Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

Always in times like this, she became acutely aware of her lack of a traditional family. This was when the memories crept up from childhood: her mother sitting in a rocking chair looking out at the swamp, a wraithlike woman, surreal, pale, detached, never quite in the present. There had always been a distance between Marie Broussard and the world around her. Annie had been keenly aware of it and frightened by it, fearing that one day her mother would just slip away into another dimension and she would be left alone. Which was exactly what had happened.

She had had Uncle Sos and Tante Fanchon to look after her, and she couldn't have loved them more, but there was always, would always be, a place inside her where she felt like an orphan, disconnected, separate from the people around her… as her mother had been. The door to that place was wide open tonight.

"You're on the air with Owen Onofrio, KJUN, all talk all the time. Home of the giant jackpot giveaway. We're up over nine hundred dollars now. What lucky listener will pocket that check? It could happen any time, any day.

"On our agenda tonight: Murder suspect Marcus Renard was allegedly attacked and beaten last night by a Partout Parish sheriff's detective. What do you have to say about that, Kay on line one?"

"I say there ain't no justice, that's what I say. The world's gone crazy. They put that dead woman's daddy in jail, too, and everyone I know says he's a hero for trying to do what the courts wouldn't. Killers and rapists have more rights than decent people. It's crazy!"

Annie switched the radio off as she turned in at the Corners. There were three cars in the crushed shell lot. Uncle Sos's pickup, the night clerk's rusty Fiesta, and off to one side, a shiny maroon Grand Am that made her groan aloud. A.J.

She sat for a moment just staring at the place she had called home her whole life: a simple two-story wood-frame building with a corrugated tin roof. The wide front window acted as a billboard, with half a dozen various ads and messages for products and services. A red neon sign for Bud, a placard that read ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS, another sign handwritten in Magic Marker HOT Boudin amp; Cracklins.

The first floor of the building housed the business Sos Doucet had run for forty years. Originally a general store that served area swampers and their families who had come in by boat once or twice a month, it had evolved with the times and economic necessity into a landing for swamp tours, a cafe, and a convenience store that did its biggest business on the weekends when fishermen and hunters- "sports," Uncle Sos called them-stocked up to head out into the Atchafalaya basin. The tourists loved the rustic charm of the scarred old cypress floor and ancient, creaking ceiling fans. The locals were happier with the commercial refrigerators that kept their beer cold and handy, and the two-for-one movie rentals on Monday night.

The second-floor apartment had been home to Sos and Fanchon during the first years of their marriage. Prosperity had allowed them to build a little ranch-style brick house a hundred yards away, and in 1968 they had rented the apartment to Marie Broussard, who had shown up on the porch one day, pregnant and forlorn, as mysterious as any of the stray cats that had come to make their home at the Corners.

" 'Bout time you got home, chère!" Uncle Sos called, leaning out the screen door.

Annie climbed out of the Jeep with her duffel bag strapped over one shoulder and the muskrat box in her other hand.

"What you got in the box? Supper?"

"Not exactly."

Sos came out onto the porch, barefoot, in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his sinewy forearms. He wasn't a tall man, but even at sixtysomething his shoulders suggested power. His belly was as flat as an anvil, his skin perpetually tan, his face creased in places like fine old leather. People told him he resembled the actor Tommy Lee Jones, which always brought a sparkle to his eyes and the retort that, hell no, Tommy Lee Jones resembled him, the lucky son of a bitch.

"You got comp'ny, chère," Sos said with a sly grin that nearly made his eyes disappear. "Andre, he's here to see you." He lowered his voice in conspiracy as she stepped up onto the porch. His face was aglow. "Y'all had a little lovers' spat, no?"

"We're not lovers, Uncle Sos."

"Bah!"

"Not that it's any of your business, by the way, for the hundredth time."

He jerked his chin back and looked offended. "How is that not my business?"

"I'm a grown-up," she reminded him.

"Then you smart enough to marry dat boy, mais no?"

"Will you ever give up?"

"Mebbe," he said, pulling open the screen door for her. "Mebbe when you make me a grandpapa."

A bouquet of red roses and baby's breath sat on the corner of the checkout counter, as out of place as a Ming vase. The night clerk, a crater-faced kid as skinny as a licorice whip, was running Speed on the VCR.

"Hey, Stevie," Annie called.

"Hey, Annie," he called back, never taking his eyes off the set. "What's in the box?"

"Severed hand."

"Cool."

"Aren't you gonna say hello to Andre?" Sos said irritably. "After he come all the way out here. After he sent you flowers and all."

A.J. had the grace to look sheepish. He leaned back against a display counter of varnished alligator heads and other equally gruesome artifacts that titillated the tourists. He hadn't changed out of his suit, but had shed his tie and opened the collar of his shirt.

"I don't know," Annie said. "Should I have my lawyer present?"

"I was out of line," he conceded.

"Try left field. On the warning track."

"See, chère?" Sos smiled warmly, motioning her to close the distance. "Andre, he knows when he's licked. He come to kiss and make up."

Annie refused to be charmed. "Yeah? Well, he can kiss my butt."

Sos arched a brow at him. "Hey, that's a start."

"I'm tired," Annie declared, turning back for the door. "Good night."

"Annie!" A.J. called. She could hear him coming behind her as she rounded the corner of the porch and started up the staircase to her apartment. "You can't just keep running away from me. "

"I'm not running away. I'm trying to ignore you, which, I promise you, is preferable to the alternative. I'm not very happy with you at the moment-"

"I said I was sorry."

"No, you said you were out of line. An admission of wrongdoing is not an apology."

Two cats darted around her feet and onto the landing, meowing. A calico hopped up on the railing and leaned longingly toward the muskrat box. Annie held it out of reach as she opened the door. She hadn't intended to bring the thing into her apartment, but she couldn't very well dispose of it with A.J. breathing down her neck.

She set the box and her duffel on the small bench in the entry and proceeded past the telephone stand in the living room, where the light on her answering machine was blinking like an angry red eye. She could only imagine what was waiting for her on the tape. Reporters, relatives, and disgruntled strangers calling to express their opinions and/or try to wheedle information out of her. She walked past the machine and went into the kitchen, flipping on the lights.

A.J. followed, setting the vase of roses on the chrome-legged kitchen table.

"I'm sorry. I am," he said. "I shouldn't have jumped all over you about Fourcade, but I was worried for you, honey."

"And it had nothing to do with you being caught flat-footed with Pritchett."

He sighed through his nose. "All right. I admit, the news caught me off guard, and, yes, I thought you should have told me because of our relationship. I would like to think that you would turn to me in that kind of situation."

"So that you could turn to Smith Pritchett and spill it all, like a good lieutenant."