence and even people in those alligator- and crab-infested waters. Gruesome as the thoughts were, I they filled my mind though I tried to block them out. So much violence in the world. It’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys, even for a former Lois Lane.

  Once at the shelter, we mingled with the residents. Mattie, a 20ish African-American girl with an infant child, was a new arrival. Her boyfriend got drunk and beat her up. He managed to cut her arm with a kitchen knife before she got away. One of the shelter’s volunteer doctors stitched her up. But what about her broken life? She had nowhere to go. Her family lived in Georgia. She knew they would take her in if she could get to them. But, with no money, no vehicle and a baby, they might as well have been on the moon. Sarah contacted her mother and bought Mattie a bus ticket to Atlanta. Her family would reunite with her and take care of her. I thought about all of the people who don’t have anyone to take care of them. Hell, I’m one of them now. If, for some reason, I wasn’t able to take care of myself, what would happen to me? Who could I call? At least I could go back to the family farm. Maybe I couldn’t drink the water but I’d have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in at night. I took comfort in that thought.

  It was time to go back to New Orleans; Sarah kissed all the babies and ladies. She had to; they all loved her. No way were they letting her out of there until she told each one goodbye. Back across the swamp we journeyed to Sarah’s house. I silently resolved to return to work tomorrow and restart my life. Sarah had worked her magic on me. If the ladies in the shelter could face their harsh realities, then I know I could face tomorrow and my city life.

  Sarah and I cracked a bottle of red wine and chatted. I told her about what I discovered in my parent’s attic and about the three old women with the box from my mother (the three witches, I uncharitably called them, mostly because they reminded me my mom was dead.) I went to show her the text from Tom and realized I had left my phone and purse in her car.

  When I unlocked and opened the door to go outside, there he was. He was in my face, tall and dressed in black. He pushed by me and headed straight for Sarah. I have never seen a crazed look like that in anyone’s eyes.

  Sarah screamed, “Run!”

  He grabbed her arms and shook her yelling, “You bitch!”

  Sarah struggled to break free of his grip but couldn’t. She screamed, “Let me go, Mark,” at him.

  I was petrified, almost super-glued to the floor, but something came over me. I was either being possessed by a demon or channeling Xena the Warrior Princess. Like a leopard in sub-Saharan Africa, I jumped on his back. I put one arm around his neck and buried the claws at the end of the other in his face. He let go of Sarah, wheeled around and threw me to the ground. His venomous rage was now directed at me.

  Before he could attack, Sarah hit him in the face with the pepper spray she kept just for him. It worked too. He spun back around to go after her, but she got him again. He was stooping and wiping his eyes. That’s when I did it. I got back on my feet. Mark’s back was to me, and he was crouching, rubbing his eyes and cursing. I kicked him square in the balls. He screamed and hit the ground with a thud. I looked up. Sarah had picked up a miniature version of a Louisville Slugger bat, the kind they give to kids visiting the major league team, and small but solid wood. Mark was writhing on the floor, and Sarah stood over him with the bat. She paused. Instead of hitting him she grabbed me, picked her keys up from the floor where I’d dropped them, and headed to her car. We got away and made a beeline to the police station.

  “Are you hurt?” Sarah asked.

  “No, are you?” I asked.

  “Just a little bruised. I am so sorry you had to go through that. But you saved me. If you hadn’t fought him off of me, he might have hurt me even worse than last time. Thank you, Alex!”

  “Sarah, why didn’t you hit him with the bat?”

  “I planned to. Part of me wanted to. Part of me wanted to hit him so hard that he could never get up, but I just coul
dn’t.” A faint smile crept on her face and she said, “You got him good, Alex. Right in the balls. I’ll bet from now on every time he looks at women’s shoes, his balls will hurt.”

  The police officer took down our statements and issued an APB. We were referred to Detective Demetre Baker for a follow-up interview. We repeated everything that we already told the uniformed policemen. He separated us and asked us questions individually. He wanted to know exactly what Mark said and how he approached us. The whole process took two hours. All the while I thought, what the hell is wrong with you people? We know who attacked us. My God, Sarah was married to the bastard. As many detective TV shows as I’ve watched, I still can’t figure how cops think.

  Detective Baker put us back in the same room and said, “The suspect, Mark Stevens, is in custody.”

  Suspect, my ass, I thought, he’s a predatory creep. Throw him in jail and throw away the key. Put him in with Bubba or some other the redneck stereotype from a Chain Saw Massacre movie and let him have a taste of his own medicine.

  Sarah and I left the station and headed to her house.

  “Do you want to go to your condo?” she asked.

  “Hell no, I’m not scared. Mark’s in jail. Besides, I have another shoe,” I said as I smiled broadly. Maybe I was a farm girl after all. She laughed and we headed off to bed. We decided to both sleep in her bed. That made me happy because my mom used to let me sleep with her when I was scared. And, honey, now that the adrenaline stopped running through my body, I was plenty scared. But, at least, I was not alone. I had Sarah.

  Sarah and I went to work in the morning just like nothing had happened. She was a private person and didn’t want anyone knowing her personal business. Besides, everyone was interested in the Mardi Gras season, which had just begun. The first parades were rolling and there was a giant king cake in our office kitchen.

  The whole cake, with its glitter green, purple and yellow sugar icing was gone in less than an hour, the smell of cinnamon lingering. Old Jenkins got the baby and bitched about the entire process being rigged. Though he’d been eating king cakes for more than 65 years, now all of a sudden it was a stupid tradition and rigged. Good sportsmanship was not his strong suit.