need much, since it’s just me.”
“Well, if it’s going to end up just you, it’s better to know when he’s only the fiancé, right?” She recalls our conversation during the roof recon, and I feel the tug of kinship again.
“Truth.”
“Look,” she offers, “I’m sorry I was hard on you the other day. It’s just that it’s not a far trip from believing you can change things in Augustine, to going nuts. That’s all I was trying to say. I’m not much of a diplomat, which is mostly what cut short my military career. Sometimes, if you’re not willing to blow smoke at people, you find yourself ditched on the side of the road.”
“Sounds a little like the faculty in a college English department,” I admit. “Minus the Humvees and camouflage, I mean.”
Aunt Sarge and I actually chuckle. Together.
“Is this your house?” I say, by way of keeping the conversation going. “It’s great. I’m a sucker for anything antique or vintage.”
She thumbs over her shoulder. “Aunt Dicey’s place. My grandmother’s baby sister. I came by last spring to visit after…” A labored sigh, and whatever she was about to divulge is quickly rerouted to “Didn’t plan on staying, but Aunt Dicey was in a mess. No propane in the tank, the plumbing cut off to most of the house. Ninety-year-old woman heating bathwater on the stove. Too many no-account kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nieces and nephews. Whatever Aunt Dicey has, if somebody asks for it, she’ll give it. So, I just moved in.”
She rubs the back of her neck, stretches it one way and then the other. A rueful laugh hisses between her teeth. “And here I am, picking okra in Augustine, Louisiana. My dad would turn over in his grave. Best thing that ever happened to him was getting drafted into the army and discovering a whole new world out there.”
Obviously, there’s a much bigger story under Sarge’s crusty exterior. “Looks like you’ve made a tremendous difference on the house.”
“Houses are easy. People, not so much. You can’t just strip out the lead pipe, re-run the wires, slap on a coat of paint…and fix things in a lot of these families.”
“Speaking of family”—I avoid the sinkhole of what can’t be done in Augustine—“the reason I stopped by is LaJuna. She and I had an accord of sorts last week. She promised not to miss any more school, and I told her that if she didn’t miss, she could help me with a project I’m working on. That was Thursday afternoon. She didn’t come to school on Friday, and I haven’t seen her since. I went to the home address on file for her, and the guy there told me to get lost.”
“That’d be her mama’s old boyfriend. Tiffany hits him up when she needs a place to land. Tiffany’s always hitting somebody up—been doing that since she snagged my cousin senior year of high school and had LaJuna. That’s how Tiff gets by.” She pulls a bandana from her pocket, takes off the hat and mops her neck, then fans some air under her T-shirt. “Tiff’s hard on people. Left LaJuna here for years while she was in prison and never has done a thing to pay Aunt Dicey back.”
“Can you tell me where they are? Living, I mean. LaJuna said her mom had a new job and they were doing fine.” I know a little about intentionally misleading the adults in your life to keep secrets under wraps. Things that, if they knew, would send your whole world tumbling end over end. “I don’t think LaJuna would break her promise. She was so excited about sorting”—I catch myself—“our project.”
“Honey, you coming back?” Aunt Dicey calls out. “Bring your friend. She wants to help us pick, then she can stay over for some okra and fried green ’maters. That’ll be good! Don’t have much meat to put with it. Couple slices of roast left from my Mealsie Wheelsies. We can have that, too. Tell her to come on in here. No need in being bashful.” Aunt Dicey cups a hand around her ear, listening for a response.
“She has things to do, Aunt Dicey,” Sarge calls, loudly enough to be