Chapter Ten
The next morning starts with a jolt. I sit up, startled.
Some kind of noise woke me. My head pounds.
Visions of last night click through my mind.
Travis, the wine, the kiss. Oh God. And on top of all that are the remnants of my dreams. Dreams about missing girls and missing cars and small-town bullies.
Bullies had been the topic of my first podcast, inspired by the bullies who went after my little sister.
She was an easy target. Her stringy blonde hair refused to cover her large ears, and the mean girls at school called her Mouse.
One called her Rat. I waited for that one on the little school bus that took the kids home in the afternoon.
Mabry and I always rode home in Mama’s station wagon because she worked in the office, which got us a break on tuition, the rest of tuition covered by the current boyfriend.
Somebody rich enough to have two refrigerators, Mama told us when we asked who he was.
That day on the bus, I waited. The leader of the bullies sat down by the window, and I moved up to the seat behind hers.
As the bus rumbled into the driveway of its first stop, I pulled out a large pair of silver scissors I’d snagged from my homeroom.
I snatched the bully girl’s braids in one hand and snipped them off.
She screamed. I dropped her braids in her lap. “Now who looks like a rat.”
I was suspended for three days. It’s the only time I remember Mama telling me she was proud of me.
Of course, that’s not the advice I give out now.
Today, a kid would be arrested for doing what I did.
Probably sued. Rightly so. It was brutal, and I felt awful for that little girl who cowed away from me at school.
And then I’d look at Mabry and feel awful for feeling awful.
It’s no wonder I found my way into psychology.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and something clunks onto the floor.
Black VHS tapes litter the covers. I have a vague memory of emptying the box after emptying the bottle of wine that Travis left.
I’d separated out a pile that was labeled.
The others were unlabeled. There are so many.
I open my phone and pull up my order. A screen informs me my order is still In Transit.
No indication if it’s actually going to show up today.
A loud knock sounds on the front door. The noise that woke me.
I check my phone: 8:00 a.m. A little early for visitors, but I figure it’s going to be Travis.
I hope he doesn’t apologize again. I’m the one who needs to apologize.
Making a fool of myself is quickly becoming my new norm.
Another knock. Or . . . it could be a package.
I jump out of bed and twist my hair into the neatest bun I can manage, slip into a pair of pants, and button up a shirt but don’t bother tucking it in all the way.
I trot down the front stairs, but when I open the door, I don’t see Travis or a package.
I see a caricature of a man with yellow-blond hair, rosy cheeks, and round rimless glasses.
To top it off, he’s wearing a bow tie with his tailored suit.
And to his right stands a small towheaded boy who couldn’t be more than three years old, dressed like his dad, right down to the bow tie.
The older one extends his hand toward mine.
“I’m Charles LaSalle II of LaSalle, LaSalle, and Landry.
And you must be Mrs. . . .” He pauses with his hand outstretched between us to check a piece of paper in his other hand.
“Dr. Willa Watters.” He glances down. “This is Charles III. Charlie. He’s making rounds with Dad today since it’s summer and Mom needs a break. ”
I picture the young mother on the other end of that phrase and consider mentioning my podcast. Then my mind spirals to if I’ll even still have a podcast to recommend.
I clear my throat and shake Charles LaSalle II’s hand.
“Nice to meet you.” I bend down and smile at his son. “And nice to meet you, Charlie.”
Charlie hides his face in his father’s leg, but something about him looks familiar.
“Son, don’t be rude,” Charles says, but Charlie only hides more.
“It’s okay,” I say, studying the boy. My antenna is up and telling me there could be more to Charlie than just being shy.
Charles clears his throat, studies me. “I . . . um . . . didn’t mean to wake you. Hope it’s okay we stopped by.”
“It’s fine.” I glance down. Even though I’m dressed, I don’t look like I’ve been up over ten minutes, which I haven’t. The shirt is more wrinkled than I thought, and I’ve buttoned the pants but forgotten to zip them. I pull my zipper up. “Come on in.”
Charles II blushes. “Again, sorry to bother you so early. I left a note saying I’d drop by. I popped over yesterday, but you weren’t here,” he adds quickly.
They follow me to the kitchen, and I notice Charlie is toe walking, like he’s tiptoeing across the floor.
“Walk normal,” the older Charles hisses under his breath, and my warning system wails.
I start a pot of coffee. Charles sets the piece of paper and an envelope on the kitchen table and sits. Charlie sits next to him, his legs dangling.
“Those aunts of yours were quite a hoot,” Charles says.
I turn from the coffeepot with a tall mug. Hoot? Who the hell says hoot anymore? And this guy looks like he’s barely out of law school. But he’s right. The Aunts were a hoot. Hoot happens to be the perfect word for that pair. Twins who dressed like wild flamingos.
“Yes, they were,” I say, sitting at the table.
An awkward silence creeps in, and I grasp for something to say. I see Charles staring at my large thermos, or maybe he’s staring at the strange metal dolls leaning against it.
“Those made by Eddie Arceneaux?” he says.
I nod. “You know them? That family.”
“Everybody does. Eddie’s a good guy stuck in a bad place. I feel sorry for him.”
“What about his brother Doyle?” Now that he brought up this subject, I want to see what he knows.
“Doyle’s . . . well, he’s an odd one. He’s had a tough go too.
Local kids call him Doyle the Boil on account of that complexion of his, but he’s mostly harmless.
He did some odd jobs for your aunts off and on.
” Charles leans in and whispers, as if Charlie can’t hear, “He’s been incarcerated before, but he’s clean now.
” He leans back, clears his throat. “But I didn’t come by to gossip.
I came by to see if you found your mother’s things.
Our receptionist said you called, needing an attic key, so I brought one with me.
” He takes it from the small white envelope and slides it across the table.
I don’t bother to tell him I already let myself in with a flathead screwdriver and a hammer. Besides, he could have left the key with the note under my wiper, but he didn’t. He’s here for another reason, and I wonder how long it will take him to get to it.
“I got in,” I say. “And I’m happy to pay for any damages to the frame.”
“Damages? Oh, well, okay then.” When I don’t elaborate, he says, “Do you need any help getting her stuff down? You’ve got two of us here to help.”
“No, thank you.” Another silence settles over the kitchen. “Would you like some more coffee?” I say.
“No. I’m good,” Charles says.
I look at Charlie. “Would you like some coffee?”
Charlie doesn’t giggle. He looks past me with a dull, blank stare. Listening is what I do best. But sometimes it’s what I don’t hear that gives me the most pause. And I haven’t heard a word from little Charlie.
“What can I get you, Charlie?” I ask, studying him, trying to place how I know him.
Charles answers for him. “He doesn’t talk much. Well, at all. He doesn’t have his mother’s gift for gab.” He laughs, nervously. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?” He tousles Charlie’s hair, but Charlie stays unresponsive.
“How old is he?”
“Just turned three last weekend.”
“Happy birthday,” I say to Charlie, who still hasn’t made eye contact with me, then to Charles, “Does he make any sounds at all? Has his hearing been tested?” I smile. “Sorry. This is my field, so I sometimes overstep.”
“No, it’s okay.” Charles shifts in his chair, fiddles with his bow tie. “I think my wife saw you at Johnette’s store the other day.”
The boy at the Sack and Save. “Yes, she did.”
“When she described the woman who helped her, I put two and two together.”
This is why Charles is here. In person. With his son. And when I add little Charlie’s behavior from today to the behavior I witnessed at the store, the picture becomes even clearer.
“His hearing is fine,” Charles adds, glancing at Charlie. “Our friends say it’s probably a speech delay. That’s all.”
Charlie needs someone to speak on his behalf. This is not a speech delay.
“Charles,” I say in my professional tone. “Friends mean well, but they don’t always know what’s best. Do you want my opinion?” He nods, and I’m surprised by the amount of relief I feel. Despite my inappropriate behavior on live television, someone out there still trusts me.
As if reading my mind, he says, “For what it’s worth, Dr. Watters, I don’t think what you did on that TV show was that big of a deal. So I’d appreciate any advice you can give me.”
I want to hug this man, squeeze him, and tell him thank you until my voice cracks.
This is why I wanted to work with children, to provide them with that advocate.
Well, that and an excruciating stint as a research assistant in undergrad when I volunteered to help with court-appointed group therapy for sex offenders and child molesters.
After that year, I knew my line in the sand, whom I couldn’t work with as a therapist. I wanted to like my patients.
I wanted my patients to like me. And I wanted to help the young.
I manage to restrain myself and say, “I’d suggest taking him somewhere for testing. At the very least, you need to talk to his pediatrician about his lack of speech.”