JACOB


The pain in my right leg has escalated from the usual dull throb into a burning, glaring sensation. The hot, humid air and the strain from makin’ groceries and trucking between the pirogue are taking their toll. Squinting under the blazing mid-summer sun, I try to focus on unlocking the massive metal gate of my late mother’s estate, but my fingers are slippery, and the key falls to the ground, prolonging my agony.

Muttering a silent curse, I move my hybrid walker cane a little further to the left and bend forward slowly to pick the damn thing up. A soft breeze riffles through the cypress trees, warning of an imminent storm.

On my third attempt, the gate finally gives way, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The courtyard is riddled with wild bushes, and the few trees that once blossomed, bearing succulent fruits, are now wilted and dry, their frail branches reminiscent of a glorious past. Spanish moss droops from the sprawling limbs of the few remaining live oaks, the unrelenting humid heat of rural Louisiana drying everything out. A sudden movement amongst the shrubbery catches my eye and I glimpse a fiery orange tabby cat running away at the sight of me.

Slowly, I make my way through the narrow gravel path and up the ramp I had installed to avoid the several steps leading to the century-old Creole estate’s front door. It’s funny; Sometimes I think this place, however neglected, is in better shape than I am. I push the wooden door open, a squeaking sound welcoming me into the blessed darkness of the interior. Once inside, the eerie silence blankets me within its comforting embrace.

Certain no soul will dare venture to my hiding place, I push the door shut and pick up the four-legged cane I use at home. A booming sound echoes through the empty rooms, and I turn my gaze upward at the skylight.

A dark front is moving swiftly to the north.

A storm is coming.

I hope it pours. I can’t bear this heat.

I walk into the kitchen slowly and disentangle myself from my backpack stuffed with groceries. A ray of sunlight peeks through the clouds, creating a kaleidoscope of colors throughout the room when it hits the chandelier that hangs above the oak table. Maman liked for things to be just the way she wanted them. Fireplaces in every room. Chandeliers in the kitchen. You name it; this place had once been the epitome of glamor. Now, it's a shell of the elegant luxury it once was.

She would be horrified to know her beloved home has turned into a shell of a house. My mind races back to my childhood days, running around the grounds for hours on end, only settling down when it was time to eat. I can almost hear her gentle voice as she summoned my brother and me to lunch, her quiet, steady footsteps as she walked briskly towards the wrap-around balcony to shout out our names. Sighing, I think of how much this place could use a woman's touch.

But then again, so could I. My mother’s gone.

My brother is gone, too, lost to his addictions.

The only family I have left is my son and the last time I saw him…

A vaguely familiar sound jolts me out of my reverie as I put the cans of food and the loaf of bread away, and I strain my ears to listen better.

There it is again. That unmistakable rap on my front door.

Someone is out there.

Someone unwelcome.

Someone uninvited.

Slowly, I make my way back to the front of the house, and when I fling the door open, what I see knocks the wind out of me.

She is young.

And beautiful beyond belief.

Thick, dark hair, a wide, expressive mouth, and a luscious, willowy body that could turn a saint into a sinner.

I swallow hard before I speak, holding her hypnotic cat-like green eyes as she stares into mine.

“I don’t want it,” I growl, and if my looks are not menacing enough, I make damn sure my tone of voice is. She’s too young and too beautiful, and I’m too fucking depraved not to pull her inside and keep her here with me until all my wicked desires are sated.

“Hmm…hey,” she stammers. “How do you—”

Annoyed, I glance past this intruder and see Tom, one of the local pirogue drivers, talking on his phone over by my dock.

I slam the door in the girl’s face and pray she’ll be gone when I open it again. She knocks on it a second later.

Once. Twice. Three times.

An eternity passes, and we both wait on either side. She knocks again, and I wait still, wishing her away. Away from me.

But then my name is on her lips, her soft voice sneaking up on me, and I find myself unable to move away.

“You are Mr. Jacob Broussard, right?” she says loudly, before dropping down to a whisper. “With my luck, I could be knocking on some old creep’s door.”

That last part is so quiet that I nearly miss her words. It’s as if she’s talking to herself. I hear her sigh, and my hand goes to the handle instinctively, slowly turning it, already regretting my decision.

She seems startled and disheartened, her eyes searching mine.

“Save it, little girl,” I warn. “Get back into the pirogue and go back to wherever the fuck you came from.”

“Please, you haven’t even let me tell you what it is I’m here for.”

Our eyes lock for a brief moment, as I scan her from head to toe, committing the details to memory. Shifting my stance to accommodate my growing bulge, I clear my throat and hold her gaze.

“You’ve come all this way to find me out here, pichouette. Only a foolish, career-driven person would do that. You're a journalist, aren’t you? One of those sleazy tabloid ones. You practically reek of it.”

My thick accent must be throwing her off because she takes a few seconds to process what I've just told her.

“But, Mr.Broussard, I want to give you a chance to share your story with the world. The people are interested in finding out more about you now that you’re out. You can't—”

“What part of I don't give fucking interviews didn't you understand, sweetheart? You’re not the first nosy journalist trying to get here looking for a story, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. Now, get off my property.” I hold up my arm and point her back at the dock, but she stays firmly in place, unmoved by what I just said.

“Please, can’t you make an exception, just this once? For me? I just got off the bus ten miles down the road, then rented a rickety old canoe with what little money I had left to get here in this stifling heat. Can't you please be a gentleman and at least invite me in for a glass of water? I promise I'll be out of your way before you know it.”

I stare at her, and she seems determined to have her way. And if I’m being honest, she does look like hell. All sweaty and disheveled in her draped black top and cropped cigarette pants that accentuate her curves to perfection. But it’s that spark in her eyes and her sassy little mouth that finally sway me into ushering her in.

“I am no gentleman, pauvre ti bête,” I say, in as flat a voice as possible. “Allons, get in before I change my mind. You got exactly ten minutes.”