The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen Page A

“Need a smoke? Hell. I need one. I just keep picturing it, all tiny . . .” He shakes his head like he’s trying to jolt the memory loose. Scooting past me, he moves toward the door. “Don’t forget to pay for those.” He indicates the waters. Cradling them in the crook of my arm, I leave a five on the counter. It’s too much, but what does that matter now? Someone has dumped a baby in the trash. Forget what I said about what this world deserves, Lord. We deserve nothing.
    Before church, Maw Maw and I tune the radio to Hoakum and Pursifull to hear what people are saying about the LeBlanc Avenue baby. Lyle mentions a tip line that the police department has set up, and Bud Lee says the medical examiner will have his report ready in about a week.

    â€œThe report will determine whether the woman who left the baby will face murder charges,” Lyle says. “So stay tuned, folks, because you better believe we’re going to follow this story. I mean, our town’s had its share of bad press, what with the explosion and all, but you ask me, this is worse. We are going to do everything we can to bring the woman who did this to justice.”
    Maw Maw switches the radio off, uptilts her chin. “Got to ready ourselves,” she murmurs. “It’s close now.” Crickets screech beyond the porch lights. She drinks from her glass of sweet tea, ice cubes clinking as she sips. “We’ll pray that baby to heaven tonight.”
    â€œYes ma’am.” She doesn’t need to tell me to pray; since I learned the news, I haven’t stopped.
    â€œMercy, ma fille, remember les feux follets ? Will o’ the wisps?” She pauses as if waiting for an answer, but I know she’s only collecting herself to tell the story I’ve heard dozens of times. “There was a traveler through the swamp who one evening saw a light like a floating candle appear before him. He was tired, and the night in its blackness stretched long before him, so do you know what he did? He followed the light. Followed it into the darkest part of the swamp, where he could hear the gators thrashing and snapping their jaws. They could smell him, but mostly, they could smell that he was lost. Still, he followed the light that floated like a ghostly candle, moving and bobbing through the lowlands. He tried to stay close to the light, but each time he walked faster, the light drew farther away, until finally, he could no longer see the light at all. He was pitiful lost, ma fille. What was the man to do? But he remembered a story he’d heard in a tavern on the road, a story of will-o’-the-wisps that led travelers astray. He carried a knife, and remembering the story, he thrust the knife into the heart of the night, into the black soil of the swamp.

    â€œSuddenly, the light appeared again, but this time it grew bigger and bigger as it came closer to him and his blade, stuck as it was in the night’s heart. Scared, the man hid behind a tree and watched. Soon the light was just above the blade, and with a flash like lightning, it spun around the blade, around and around, and he heard a terrible scream, a child’s scream. The traveler fell over from the blinding light, and when he stood up, it was daytime and the day birds were calling their sweet songs. In sunlight, he knew exactly which way was west, the direction he had been traveling. He pulled his knife from the ground and was surprised to find it covered in bright red blood. He wiped the blood off with his shirttail.
    â€œFor les feux follets are the souls of unbaptized babes, ma fille, and they haunt those who wander the swamps and forests. With a knife to the heart of the night, the traveler had released the children out of purgatory, out of their ghostly state, and into hell.” She looks at me over her glass, her long fingers wrapped around it thoughtfully. “Pray for that baby, but say a prayer for yourself, too, ma