Sometimes the Cold Creeps In

SOMETIMES THE COLD CREEPS IN

By Bob Higginbotham

Chapter 1

I can see the lights of New Orleans in the midnight sky miles beyond the headlights of the old truck. Beneath the eerie glow, the French Quarter is alive with jazz bands, bar hoppers, and business ladies.

Fez and I are on our way from Point Cypress to pick up my mom. She works as a dancer on weekends, so we give her a ride during the wee hours of Sunday morning. I don’t know how my mom and I happened to hook up with Fez Leger. I was too young to remember when it happened, and Mom never talks about it. I wish he would vaporize.

The butterflies are fluttering in my stomach because I am about to see my mom. I miss her when she’s not home, her touch, her smell. When she is home I have little reason to worry much about Fez.

Fez has one hand on the wheel and the other holds a Jax longneck beer. His eyes are almost shut while he is measuring the shoulders of the narrow road. There are bayous on both sides as we travel through the swamp, and there are gators in those bayous.

I break my silence to keep him awake. “It's twelve midnight, Fez! I am ten years old!”

“Shut up, fartface. Ten years old? You need to start mowing yards for extra beer and coffee money! Remind me to get the old push mower running next week.”

I stare at his ugliness and give him the silent treatment, which he hates. Then, just before his ears shoot steam, I mumble, “Yes, sir.”

I am relieved when we finally pull into a familiar alley off Bourbon Street and park near a rear exit door. Something is different. A long black car sits idling in the alley.

Mom appears through the rear exit of the club; my butterflies are fluttering again. She is followed by the massive frame of a man who fills the doorway behind her. The big guy ducks his head slightly as he goes through the door then lightly treads down the steps in spite of his size. I see a smile form on his face as they approach Fez’s truck.

“So, this is Fez.” His coarse laughter echoes through the alley.

“Iris do you actually live with this thing? Momma I’ m going to civilize you. You have too much class to be holed up with a swamp creature. Hey misfit, do you ever bathe or brush your teeth? Oh wait! That would be tooth, my mistake. Tell me, did the others get knocked out or did they just rot out?”

Once again his laughter commands attention. Fez chug-a-lugs the rest of his beer.

The nervous quiver in her voice and her hollow gaze reveal Mom's condition as she speaks. “Fez, this is my boss, Big Jack. He says I must go to Memphis for advanced dance training. He is taking me, and it may be a while he says.”

She glances at me, forcing a smile. In a fury, Fez launches his beer bottle. It shatters in the grill of the black car. He grabs her arm.

“Over my dead body you’ll go to Memphis!”

“That can be arranged, sewer rat!” The big guy body slams Fez into the bed of his truck. Fez is back up in an instant only to be knocked down with a punch from a fist as big as a ham. Fez lies motionless.

Mom reaches for me, “Come along, Jake baby. We must be moving on.”

Big Jack steps between us. “Iris, that’s not happening, and you know it. You can retrieve that boy later.”

I figure that I misunderstood Big Jack’s comment so I wait for mom to correct any errors.

“No, Jack!” Mom skirts around him, grabs me, and begins to sob. She slips me a note written on a napkin. Jake, I promise I will come for you soon, but do not lose this information. It’s the name of your late dad’s brother and where he lives, just in case.

“Mom! It’s my birthday!” My words ring hollow and distant. Mom’s face appears in the rear window of the limo.

Fez suddenly comes to life. “Wait a minute! Y’all got to take him, I don’t want him!”

“Mom! Please wait, I’m coming!” But my legs refuse my command to run.

As the big car begins to move, I see her mouth moving like she’s talking but her words are muted so I can’t hear what she is saying. Then, I can barely hear her voice like sound under water. Her face is against the rear glass, and she is mouthing words. “Jake! The high steeple! Find a Nun!”

The headlights are switched on and the taillights glare brightly. I can barely see mom’s face. She appears to be throwing kisses. The limo approaches the street and the sound of Fez’s truck fades as it leaves behind me. The alley is quiet. I stand squeezing a napkin and unable to budge. Then as the big car turns onto the street I see the Tennessee license plate and my motors kick in.

I lunge like a thoroughbred out of the shoot and throw the squashed napkin into the gutter. Three long strides into my race, the importance of that piece of paper registers. I run back and retrieve the only connecting link I have between me and any kind of family.

“Mom!”

The city blocks click by. My lungs burn and my pulse hammers in my ears. My voice strains and cracks.

“But Mom! It’s my birthday!”

I call on every ounce of strength in my body as I fly on the wings of my feet after a car carrying my mom out of my life. I continue to suck cold air and dodge street walkers but the distance between my mom and I continues to grow.

Then, a traffic light malfunctions causing the flow of traffic to stop temporarily. I can see the long black limo dead still two blocks ahead. Like a marathon runner lunging for the tape, I throw myself onto the trunk and realize mom isn’t in the car and the tag is not from Tennessee. My mom is gone.

The crowd and the bright streetlights of Canal Street drive me onto a smaller, less visible street then into the dark alleys of New Orleans Louisiana, a world of its own and like no other. I search for direction. I am not prepared to enter this world.

Unpainted wrought iron gratings on sagging balconies appear as prison bars guarding dimly lighted windows. I see an occasional slowly moving silhouette and I wish I could fly but it’s so dark I can’t even run.

I am hidden but not alone. I have company. Homeless, moles and addicts. I make detour after detour to avoid them but they are everywhere. Most of them never acknowledge me but some stare. I don’t want to know what they are thinking.

I maneuver in the direction of better lighted streets and find a rusty fire escape I am able to climb. From the third floor I see my steeple a half mile away. There is supposed to be help there. I decide to go see but a cold rain is beginning to fall, and I have a half mile walk.

A pale shaft of light from a streetlamp falls across my third-floor platform. It illuminates a door that is partially ajar. I have no light and the last place I want to be is inside this old building, but the rain is really cold, so I push the door open. I stand at the end of a dark hallway. I ease just inside the door and sit on a milk crate. I see a can with the top cut out, so I investigate and find a penny box of matches and two short candles. The light from the candle reveals old food containers, wrappers and empty beer cans on the floor. An old shoe box contains hypodermic needles and a rubber tube. Someone has been here and if they return I am treed.

Ch 2

“Oh dear, you are wet! No, I am wrong for the first time ever. You are soaked!”

“It’s raining mam.”

“Well, yes I suppose it is. You can call me Sister Fay.”

“But you’re not my sister, Fay.”

The Nun glances skyward and makes the cross sign.

“Thou shalt not deal harshly with a young lad that wakes you at two in the morning with sarcastic rhetoric. So, now, I know you have already said, but tell me again, what are you doing here, uh, Jake?”

“My mom ran away with Big Jack, and I have no place to go.”

“When did she run away my dear?”

“On my birthday.”

“Well, why? Pray tell. Do you know where they went?”

I look at her and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t answer her. I can’t speak. I am done. My butterflies are gone. They died, each one with a broken heart.

“It’s going to be ok Jake, but I will need some questions answered before I can proceed to start an official case packet for you. I don’t expect you to be interrogated under these conditions so let’s get you some dry clothes and some hot soup. You ok with that?”

I exchange my clothes for a long night shirt and a dry pair of socks. They give me a toothbrush and paste in a little plastic bag. I put my wadded napkin in there. I guard it well. Three weeks later I am still wearing the same night shirt and socks with no underwear and sleeping on a cot in a sort of utility room. During the day I run errands for Sister Fay who said my clothes will be found eventually among the laundry and she is almost done with my case report after which I will be a candidate for admission to the St Alphonse Catholic Boarding School and Care Center.

The confusion and horror of the past weeks is still very real, but I have begun to put some thoughts together that make sense, and I have a plan. The worst thing in the world that could ever happen has happened, so I figure I can handle the next worse thing, whatever it may be.

I have not been asked many questions yet and have decided to not let them know anything about Point Cypress or Fez because I don’t want him in my life. I do not want to be an orphan in an orphanage either. One of the two people I thought I could trust has abandoned me. The other person I trust is Jennings Richard. I know he would not abandon me, but he may have no clue to what has happened, and I dare not tell these people about him. If they come to Point Cypress Fez would surely become involved. So, I must figure a way to get in touch with Jennings or slip out of here and hoof it forty miles to Point Cypress.

Jennings Richard runs a car repair business during the week and is minister of music on Sundays at a little country church out from Point Cypress.

Two months have passed. I have a used uniform, have been given a haircut and admitted to boarding school.

The door to my classroom opens. Sister Fay looks in. “Jake I need you to come with me.” Her tone was one of contempt mingled with uncertainty.

“Follow me.”

As we approach a large office near the sanctuary voices become audible.

“Yes, Mr. Leger. Of course, a foster home is always preferable to being institutionalized. Looks like all your documentation is in order. This monetary assistance from the state is subsidized by some grant funds that will have to be reinstated yearly but there is usually no problem if the foster care protocol is followed.”

I stall at the sound of a familiar voice. “Not to worry sir, the gratification of helping Jake, bless his heart, will be worth any and all requirements set forth. It took me a while to collect my thoughts after his mom left and Jake disappeared. His mom and I were planning to marry next month. Jake will actually be a source of comfort sir.”

“You do realize an attempt to find his mother will be made.”

“Of course, but God only knows what direction she went and how far.”

Fez! Why couldn’t it be Jenning’s voice? I turn and look back down the big hall, in the direction of the dorm and picture my plastic bag containing my napkin. I step into the office and see Fez in a crafted suit and polished shoes. He smiles and I spit on him.

Before anyone can touch me I light my rockets. I am in my room with my napkin in my pocket long before my pursuers arrive. Change of plan. I will use this setback to contact Jennings.

Fez arrives breathing hard and wiping his face. He is smiling but fire is in his eyes. I know him well.

“Oh, Fez, I am so sorry! I thought you were on fire.”

I am released to the custody of Fez Leger. I prepare to take some abuse for my actions while my plan is unfolding.

A month passes with just a couple of lickings and a cigarette burn. He stays in the shack with me most of the time and I am wondering why Jennings has not come by. He hasn’t seen me in three months. I don’t understand it. Fez will have to enroll me in school soon, or the social worker will show up for an explanation.

Its Thursday afternoon and my opportunity is at hand. His craving for a sawdust floor and long necks has taken over and I am now chained to a heavy metal bedstead while he carouses. I know where the key to my shackle is located, and I believe I can scoot this bed an inch at a time and get my hands on it.

My Schwinn Roadster's spoked wheel hum as I fly down the bayou road. It is exactly two and a half miles from the Knoll in the swamp and our shack to Point Cypress, so I cover it quickly. My butterflies have come back to life. I see Jennings coming out of the post office at the edge of town.

I casually cruise up to his truck and get in on the passenger side.

“Jake!” Jennings pulls me to him and bear hugs me.

“Well, its about time yall come home! You have a good time?”

My emotions don’t know what to do. Something needs to be said. “What do you mean Jennings Richard?” My tone of voice isn’t me. Jennings looks more than concerned, he looks frightened.

“Jake, what happened? Iris ok? Yall took a really long vacation, what’s going on?”

“Vacation?”

“Jake, your hands are trembling; tell me what has happened. Fez said you and your mom had taken Am Trac to Chattanooga and rented a cabin in the mountains. Answer me, is your mom ok? Are you ok?”

I understand the situation and relay the entire episode to my friend.

“Jake, I am so sorry. I’m sure your mom will come back like she said.”

He doesn’t sound very convincing, but I feel better. Then I see the warrior in this man of faith. His voice is calm, almost gentle but commanding and unwavering. This is Jennings Richard.

“Jake, unfortunately I will be unable to legally take you from Fez because he evidently has legal custody of you now. However, you can rest assured that he will be glad to treat you beyond fair and equitable after I have my session with him. Promise me Jake, if he ever does mistreat you, that your first action pursuant to that treatment will be to notify me with a full report.”

“I promise Jennings.”

“I will put your bike in the back of my truck. We are going to find Fez Leger today.”

Jennings has his session. The resulting attitude adjustment is amazing. I begin making plans to fulfill a personal promise I have made myself. Some growth, maturing and learning must occur first, but I will not let myself down.

A clap of thunder warns of a squall charging in off the gulf and wakes me from a sound sleep. It also interrupts an old, familiar dream that brings gut-wrenching fear of how I felt that frightening night six years ago in New Orleans. It’s a fear of not knowing what comes next. Every time this recurring dream invades my world, I feel overwhelmed. My hands are shaking, but I manage to click my Timex Indiglo watch. Its soft light reveals my cubby hole in the hay loft of the barn. Homer, my Catahoula hound and soul mate, whines and licks my face.

I open my viewing slot in the barn wall. A hot sluice of lightning illuminates the house and the boat landing. The motorized bateau and the pirogue bang together as the tempest builds. It is past midnight, and Fez’s truck is not at the house, so I figure he is commode-hugging drunk somewhere and not coming home any time soon.

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