Blow Fly

98

I'M SICK OF THIS," Nic tells her father. She drove to the Baton Rouge Police Department's old brick building and never got above the first-floor lobby. When she said she had possible evidence about the cases, a plainclothes detective eventually appeared and just stared at the quarters in the envelope. He looked at Polaroid photographs of them on the Wal-Mart parking lot and indifferently listened to Nic's rendition and theory while he continued to glance at his watch. She receipted the coins to him, and was certain when he returned to the so-called War Room, she became the joke of the day.

"We're all working the same cases, and those assholes won't talk to me. I'm sorry." Sometimes Nic forgets how much her father abhors swearing. "Maybe they know something that could help us with our cases in Zachary. But oh, no. I am welcome to hand over anything I know, but it doesn't work the same way."

"You look mighty tired, Nic," he says as they eat eggs scrambled with cheese and spicy sausage patties.

Buddy is off in make-believe land with his toys and the television.

"How 'bout some more grits?" her father asks.

"I can't. But you do make the best grits I've ever had."

"You always say that."

"It's always true."

"Be careful. Those boys in Baton Rouge don't like people like you. Especially women like you."

"They don't even know me."

"They don't need to know you to hate your guts. They want credit. Now, when I was coming along, credit meant you could buy your groceries at the nearby general store and pay later when you were able. No one went hungry. These days, credit means plain selfishness. Those good ol' boys in Baton Rouge want credit, credit, credit."

"Tell me about it." Nic butters another biscuit. "Every time you cook, I eat too much."

"People who want credit will lie, cheat and steal," her father reminds her.

"While women keep dying." Nic loses her appetite and sets the biscuit back on her plate. "Who's worse? The man doing it or these men who want credit and don't care about the victims or anything else?"

"Two wrongs never make a right, Nic," he says. "I'm glad you don't work down there. I'd be worried about your safety a lot more than I am now. And not because of this madman on the loose, but because of who your colleagues would be."

She looks around at the simple kitchen of her childhood. Nothing in the house has been upgraded or remodeled since her mother died. The stove is electric, white with four burners. The refrigerator is white; so are the countertops. Her mother had a French country theme in mind, was going to find old furniture and blue-and-white curtains, maybe some interesting tiles for the walls. But she never got a chance. So the kitchen is white, just plain white. If any of the appliances quit for good, she's confident her father would refuse to get rid of them. He'd eat takeout food every night, if necessary. It tortures Nic that her father can't disengage from the past. Silent grieving and anger hold him hostage.

Nic pushes back her chair. She kisses the top of her father's head, and her eyes fill with tears.

"I love you, Papa. Take good care of Buddy. I promise one of these days I'll be a good mother."

"You're a good enough mother." He looks at her from his seat at the table as he idly picks at eggs. "It's not how much time but what that time's like."

Nic thinks of her mother. Her time was short, but every minute of it was good. That's the way it seems now.

"Now you're crying," her father says. "You going to tell me what on Earth is going on with you, Nic?"

"I don't know, I don't know. I'll be minding my own business and suddenly burst into tears. I think it's about Mama, like I told you. All that's going on down here has reminded me, or just opened some trapdoor in my mind. A door I didn't even know was there that's leading into a dark place I'm scared to death of, Papa. Please turn on the light for me. Please."

He slowly gets up from the table, knowing what she means. He sighs.

"Don't do this to yourself, Nic," he grimly says. "I already know what it did to me. I stopped my life. You know I did. When I came home that early evening and saw…" He clears his throat, fighting back tears. "I felt something move inside me, as if I pulled a muscle in my heart. Why would you want those images?"

"Because they're the truth. And maybe the images I have are worse because I can't see the real ones."

He nods and sighs again. "Go up in the attic. Under all those rugs piled in a corner, there's a small blue suitcase. Belonged to her. She got it with Green Stamps."

"I remember," Nic whispers, envisioning her mother carrying the blue suitcase out the door one day when she was headed to Nashville to visit her aunt after she'd had eye surgery.

"The lock code was never set because she said she'd never remember it. Zero-zero-zero, just like brand new." He clears his throat again, staring off. "What you want's in there. Some things I'm not supposed to have, but I was like you. Just had to know. And I taught the daughter of the police chief, so I got a few favors, I'm ashamed to admit it. Because I promised the chief I'd give her a better grade than she deserved and a recommendation for college that was just one big fat lie.

"My punishment is I got what I asked for," he continues. "Just don't bring that stuff down here. I don't ever want to see it again."