huh?”
Jasmine instantly regretted divulging so much of her personal history. “My father’s still living. I’m just not close to him.”
“Don’t waste the time you got left, beb. That’s the best advice I can offer.” Jasmine didn’t want any advice. She was managing, wasn’t she? She’d gotten off drugs, made something of her life. That was progress.
After accepting her change, she turned to go. She didn’t feel comfortable asking this woman about Fornier; although they were strangers, they’d revealed too much about themselves in their brief exchange. There were other people in town, she 40
told herself. But Lonnie’s mother was finally interested enough to stop her with the question Jasmine had been expecting from the beginning.
“Where ya from?”
“California.”
“You come to see Fred’s Lounge?”
“No, I’m not a tourist. I’m looking for someone.”
“Here?”
“I don’t know if he’s still around, but he was born and raised in Mamou.”
“Who we talkin’ about?”
Jasmine’s reluctance to push her own agenda burned away beneath the hot glare of opportunity. “Romain Fornier.”
Her eyes narrowed, the tentative connection they’d established already at risk.
“What you want with him?”
“I’m hoping he can help me.”
“Help you what?”
“My sister went missing sixteen years ago.” A lump rose in Jasmine’s throat.
After almost two decades, the hurt and loss still surfaced at unexpected moments.
She swallowed hard and attempted to continue. “She was only eight.” The deep groves in the woman’s face indicated that she’d lived a hard life.
Money had probably been scarce even when her husband was alive. But there was genuine kindness in her, despite her apparent loyalty to Fornier. “I’m sorry.” Jasmine blinked back the tears that threatened. “It’s fine. I—I don’t know why I’m crying like this.”
She came around the counter. “You’re cryin’ ’cause you care, beb. Ain’t no stoppin’ that. But you don’t want to bother T-Bone. He’s been to hell and back, fuh shore.”
“T-Bone?”
“That’s what we call him. Used to be T-Boy, which is an old Cajun tradition, but when he was eight, he got in a fight with a bully who was three years older and took a good lickin’. His mamère was a superstitious old lady who told him to bury a steak and his black eye would heal, so he took his papa’s T-bone off the grill and did exactly that—and got another whippin’.” Her laugh settled into a wistful smile.
“Ever since, he’s been T-Bone. He used to be a good boy, the best. But now…it’s better to leave him alone.”
“I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“How could you hurt him? He’s lost everything he cares about. He’s not the same person anymore. He’s so en colère—angry, you understand?—he works real hard to keep his distance from everyone. There’s no need to make him the misère.” 41
Between her accent and the French words, this woman’s English was difficult to follow, but misère obviously meant miserable or something close. “So he lives here?” She felt sudden hope, despite her new friend’s warning.
“No, he lives near Portsville, out on the bayou.”
“How far away is that?”
“’Bout five hours southeast, down near Grand Isle and Leeville, give or take twenty minutes. Mais, like I said, I think it’d be a waste of your time to drive down there. He barely speaks to his own kin.”
Somehow, Jasmine didn’t quite believe that Romain was as unfriendly to his relatives as this woman said. If the local gas station owner knew him well enough to tell a story about his childhood, the community was a close one and chances were good he maintained some ties to it. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” she said.
Lonnie had finished with the car. He stepped inside, grinning like an eager dog after fetching a stick, and his mother put a hand on his shoulder to give him the approval he
Jasmine instantly regretted divulging so much of her personal history. “My father’s still living. I’m just not close to him.”
“Don’t waste the time you got left, beb. That’s the best advice I can offer.” Jasmine didn’t want any advice. She was managing, wasn’t she? She’d gotten off drugs, made something of her life. That was progress.
After accepting her change, she turned to go. She didn’t feel comfortable asking this woman about Fornier; although they were strangers, they’d revealed too much about themselves in their brief exchange. There were other people in town, she 40
told herself. But Lonnie’s mother was finally interested enough to stop her with the question Jasmine had been expecting from the beginning.
“Where ya from?”
“California.”
“You come to see Fred’s Lounge?”
“No, I’m not a tourist. I’m looking for someone.”
“Here?”
“I don’t know if he’s still around, but he was born and raised in Mamou.”
“Who we talkin’ about?”
Jasmine’s reluctance to push her own agenda burned away beneath the hot glare of opportunity. “Romain Fornier.”
Her eyes narrowed, the tentative connection they’d established already at risk.
“What you want with him?”
“I’m hoping he can help me.”
“Help you what?”
“My sister went missing sixteen years ago.” A lump rose in Jasmine’s throat.
After almost two decades, the hurt and loss still surfaced at unexpected moments.
She swallowed hard and attempted to continue. “She was only eight.” The deep groves in the woman’s face indicated that she’d lived a hard life.
Money had probably been scarce even when her husband was alive. But there was genuine kindness in her, despite her apparent loyalty to Fornier. “I’m sorry.” Jasmine blinked back the tears that threatened. “It’s fine. I—I don’t know why I’m crying like this.”
She came around the counter. “You’re cryin’ ’cause you care, beb. Ain’t no stoppin’ that. But you don’t want to bother T-Bone. He’s been to hell and back, fuh shore.”
“T-Bone?”
“That’s what we call him. Used to be T-Boy, which is an old Cajun tradition, but when he was eight, he got in a fight with a bully who was three years older and took a good lickin’. His mamère was a superstitious old lady who told him to bury a steak and his black eye would heal, so he took his papa’s T-bone off the grill and did exactly that—and got another whippin’.” Her laugh settled into a wistful smile.
“Ever since, he’s been T-Bone. He used to be a good boy, the best. But now…it’s better to leave him alone.”
“I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“How could you hurt him? He’s lost everything he cares about. He’s not the same person anymore. He’s so en colère—angry, you understand?—he works real hard to keep his distance from everyone. There’s no need to make him the misère.” 41
Between her accent and the French words, this woman’s English was difficult to follow, but misère obviously meant miserable or something close. “So he lives here?” She felt sudden hope, despite her new friend’s warning.
“No, he lives near Portsville, out on the bayou.”
“How far away is that?”
“’Bout five hours southeast, down near Grand Isle and Leeville, give or take twenty minutes. Mais, like I said, I think it’d be a waste of your time to drive down there. He barely speaks to his own kin.”
Somehow, Jasmine didn’t quite believe that Romain was as unfriendly to his relatives as this woman said. If the local gas station owner knew him well enough to tell a story about his childhood, the community was a close one and chances were good he maintained some ties to it. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” she said.
Lonnie had finished with the car. He stepped inside, grinning like an eager dog after fetching a stick, and his mother put a hand on his shoulder to give him the approval he
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