homes here. Half were owner-occupied, the other half renter. Not too many of the ones she saw from the road looked impressive, but she hadn’t expected mansions. The median rent in this town was $218 a month—a figure she could scarcely believe. You couldn’t even rent a doghouse for that amount in California.
“Wow,” she muttered, dropping her speed to match the posted limit. Mamou wasn’t much like Cleveland, where she’d grown up—and yet a nostalgic similarity existed between the wooden frame homes and her old neighborhood. The simplicity of the early-twentieth-century architecture evoked childhood memories of weekends spent at her grandparents’ house, before they passed on. That throwback to American roots was notably absent in her adopted state, where most cities seemed prosperous, shiny and new.
Slowing even more, she turned into the first gas station she came across.
Before she could unbuckle her seat belt, a man close to her own age walked out of the garage. She rolled down her window to ask about Romain Fornier, but the way the attendant ducked his head and mumbled when he spoke made him seem a bit odd. That encounter reminded her of another statistic she’d read online: At last count, Mamou had 152 people in mental hospitals, a significantly higher number than the state average.
She wondered if this man had been recently released. “Excuse me?” she said, hoping he’d clarify what he wanted.
He motioned to the gas pumps but didn’t speak again. Evidently, he was planning to help her and needed some direction.
She hadn’t expected any assistance. In most parts of the country, full service had become a casualty of cost savings nearly two decades before.
Getting out, she told him to fill up the tank with regular, then wandered through the snack shop attached to the garage, where she selected a bottle of juice 39
and a doughnut and brought them to the register. She wanted to talk to someone about Romain Fornier, but she could tell that this man wasn’t a good option and already had her eye on the fiftyish woman behind the counter.
“Hello.” Jasmine smiled as she set down her items.
Dressed in jeans, a turtleneck sweater and an oversize coat—the inside of the store wasn’t much warmer than the forty-degree weather outside—the clerk barely glanced at her. “Hi.”
“Nice town you have here.”
“That’ll be $1.85. Plus the gas.”
Jasmine handed her fifty bucks. “How long have you lived in the area?”
“Most my life,” the woman responded, but her attention was on the till and making change.
“It’s nice to have someone pump my gas.”
The woman’s eyes darted to the window. The man Jasmine had encountered earlier was now checking her oil. “Lonnie does what he can.” Jasmine wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw some resemblance between this woman and the man outside. “Are you two related?”
“I’m his mama—all he’s got in this life and likely all he’ll ever have.” She sounded weary, overwhelmed and, for the first time, Jasmine noticed the dust that covered so many products on the shelves. “You own the place?”
“Since his daddy died last year. Now it’s just the two of us.” Guilt about being so caught up in her own troubles made Jasmine realize how single-minded she’d been the past few days. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The woman gave her a tired smile. “So am I. Half the time when he was alive, I wanted to kick him out. He was always going off fishing and leaving me with the station and the store. But at least I had him, you know? At least he came home to me.” She gauged the progress of her son, who’d finished with the oil and was washing Jasmine’s windshield. “And Lonnie did better when his daddy was alive.” Jasmine thought of her own father. She’d been so busy shielding herself from the pain of their relationship she’d seen him only once in four years. “It’s that way for some kids.”
“Not you, though,
“Wow,” she muttered, dropping her speed to match the posted limit. Mamou wasn’t much like Cleveland, where she’d grown up—and yet a nostalgic similarity existed between the wooden frame homes and her old neighborhood. The simplicity of the early-twentieth-century architecture evoked childhood memories of weekends spent at her grandparents’ house, before they passed on. That throwback to American roots was notably absent in her adopted state, where most cities seemed prosperous, shiny and new.
Slowing even more, she turned into the first gas station she came across.
Before she could unbuckle her seat belt, a man close to her own age walked out of the garage. She rolled down her window to ask about Romain Fornier, but the way the attendant ducked his head and mumbled when he spoke made him seem a bit odd. That encounter reminded her of another statistic she’d read online: At last count, Mamou had 152 people in mental hospitals, a significantly higher number than the state average.
She wondered if this man had been recently released. “Excuse me?” she said, hoping he’d clarify what he wanted.
He motioned to the gas pumps but didn’t speak again. Evidently, he was planning to help her and needed some direction.
She hadn’t expected any assistance. In most parts of the country, full service had become a casualty of cost savings nearly two decades before.
Getting out, she told him to fill up the tank with regular, then wandered through the snack shop attached to the garage, where she selected a bottle of juice 39
and a doughnut and brought them to the register. She wanted to talk to someone about Romain Fornier, but she could tell that this man wasn’t a good option and already had her eye on the fiftyish woman behind the counter.
“Hello.” Jasmine smiled as she set down her items.
Dressed in jeans, a turtleneck sweater and an oversize coat—the inside of the store wasn’t much warmer than the forty-degree weather outside—the clerk barely glanced at her. “Hi.”
“Nice town you have here.”
“That’ll be $1.85. Plus the gas.”
Jasmine handed her fifty bucks. “How long have you lived in the area?”
“Most my life,” the woman responded, but her attention was on the till and making change.
“It’s nice to have someone pump my gas.”
The woman’s eyes darted to the window. The man Jasmine had encountered earlier was now checking her oil. “Lonnie does what he can.” Jasmine wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw some resemblance between this woman and the man outside. “Are you two related?”
“I’m his mama—all he’s got in this life and likely all he’ll ever have.” She sounded weary, overwhelmed and, for the first time, Jasmine noticed the dust that covered so many products on the shelves. “You own the place?”
“Since his daddy died last year. Now it’s just the two of us.” Guilt about being so caught up in her own troubles made Jasmine realize how single-minded she’d been the past few days. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The woman gave her a tired smile. “So am I. Half the time when he was alive, I wanted to kick him out. He was always going off fishing and leaving me with the station and the store. But at least I had him, you know? At least he came home to me.” She gauged the progress of her son, who’d finished with the oil and was washing Jasmine’s windshield. “And Lonnie did better when his daddy was alive.” Jasmine thought of her own father. She’d been so busy shielding herself from the pain of their relationship she’d seen him only once in four years. “It’s that way for some kids.”
“Not you, though,
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