My thanks once again to my editor and mentor GrandTeton for his patience and calm determination to teach me the error of my ways; that this story still makes sense at all is due mainly to him and his own highly developed narrative skills. All characters portrayed herein are over 18 years of age.
If you liked the story, please vote or comment if you feel moved to do so, and if you didn't like it, please tell me why.
This is not a depiction of the real world, it's my story universe, so the characters do or say things differently from how you think they would in the real world, please remember that this is just a story; it's just fun, something I hope will help you while away a quiet hour or so. I hope you enjoy sharing my world with me.
beachbum1958
*****
Justine fanned herself languidly, ineffectively, as the temperature in the cab of the old blue Blazer rose steadily, even with the windows down. Their pace through the maze of tracks and dirt roads was of necessity slow, due in part to the large amount of log debris left over from Katrina, added to by Sandy, Harvey, and subsequent, less destructive, but still bothersome flooding.
Most of it was heaped by the roadside in bleached mounds, but the occasional trunk still buried in the muddy, little-used tracks by the storms' fury was enough to make Johnny mindful of his Blazer's suspension. That, and the narrow roads and sharp, unexpected turns and turn-offs that could fool even the best driver, and Johnny was still the best, at least here where he knew every twist and turn.
"How much further, Johnny-Bear?" she asked, "I'm just about melting here. What's the temperature out there, baby?"
Johnny looked at the almost-reliable binnacle-mounted air temperature gauge and grinned.
"This thing says 80 degrees, but I'd say it got to be closer 95 degrees out there; we in the swamp country now, Minou, it get real hot an' humid out here this time o' year, sometimes up high as hundred degrees in the shade. Jes' think cool thoughts, Minou, we be at Lubin's place afore long, he got real icy aircon there, even got backup generator jes' fo' th' aircon fo' when they get browned-out."
Justine slumped back in her seat, wriggling her shoulders uncomfortably at the feel of her sweat-damp T-shirt clammy and sticky against her back, but still managing to grin at her Johnny-Bear's exaggerated, bayou-boy accent.
"Just make it soon, please, otherwise you're gonna have to scrape me off this seat with a squeegee!"
Johnny laughed out loud even as he patted her thigh (her long, smooth, firm, round thigh, noted another part of his brain entirely...)
"Don' you worry Minou, we make bayou-folks outta you real soon; jes' remember, it get down to 'bout forty degrees hereabouts come winter; you be rememberin' this heat real nostalgic-like roun' 'bout then!"
Justine grinned and fanned herself some more, resigning herself to more of this wretched heat and humidity. Johnny never seemed to think in term of hours and minutes, especially when she tried to get a guesstimate of their arrival time out of him; his standard response always seemed to be 'time be time, li'l gal; we come there when we come there, don'cha-all fret now!"
The drive through endless canebrakes and barely visible tracks, lined with huge, tangled honeysuckle bushes, their sweet, heady fragrance heavy in the hot, still air lulled her somewhat, but when they passed through a large stand of Live Oaks, she thought she could hear another engine, one with a different, harsher note than the Blazer's, echoing behind them through the long, winding ranks of hardwoods. She looked inquiringly at Johnny, but he seemed oblivious, his brow wrinkled in concentration as the Blazer bucked and bounced along the uneven surface.
"Johnny, there's someone behind us!" she hissed, memories of the three armed men in New Iberia crowding in on her, but Johnny merely nodded.
"Likely so, Minou; this ain't no private road or nuthin'; prolly local folks, an' nuthin' to do with us, mos' likely 'shiners; pay no mind to them an' they do likewise; lotsa folks down thisaway got trucks an' this a useful way to 'void the ATF."
Justine fretted nervously anyway; after almost running into the people looking for them she was understandably jumpy, so kept an eye behind them, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was back there. The more she listened, the more certain she was that there was another truck coming up behind them, and not making any attempt at concealment, either; whoever it was, they were gunning the motor, almost like they were trying to catch up.
As she strained to see anything in the light flickering between the trees, suddenly there it was: a flash of dark orange, no more than a glimpse, but it was out of place against the lush greenery and vivid pink slashes of the bunched honeysuckle blossoms. The flash was enough to confirm that there really was someone behind them, and trying hard to catch up. She looked worriedly at Johnny, but he still seemed completely unconcerned.
"Johnny..." she murmured worriedly, but he just shook his head.
"Don' worry none, Minou; we almost there, jes' take it easy; I swear, ain't no reason to worry; you see me frettin'? Relax, Angel-May, t'ain't nuthin' to worry 'bout!"
The track eventually widened out into a dusty rural road, then met a single lane blacktop. Justine gasped at the view: endless marshy flats, as far as the eye could see, the myriad pools and sloughs shimmering in the sun as light breezes ruffled their surfaces, reflecting imperfectly the cloudless blue above them, like abstract mirrors in the endless flat greenery of the marshes.
Johnny pulled over to the side and rested his crossed arms on the wheel. His eyes were distant, far away, his whole posture one of almost complete relaxation. Justine leaned over to check him out, and he smiled at her, a small, almost wistful smile, like he was recalling something from long ago and far away.
"Johnny..." she murmured once again, twisting around to scan their back-trail, searching for another glimpse of the vehicle following them, one that she could hear clearly now, but he didn't move, just gazed at the miles of low-lying, swampy marshland and glinting pools, his eyes soft and unfocused.
"This where I grew up, Minou..." he murmured, ignoring her worried tone, "this my back yard; me, an' Big Jean, Jean-Nöel, Jean-Martin, Randy Broussard, Ofie LeGay, Mack 'n' Hoagie Doubilliér, couple others, we all come out here catfishin', sticking bullfrogs an' dippin' blue crabs, mebbe a couple mute ducks if we real sneaky-like, an' have us camp-outs, fry up a mess o' legs an' tell ghost stories. Over that way, that where ole Papa Joubert store use to be; Maw-maw Lucianne, his wife, she make the best hot cinnamon candy in Terrebonne; li'l Mel an' Odie allus come on out here with me an' eat fried legs an' candy 'til they sick, then I got to explain to Tante Amice why they so sick an' sticky an' stained-up; boy, she whup me good, but they was still good days..."
Justine watched his face as his memory unreeled, seeing the years drop away and the naughty, adorable boy Amice had told her about emerging again; her expression softened at the sight of Johnny so lost in his memories, a side of him she'd only ever seen fleeting glimpses of before.
But still that truck coming up behind them worried her; it worried her that they were out here in the middle of nowhere, alone and in the open, that they were only one jump ahead of whoever was looking for them, and that Johnny wasn't in the least bit concerned. Even as she pondered how to snap him out of it, there came the sound she'd been dreading, loud and clear: the other truck had caught up with them, and then an old but immaculate stepside painted a dusky orange, the exact same shade as a ripe persimmon, bucketed around the corner concealing them and purred to a halt right behind them.
