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"Okay," he said, returning to the window. "You're out. If you're going to continue driving in this storm, you had better keep it slow, understand?"
"Yes, monsieur. How can I repay you?"
"Send me a thank-you card," he said and rushed away.
"But, monsieur . . ."
I waited. He got into his truck and drove off, beeping his horn as he went by. I never even got to know his name.
Minutes later I was back on the highway, driving with exaggerated care until the rain eased. It slowed to a drizzle, and then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. I chanced accelerating, feeling more confident as I put more miles behind me and the road looked drier and drier. Even so, traveling along highways with trucks and cars whizzing by and so few lighted houses made me nervous. If something happened to me, Mommy would never know and Pierre would never get well, I thought. Daddy would be left alone and would surely die, too. Just the thought of all this tragedy brought stinging tears to my eyes.
A half hour or so later I saw the clouds had broken up. Stars were visible, blinking their promises. It warmed my heart, and I felt even more self-assured. The horrible accident that had begun my journey became just a memory. When I drew closer to Houma, however, I realized I had forgotten the exact side road Daddy had taken to bring us to Cypress Woods. I slowed down and studied the roads, but they all looked the same now. Desperate, I decided to stop at the first shack with lights on inside. This journey that was supposed to take me about two hours had already taken nearly three. A house appeared on my right, so I slowed down and turned into the driveway.
As soon as I got out of the car, two gray squirrels scampered up a nearby cypress tree, their sudden movement making me gasp. They peered down at me curiously from the branch over my head. I laughed at them and walked up a gravel path to the gallery of the shack.
It was a paintless wood-frame building with orange stained screens on the windows. Some windows had shutters, some didn't. The yard was cluttered with used automobiles, washing machines, and damaged pirogues. The gallery had square columns that were barely holding up the tin roof, and the first step on the short stairway was broken. I hadn't picked the best place to stop for directions, but I wasn't sure how far away the next one was and I didn't want to get any more lost than I was. So I drew closer.
Zydeco music was coming from inside, and through the opening in the batten plank shutter, I saw a man playing a harmonica, another playing a washboard, and a third playing a fiddle. There was the sound of a woman's laughter and then someone shouted, "Laissez les bon temps rouler"--let the good times roll. More shouting was followed by more laughter and the sound of someone dancing on the plank floor. This close I could smell the heavy aroma of a seafood gumbo.
I hesitated to interrupt the festivities, but when I turned around and looked at the dark surroundings, the trees with the Spanish moss draped like ghosts, the fireflies like sparks in the night, and the absence of any traffic or people, I felt I had no choice. I stepped up to the door and knocked, too softly at first and then hard enough for the people within to hear.
Someone shouted. The music stopped. I knocked again. Moments later a man in just a pair of pants and suspenders came to the door. He had a heavy thin line of hair running down the center of his chest, which was spotted with pale yellow freckles. He was barefoot with toes that looked as thick and as long as fingers. His black hair was disheveled, some strands so long they reached the tip of his nose. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for days and never shaved the hair on his neck that curled over his collarbone. He just stared out at me.
"Anyone there, Thomas?" A woman demanded.
"Yes," he said.
Suddenly there were two little girls behind him, both in sack dresses and both with hair that looked as if it had never been cut. It reached below their shoulders. They gazed at me with large, curious dark eyes. Another, shorter man appeared, smiling widely, and then a tall woman, stout with rolling pin arms, pushed in between them. She had a chubby face with a double chin and large dark eyes.
"Well, whaddaya lookin' at, you two? It's just a girl. Whatcha want, missy?"
"I'm lost and I was hoping I could get some directions, ma'am."
"Lost, huh? Lookie what we got here, Jimbo," she said, pushing the shorter man back so that an older man with bushy white hair could come to join the curious group. He was the one playing the washboard. "She says she's lost."
"Where you goin'?" he asked. There was gray stubble on his chin and a light gray mustache.
"I'm looking for a place called Cypress Woods," I said.
"Cypress Woods!" The first man smiled, revealing gaping holes where teeth should have been.
"You related to the Tates?" Jimbo asked.
"No, monsieur."
"Well, Cypress Woods is the Tates' place," he said with narrow, suspicious eyes. The woman nodded. The group was joined by two more men, another woman, three older girls about sixteen, and a boy a little younger.
"You lookin' for one of them oil riggers?" the woman asked in a disapproving tone. She folded her arms over her bosom and straightened her shoulders.
"Not exactly," I said.
"Not exactly? What's that supposed to mean? Not exactly?"
"I'm not coming here to meet a man," I added. "But someone who works with the oil riggers has information I need."
"That so?" She looked like she didn't believe me. Why was it so important for them to know every detail before they would give me directions?
"Tates don't live there, if you're looking for them," Jimbo said.
