John Hart - Iron House

The woman’s name was Caravel Gautreaux, which she claimed was Louisiana French. But who could say? The woman was a liar and insane. There was history between them. Bad things.

The main estate road led off the manicured grounds and onto the working sections of the estate. Pavement gave way to gravel, and the road curved past vineyards and horse paddocks, the organic dairy operation Abigail had built from scratch eight years earlier. She drove beside the wide spill of river, then turned north through the deep woods and out across seven hundred acres of pasture dotted with cattle. When the road dipped back into woods on the far side, the gravel began to thin out, the road to narrow. Trees pressed close enough to scratch paint, and new growth folded under the front bumper as she pushed harder into the forest. This was the wild part of the estate, three thousand acres of game preserves and hunting grounds, vast tracts of old forest never timbered.

She drove until the ground rose then fell away in a gorge with a fast, white stream at the bottom. She dropped into low gear and ground through water that rose to the axles, then up a steep incline, trail bending. The earth here was folded and raw. Granite pushed through thin, black dirt; hardwoods fell away to longleaf pine that still bore scars from the turpentine trade two centuries earlier.

The trail intersected a narrow, gravel road that led to the state highway south of the estate, but Abigail didn’t care about the highway; she turned north between two hills, and the banks steepened as she drove, light fading as the road seemed to plunge. Abigail had not been to this place in twenty years, but the same fingers twisted her guts when Caravel’s house came into view. It was small and old, a jumble of poor rooms washed with white paint and left to settle on a bare dirt yard littered with rusted cars and animal droppings. Curtains hung from open windows. Goats stood in mud beneath a pecan tree, shaggy horses in an open shed.

Abigail drove into the clearing and saw details she’d forgotten in two decades’ worth of trying. To the right, a springhouse gave birth to a trickle of water. Beyond it, a smokehouse stood with its door open, metal hooks hanging on the inside. Abigail stepped out of the car and a damp smell hit her nose, a scent like wet talcum and crushed flowers.

Wind chimes tinkled.

Bits of colored glass on brown string.

Abigail moved past a fire pit full of scattered ash and small bones charred black. On the steps were stones scarred with pentagrams, mason jars filled with what looked like urine and rusted nails. Hides were nailed to a frame near the wall, and dried plants hung on the porch.

Abigail stopped as the front door swung wide. Something moved in the murky interior, and a woman stepped out. “Well, isn’t this a thing to behold?”

The voice was the same, as was the knowing look in the bright, mocking eyes.

“Hello, Caravel.”

“Richness.”

Caravel Gautreaux stopped in a spill of light and put a hand on the rail. If Abigail had expected her to be ground down by poverty and hard living, she was disappointed. Caravel’s hands were rough, but she still had the kind of shape men would like. Five and a half feet tall and burned brown, she was barefoot and lean in a dress made transparent by time and the sun. White streaked her hair in places, but her lips were full and lush. “You look well,” Abigail said.

“Well enough.” She lit a cigarette. “How’s your husband?”

“He’s yours if you want him.”

Gautreaux lifted the left corner of her mouth. “I guess I had the best of him already. Have you come to settle our score after all this time?”

Abigail shrugged. “Men will be men.”

“Does he still say my name in his sleep?”

“Hardly.”

“No, I suppose not.” Caravel flicked ash. “What do you want down here, richness?”

“I came to see your daughter.”

“Oh.” An amused expression rose. “This is about Julian.”

Abigail tensed. Until now, her theory had been just that. “What do you know about my son?”

“Only that he has the same taste for Gautreaux women as your husband, that he has the same wisdom in his soul yet chooses to keep such choices from you. It all seems so familiar-the lies and carrying on, candlelight and warm air, the smell of young lovers-”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I enjoy many things.” Caravel rolled the words off her tongue. “Men and smoke and warm, red meat.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“The pleasures of your company when you’re in disarray…”

“Damn it, Caravel.”

The smile fell off, and her voice hardened. “Victorine’s not here.”

“Then I’ll come back when she is.”

“You don’t understand. She’s been gone a week. Might not be coming back at all.”

“Ah, the girl finally wised up.”

“What?”

“Wised up. Moved on.”

“The girl is mine,” Caravel said.

“Not anymore, it seems.”

A weight of anger settled in Caravel’s eyes, deep lines at her mouth. “You take that back.”

“Just keep your daughter away from my son. You do that and we’ll have no problems. Keep her off the estate, away from the house.”

Caravel came off the porch, one shoulder lifted and a sudden, crazy light in her eyes. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

Abigail took a step back. “I wouldn’t be here if I had.”

Caravel pointed a finger. “Where’s my baby?”

“I told you-”

“You tell her Momma Gautreaux’s not mad anymore. You tell her all’s forgiven if she comes home.”

“You just stay away from us.”

“You’ll tell her what I said?”

“First of all, I don’t know where your crazy daughter is. I’ve told you that a few times already. And second, the best thing that child could do is keep far away from you. I’ll tell her that if I see her.”

Gautreaux flicked her cigarette into the dirt, a sudden, wild hate in her voice. “You come between me and my daughter? You come between?” She came closer, her sanity gone as if a switch had dropped. “That child is mine! You understand? I won’t have you and your boy tellin’ some kind of lies to drive us apart. I see it, now.” She reached out to touch Abigail. “I see it.”

“Stay away from me.” Abigail stumbled backward.

“Distance makes no never-mind, richness. I can hurt you from a world away.”

Abigail reached the truck, got her hand on the door. “Just stay away from my son.”

“Two feet away or the whole damn world.” Gautreaux sat on the porch step, laughing. “No never-mind at all.”

Abigail got in the truck and fired the engine, wheels chewing dust as she turned a tight circle. Her window was down and she saw Gautreaux watching.

“All roads lead back to Momma Gautreaux,” she called.

The house swung into the rearview mirror. Trees rose and Abigail heard last words, faint beneath the engine. “You tell my baby girl…”

Abigail drove fast.

“Ever’ damn road…”

Five minutes into the woods, Abigail finally slowed the truck. She was rattled and shaken, her heart running like a small animal as she took deep breaths and confronted the fact that Caravel Gautreaux scared her on some deep, fundamental level. Abigail was forty-seven years old, a rational woman; but evil, she knew, was as real as she. It had the same beating heart, the same blood. Call it sin or corruption, call it whatever you like, but that woman was evil. It was in the lines of her skin and in the history of that place, in the smell of dust and the weakness of men. All Abigail really knew was that she’d panicked at the look in Caravel’s eyes. The madness was too familiar, the cold, hard look.