Ellen had never been so glad to see dry land and people as she was when they finally rounded a bend, and the tiny town of Cotton came into view ... what was left of it. Many buildings were just piles of boards, many had no roofs, and some were simply gone, leaving only a foundation. But some were still standing. They had no electricity, but she could hear generators, so they probably had some lights and water.
She and Mac had hardly spoken since his attempt at humor with his bailing song. She refused the sandwiches he offered but did drink the bottled water. Her stomach was grumbling, but all she wanted was a place to wash. A shower would be wonderful, even a bath. That brought vivid memories of their bath together the night before, but now all she wanted was to get away from him and his crazy family. She wanted her friends found, she missed her family and she wanted to go home.
He grounded the canoe and offered her his hand to help her out, but she ignored it, stepping out on the opposite side. “Honey, I know you are mad at me, but can't we talk at least?” he asked.
"The only thing I want to hear from you is that the hotel has a bed and a place for me to shower. Beyond that, the only other thing would be your saying ‘goodbye.’”
She started walking away, toward the building she was sure was the hotel, when he grabbed her arm and spun her around into his arms. He lowered his mouth to hers, but she kept her lips tightly closed and tried to push him away. He held her tight, looking into her face, then released her abruptly. “If that is what you want, then fine. I will get you a room, and then you are on your own. And don't figure on crawling back to me, because you have made your decision, and I will abide by it."
He left her standing as he strode to the hotel. By the time she caught up with him, he was inside and tossed a key to her. “Room 11, top of the stairs. If I find out anything about your friends, I will leave a message here. Goodbye.” With that, he turned and disappeared out the door.
Well, to hell with him, she thought. To the untidy old woman behind the desk, she asked, “Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call my parents. Collect, of course."
The old woman cackled and showed a mouth missing most of her teeth. Her clothes were stained with food and unknown other things, and her hair was stringy and uncombed. She pointed to the antique wall phone behind her. “Well, Missy, if'n it was aworkin', you could use it, but it ain't. And probably won't be for a couple weeks, if'n then."
"A telegraph office, then? Is there one in town?"
"Sure ain't. Mail truck may come sometime this week, maybe driver can help. He be my nephew, lookin’ for a wife. Hard workin’ and might take a shinin’ to you."
Ellen pictured the nephew and felt nauseated. “Have you seen anyone new in town? I am missing my three friends. We have been staying at the Black Bayou Plantation, and they disappeared during the storm. One is blonde and little, another is tall and black, and the other is medium with a long black braid—she is an Indian."
"Ain't seed any new folk and nobody like dat."
She was not surprised and decided a shower would improve her spirits, so she went upstairs to her room. It was cleaner than she had expected, but everything there had a musty smell, including the towels. The wall above the bed had a picture of a barn and pasture, marred and cracked. The toilet and sink were yellowed and stained. The shower was even worse, with mold in all the corners. She did not want to think about the bed. She showered, rinsed out her clothes as best she could, and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She never knew the door opened a crack, and eyes took in her naked body lying on the sheets as the breeze softly moved the screened window open over her head. Mac needed to see her one last time.
The sun broke through the clouds, immediately turning the air to liquid. At least that was how it felt to Ellen as the sunlight drenched her body. She took another shower and dressed in the damp, not quite clean, clothes. Her stomach rumbled and cramped with hunger. She dug into her jeans pocket and found a couple crumpled dollar bills and some change, $3.71 in total.
She was contemplating her situation when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The old woman behind the desk called out to her. “Say, missy, you be a-plannin’ ter stay agin tonight? Need to know ter make up da bed er not?” She realized the woman had not said “change the sheets,” making her wonder if the sheets she'd slept last night had been used before her, maybe several times.
Then the question really sunk in. She had no idea where she would stay or how she would survive on $3.71. “I guess not, as I don't have any money, but I do have enough for a cup of coffee. Where is the dining room?"
The question caused the uncouth woman to double over in laughter. “Dinin’ room? You think dis is some fancy big-city hotel? Ain't got no dinin’ room. Effie's Café is one block down, and Bayou's Best opens fer meal n booze at four. Mudbugs is down da road apiece, but it be a bit rough for a lady like yourself, with swamp folk most, especially the bartender, Del Marks. Him and his family own the place."
Ellen felt her face redden with embarrassment. She knew a faux pas when she made one, and that had been a beauty. Hoping to change the subject, she asked, “What does Mudbugs mean?"
"'Nother name for cray-daddies or crayfish. Some folks think they taste like lobster. Harder to eat, though. Lot of pickin’ for a bite."
"Do you like them? I have my doubts about eating anything called a Mudbug."
The woman laughed deeply, slapping her ample hip. “Hell, yes, I love ‘em. Ask at any of de food places ter cook you up a batch."
"Thank you. Did anyone leave a message for me, by any chance?"
"Well, lemme check.” In the row of boxes behind her, there was a piece of paper in the one marked 11, but she made a production of moving her hand from box to box, peering inside each, knowing full well all were empty but one.
Ellen took a deep breath and looking around the lobby. A few old wicker chairs sat behind a table that held some old National Geographic magazines, and a grandfather clock reading 4:33 stood below the stairs. She moved to pickup the 1957 issue and smelled the decay as she did.
"My nephew da mail driver likes ta look at dem. Say every one have a ‘Pigmate of the Month’ in the center. Likes dem saggy tits, I guess.” She chortled again.
"About that message, may I see it, please?"
"Best not get uppity with Mrs. Clarke, and dat would be me.” She was clearly angry with Ellen, apparently because the young woman did not like her crude joke.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Clarke, if I offended you. I apologize profusely."
"Well in dat case, sorry accepted. Here be yur letter.” She finally handed it to Ellen. It was a sealed envelope. Mrs. Clarke bent forward, hoping to see the contents, but Ellen tucked it into her pant's pocket, smiled at the hag, and left the lobby. She spied the café across the muddy street, but hunger forced her to wade into it.
There were two old men playing checkers on a bench in front of the café. They were chewing tobacco and spitting it into the street each time one would make a move. It was almost funny, as if choreographed. She smiled at them and received blank stares in return. One mumbled something to the other under his breath, and she somehow knew it was a sexual comment that set them both into gales of laughter, which caused the tobacco to spray over their board and clothes, but they didn't seem to know nor care.
She found herself alone in the café, but for a gray-headed woman sitting on a stool at the bar. Ellen sat at a table near her and waited. Finally, she cleared her throat, hoping to make the woman aware she was there. “If you want something, speak up. None of those body noises—I hate ‘m."
Ellen sat for a full minute before rising to walk to the woman and take the stool beside her. “Hello. I have exactly $3.71 to my name and want as much of anything as that will buy."
The gray head turned to her, but instead of an elderly woman, the one looking at her was hardly older than Ellen. Lines etched her face, and her brown eyes had a flat, defeated look. She looked Ellen over carefully and then spoke. “That not much money, but I'll see what I can come up with. My name is Alma Juneau, and this is my place. Sign says Effie—was my mama, God bless her soul.” She climbed down, holding her back with one hand, and poured a huge mug of coffee and a tall glass of milk, which she shoved to Ellen. “Be back with some grits and such in a few minutes."
Ellen pulled the envelope out of her pocket and tore it open carefully.