Grizzly Manor: Six

A modern take on Wuthering Heights taking place outside of New Orleans.

How I left Bayou Lafourche without getting a ticket for reckless driving, I’ll never know.  What I did get before I left was a tank of gas.  If I had my way, I would have waited until I got to the next town, but the Bayou was far enough from civilization to make me uncertain of my ability to do this.  So, when I saw that Gil’s Bait & Tackle Shop had a small gas pump in front of it, I pulled into the gravel parking lot, even though that gas pump looked like it had last served its purpose during the Johnson administration. 

I hadn’t smoked a cigarette since college, but as I stood pumping gas in the muggy heat after a sleepless night in the White Room, the blue and white pack of Parliament Lites being advertised in the window had never seemed more appealing.  Reasoning that one cigarette couldn’t hurt, I made my way inside of Gil’s.

It was a good thing that I hadn’t been seeking a respite from the heat, because Gil’s couldn’t offer any.  An old fan blew from side to side, rattling the tiniest of breezes.  “Good mornin’,” a chipper voice greeted me.  Looking over to the checkout counter, I realized that my greeting had come from a stocky blonde.  She was probably Rose’s age, but looked younger, fresher, and certainly happier, although that probably wasn’t hard to be.  Her sun-kissed skin and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose made t clear that she spent a lot of time outdoors as opposed to Rose’s pallor complexion.  The biggest contrast was probably the fact that this young woman was smiling.

“Morning,” I smiled back at her.

“Can I help you find somethin’?”

Scanning the small shop that was, in fact, mostly full of bait and tackle, I retrieved a bottle of Coke out of a refrigerated case before plopping it on the counter.  “And a pack of Parliament Lites, please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

My jaw clenched.  First Lance, now this girl.  Just how old did I look, exactly?  While I reminding myself that it was just good manners here and not indicative of how aged I looked, the girl reached behind her for a pack of cigarettes and then rang up my purchases on a register with actual buttons that made a “ding” when she opened the drawer.  I wasn’t fully confident that Gil’s was equipped for credit card purchases.  “You ain’t from around here,” she noted, placing my Coke and Parliaments in a plastic bag.  She wasn’t asking, she was fully aware that I did not live here.  Bayou Lafourche wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis.

“Nope.  Just visiting.”

“You got family in town?” she asked expectantly.

I shook my head.  “Just doing some research.”

Laughing, the girl told me, “Well you might wanna get elsewheres.  Ain’t nothin’ worth researchin’ here.”

Assuming she meant other than the murderer who lived probably just two miles away, I was ready to thank her and then get back to my escape from the Bayou.  The girl, however, with her southern manners and friendliness bred into her, made more polite conversation.  “Where you been stayin’, if you ain’t got family here?  I can’t think of anywhere to stay ‘round here.  Closest hotel’s not until the interstate.”

Instead of correcting her that a Super 8 off I-90 was only arguably a hotel, I answered, “I was staying at a bed and breakfast.  Grizzly Manor.”

The lively color disappeared from the girl’s cheeks, almost as fast as her smile did.  Gulping, she noted, “Well then it’s probably for the best that you leavin’ town.”

It was only slightly reassuring that even the locals were afraid of what went on inside Grizzly Manor.  I pushed out a tense smile at the girl before making to take my caffeine and nicotine and get back on my way.  I was nearly out the door when she spoke up again.  “Hey, was there a girl there?  My age, real pretty.  Her name’s Rose.”

I paused.  It must have been for only a few seconds, but it felt like I wrestled with myself in that doorway for hours.  Was I more curious, or more afraid?  Did I care more about that young woman being manipulated and abused inside that run down bed and breakfast than I cared about my own safety, and sanity?  Curiosity may have killed the cat, I reasoned, but satisfaction brought it back.  All I needed to know was this one thing �" how Rose had gotten stuck in that situation �" and then I’d leave, satisfied with the answer.  Or maybe I was just kidding myself.  It was entirely possible that the writer in me wouldn’t, and couldn’t, allow a good thickening plot to go unheard. 

Finally, I answered, “There was.  Do you know her?”

With a wistful expression, the girl answered, “Used to.  We was friends when we was kids, ‘fore her daddy died.  Then she got married to Rocco and I haven’t heard hide nor hair from her since.”

Even though I was in an exhaustion-induced semi-haze, the name Rocco stuck out to me.  It wasn’t very common, and I recalled coming across it in the research I’d done last night before attempting to flee the Manor.  “Rocco…Grizz’s son?” I asked.  “Rose was married to Rocco Lee?”

“Sure was,” the girl answered.  “Mr. LeCompte wasn’t very happy about it, neither.  But by then he was too sick to be puttin’ up much of a fight.”

If I was the cat in this metaphor, each answer this girl gave me was making my curiosity stronger and wasn’t satisfying it in the least.  Unable to help myself, I asked, “Who is Mr. LeCompte?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but at that same moment a man walked in wearing waiters and a white tank top, wiping his hands, filthy and black with oil, on a rag that didn’t look like it was helping very much.  “Lexi,” he interrupted.  “You keepin’ this lady from gettin’ on with her day?”

“No, Daddy,” she insisted.  “We was just chattin’.”

Lexi’s father looked from her, to me, and then back again.  “She looks like a busy lady.  Best be on her way.”

“Yessir,” Lexi nodded.  With that, her dad gave me one more look that couldn’t have been anything but suspicious, before deciding that Lexi would obey him and heading out the back door again.  A minute later, we heard the sound of a boat motor starting up and Lexi told me, “Most folks don’t much like talkin’ about all that.”

“All what?”

The motor stopped running and Lexi shook her head.  “I really shouldn’t say.”  Then, a little louder, probably hoping her father could hear, she bid me, “Have a nice rest of your day!” and that was that. 

I could have just left Bayou Lafourche.  I could have chosen to let go of any and all questions I had relating to Rose and Rocco Lee and Mr. LeCompte and how Lexi factored in to any of it.  I could have just forgotten about it, left it well enough alone.  But this cat hadn’t been brought back by any satisfaction.  Not yet, anyway.

Author's Note

This is a modern re-telling of Wuthering Heights that takes place in various places around Louisiana. It was hard to work out because Wuthering Heights actually has a really odd narrative structure. Any and all comments are appreciated, and if you have questions or anything is unclear please don't be afraid to say so.