WHEN I RETURNED TO THE LIVING ROOM, I noticed a second cup of her pain potion waiting on the table beside the sofa. The rain was pounding, and the wind was so loud it sounded like a freight train. I wondered if tropical storms could produce tornados.
“Don’t worry. This house can withstand just about anything,” she said. “And I haven’t been a very good host—you’re bound to be starving. I’ve pulled some gumbo out of the freezer; it’s warming on the stove now.”
“Well, I think saving my life probably earns you a few hospitality points. And gumbo sounds terrific. Is there any way to get a message out to my friends? You know, tell them I’m safe?”
“I checked. Both cell service and the Internet are down. The other problem is there’s only one way out of here, and that’s by boat. Unless you know the bayou like the back of your hand, you’d never find this place. I could try to give them directions, but I’ve laid all kinds of traps for dirtbags like Mitch and Ted. I wouldn’t want your friends to get caught in one trying to get here. A woman living out here all alone has to protect herself from men who’ve had too many beers and think I’m all alone and available.”
She had a point, and she’d also triggered my thinking. The dirtbags, as she called them, probably had taken Clovis’s cell phone and computer as well as mine, and surely had the technology to intercept any attempts to contact him. I needed to think long and hard before I called or emailed anyone.
“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. I know we’re stuck for now, but I need to come up with a plan that gets me out of here and keeps you safe.”
She looked amused “Jack, this isn’t all about you. I knew what I was doing. And look at it this way—sooner or later those guys are going to have to report to their boss. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.”
“Okay, you’re right. But look—I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember where we met. Please tell me what I’ve forgotten.”
She smiled and her eyes brightened. “There’s no reason why you should remember. About a year ago or so, I attended an environmental conference where I applied for funding from a foundation headed by your daughter. Anyone who was anyone in the world of environmental science was there. It was a great opportunity for me.
I didn’t think I had much of a chance, but I presented my proposal to a panel, and, lo and behold, I received a grant. I never thought my research would get that level of recognition. Much of the equipment you see in my lab was purchased with funds from that award, and the grant has drawn a lot of attention to my work.
You came to the awards reception, and a colleague introduced us. We were still in the “do you know” phase, when one of the panelists barged in. He was rather rude, insisting he couldn’t wait. You apologized, and he led you away.”
Of course! I thought, as the events of that day flooded my brain. Many years ago, a friend I’d known in high school, a very good friend in fact, had created an environmental trust, naming Beth as its sole trustee. Several summers after she and Jeff graduated from Davidson, they decided to kick-start the work of the trust with a conference on climate change and sent out a request for grant proposals, winners to be announced at the conference. She didn’t feel like she had the expertise to evaluate the applications, so she pulled together a panel of experts to review the requests.
The conference brought together some of the best environmental minds in the country. The panel that heard the grant proposals made its recommendations, and in all but one case Beth agreed with their decisions. That request had been submitted by a Dr. Abby Broussard, who had obtained both her environmental science and medical degrees from Louisiana State University. The work she had done and the proposal she had submitted were both unique in substance and exciting in scope. But without Ivy League credentials, the panel had suggested that her work lacked “academic integrity.”
Beth had disagreed, overruling the panel and awarding Abby’s proposal a fully funded grant. Abby and I met by chance at the reception, but a very insistent member of the panel pulled me away just as we’d begun to talk. The guy was determined to convince me of the value of Ivy League credentials, but I managed to escape before too long by turning him over to a hopeful UPenn grad. I tried to find Abby, but the reception had ended, and she wasn’t among the few guests still lingering at the bar.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you,” I said, a little shaken by this lapse of memory.
“Why should you? It was only a chance encounter. Let me bring you a bowl of gumbo. Don’t get up. The less you move, the less those ribs will, and the faster they’ll heal.”
I watched her walk to the kitchen, struck again by how much chance or maybe providence can influence our individual lives. By all rights I should be dead. I was alive only because a woman I’d totally forgotten had decided to intervene. Under different circumstances I would’ve liked to get to know her better, but the sooner I got out of her bayou, the better chance we both had to stay alive.