What the Bayou Saw
by Patti Lacy

Segregation and a chain link fence separated twelve-year-old Sally Flowers from her best friend, Ella Ward. Yet a brutal assault bound them together. Forever. Thirty-eight years later, Sally, a middle-aged Midwestern instructor, dredges up childhood secrets long buried beneath the waters of a Louisiana bayou in order to help her student, who has also been raped. Fragments of spirituals, gospel songs, and images of a Katrina-ravaged New Orleans are woven into the story.

Take a Sneak Peek inside “What the Bayou Saw”

Chapter 1

(part 2)

To read the sequence of excerpts, start at Urban Christian Fiction Today and follow the links at the bottom.

Three of her students slouched against the side of a dingy white pickup truck. Toothpicks dangled from two of the simpering mouths. All three wore black leather jackets and had shaved heads.

“Lovely mornin’, ain’t it?” The tallest of the three clicked black storm trooper boots and saluted.

The scenery quit spinning, revealing itself not as a bayou and cypress trees but asphalt and, in the distance, Illinois cornfields and a freeway. As if she’d just gotten off the carnival ride, Sally’s legs wobbled. Of course it wasn’t Rufus. Rufus was dead. Still, when someone or something startled her like this, her mind hit “rewind,” and Rufus materialized out of rotting flesh and brittle bones. Sally managed to rub the ache out of her hand and still hold onto her briefcase. These were just students, albeit unsavory ones rumored to have ties to a white supremacy group. Still, Sally perceived them as Matt Hale wannabes, not the vicious man who had . . . with effort, she pushed away the memory of Rufus and plastered on her trademark smile. After all, this was Normal, where a sign at the city limits proclaimed: Racism: Not in Our Town.

“I guess you Midwesterners might call it lovely.” Sally mentally recited the alphabet, desperate to help her menopausal memory. What were their names? Alan? B, C—David? Fred—no, not David or Fred. Since that didn’t work, she visualized where they sat in her classroom. Back row, clumped together like weeds. Of course. Jay. Rex. Hugh. Because of their clonelike appearance, she had to study them a bit more closely to determine who was Jay, who was Rex, who was Hugh.

“We call anything lovely, as long as it ain’t black.” Rex and Hugh high-fived like they’d just scored in some sick Aryan sporting event.

If Sally hadn’t been so intent on studying every pimple and stray whisker to recollect their names, she might have missed the way they edged toward her. Adrenaline caused her to thunk her briefcase onto the pavement, then clench her fists.

Jay stepped even closer. “You look surprised to see us. Didn’t you get the note?” Spittle pooled in the corner of his mouth.

The note. One mystery solved. Sally honed in on eyes the color of arctic ice and shuddered, then clamped down her fear. Something was going on here; to deal with it, she needed to regroup. Fast. “You mean the note that wasn’t signed?” It was hard to stall for time and keep her gaze fixed on Jay’s dead-fish stare, especially when a million questions flew at her. Did they give the note to Sam? Ed? Who stuck it on the car? How did they get our address? What do they want?

“No.” Rex talked around what looked to be a wad of tobacco. “What’d ya think we’d send you? A ‘Get Well Soon’ note?”

Sally pretended to pick lint off her jacket but instead scanned the lot. Her heart pounded the message: empty, except for a cluster of beer bottles around a light pole and some wadded-up fast-food sacks.

“A Sympathy card? Which you might need if you keep teaching this niggerlover unit.” Jay scratched his head, his eyes blank, a nasty grin on his face.

“Keep your cool no matter what. Be assertive.” It was Daddy’s voice she heard this time, all his years as a college professor counting for something. Sally brightened her smile until her jaw ached. If they thought their threat scared her, they were wrong. After all, she was the teacher here, and she was going to take control of their little game, whatever it was. She straightened her shoulders and stared at Jay, whom she’d pegged as the ringleader, determined not to blink until he did. “You said you needed to talk about class.” In a calculated way, she studied her watch. “I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Ms. Grant. She’ll be here any minute.” She forced out a chuckle. “In fact, she’s late . . . Anyway, what did y’all need to talk about?”

“You mean that ape pretending to teach speech? What a joke.” Hugh joined the little tête-à-tête for the first time.

Steam expanded Sally’s chest. So they’d noticed her friendship with Daisy Grant, the black colleague who taught in the room next to their humanities class.

“Funny you should mention her.” Jay cleared his throat, then spat. A wad of phlegm landed not a foot from Sally’s shoe. “That’s the class we want to talk about. The class of apes that’s overrunning us. The class you keep throwin’ at us, pretending you’re teachin’ culture and music and all that bull—” He cursed, then shoved up his jacket sleeves, as if preparing to fight. Tattooed on his forearm was a mutant spider, four black Nazi legs instead of the usual arachnid eight.

In spite of her resolve to keep cool, Sally’s mouth flew open. With effort, she shut it. She remembered with absolute clarity the last time she’d seen a swastika. They’d been in Terre Haute about a month, during which time she’d gaped at the hateful symbols on foam dice that dangled from the rearview mirrors of beat-up pickups in the Wal-Mart lot. But that hadn’t been the last time. Oh, no. The last time had been much more subtle. Much more civilized. And much, much worse.

On a sunny morning, Sally had pulled into the parking lot of Suzi’s middle school for Parent Volunteer Day. At the same time, a nice-looking woman stepped out of a family-type sedan and walked around the rear of her car, her skirt swishing near a bumper plastered with rebel flag and swastika decals.

The woman had offered Sally a very soft, very white hand. “Hi. I’m Jamie’s mother,” she said. “You must be Suzi’s mother.”

Seeming to misinterpret Sally’s blank stare, she continued, “You know. Jamie plays flute in Suzi’s section? They both take Spanish?” A very nice smile wreathed a very nice face. “I’m so glad they’re friends,” she added.

For one of the few times in her life, Sally had been speechless. She stayed that way while she and Jamie’s mother worked side by side in the library, sliding wonderfully enlightening books onto specially ordered adjustable shelves. Sally never said a word, never asked “the question”—why a seemingly well-educated, well-mannered woman would display such hateful symbols on the back of her car for the entire world to see. Sally half-expected such things out of those pickup drivers, with their beater shirts and blank-eyed stares. But that sunny morning, Sally hadn’t said a thing. She’d just returned the nice smile, the inane chatter, her stomach churning and burning all the while.

That night, Sally’d sobbed the story to Sam, and later, she’d sobbed to God.

“Next time,” Sam had said.

Next time. The Spirit’s whisper had been softer than a sigh.

One look at Jay, who had edged a bit closer, jolted Sally back to the present. She cleared her throat and made sure not to blink as she stared at each boy. That’s what they were. Just boys. Thirty years younger than her. But only a few inches taller, a few pounds heavier, if it came to that. Good thing I’m a big woman, because right now is “next time.”

“You say you want to talk.” The Southern niceties that Sally liberally sprinkled in her vernacular were gone—her ears crackled at the harshness of her tone. “Have at it.”

——

This is a pretty intense passage. Interested in reading more? CHAPTER ONE will be continued on the tour tomorrow. Consider purchasing What The Bayou Saw at Amazon.com.

For more FREE peeks inside “What the Bayou Saw,” be sure to view the full blog tour schedule at http://bitly.com/WhatTheBayouSaw.

Patti Lacy graduated from Baylor University in 1977 with a B.S. in education. She taught at Heartland Community College in Normal, Illinois, until she retired in 2006 to pursue writing full time. She has two grown children with her husband, Alan, and lives in Illinois. Visit Patti online at www.pattilacy.com.

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