Page 54 of Trip Through Your Wires

“Now Nana,” I place my hand on top of hers and smile. “You know there’s no rest for the wicked. And it won’t be forever. Just a couple hours each night.”

She thought I worked too hard and I thought she worried too much, but it was the only thing we disagreed on. As the baby of the family, and only girl, our bond was special and we shared the same opinion on almost everything else: Cobbler was better than pie, mint rather than sugar in tea, and nothing was more beautiful than a Georgia summer sky.

I let go of her hand and she pats my thigh, using it for leverage as she pushes up from the bed.“I’ll leave dinner on the stove so it’s ready to go, and have Cole come by to check on you later. Okay?”

Last month Nana got a hearing aid, and she turns it off while sleeping. I know it’s what she’s supposed to do but it isn’t safe when she’s alone. Last weekend when I was at Highland, Travis came by to check on her, but I know he can’t do it every night. I’ll have to talk to each of my brothers and work out some kind of schedule.

“I’ll be fine,” she says with a wave of her hand as she makes her way over to my writing desk. Looking up at the pictures on the wall above, she reaches out to touch the frame of one with her, Momma, and I. “Don’t bother Coley.”

Nana had such high hopes for Momma once. Said she had the kind of beauty that should be in the movies. When I started to make a name for myself in high school, she placed that hope in me, saying I was just like her—a star in the making. She was so proud, keeping every high school sports write up from our local newspaper that had my name in it, putting them in an album that she showed to everyone who came over.

I wonder what she thinks when she looks at that album now, or what’s going through her head as she stares at that picture on the wall. Is she looking at Momma and I and thinking, wasted beauty, broken promise? Or is she saying a silent prayer, hoping the next generation gets it right? Probably the latter given how often she asks my brothers when they are going to settle down and start a family. She doesn’t bother asking me that question because she knows the answer—when pig’s fly.

Knowing better than to argue with a Southern woman, I smile at her and nod, but make a mental note to call Cole and have him swing by anyway.

“How about I make your favorite for dinner tonight?” I offer, pushing up from the bed and coming over to her.

She turns from the wall and looks up at me. “Sounds good, darlin.’ Where is this new job? I don’t like the idea of you driving at night. All tuckered out after a long day.” She clicks her tongue, worried expression sweeping her brow.

I consider telling her the truth. Well, a version of it—that a new club had opened and I was waitressing. But Nana would hate it. “Girls from Davenport do not tend tables,” she’d said to me once when I was in high school, and during my search for independence, considered getting a job at one of the restaurants in town.

I always thought the pride in those from Davenport, like she and Momma, was ironic. Suppose it had something to do with the fact that while at one time the land in both this town and Cherry Cove belonged to the Davenport family, it was this one that had been chosen to bear their name.

Nana would love it if she knew Ellery was a Davenport by blood. Hell, she’d probably ask the town to throw her a parade. What she would do if she knew about my job at the club on the other hand….

“I won’t be driving far,” I say with a shrug. “Don’t you worry.”

“Alright sugar.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Just remember, you deserve the stars, Jenica Dawn. Remember that.”

I nod even though I’m not so sure I believe it. In fact, as she lets go of my hand and makes her way out of the room, I’m starting to believe I deserve exactly what’s waiting for me at Richardson’s club.

***

That night, after calling Cole and confirming he will come and check on Nana while I’m out, I grab my bag and keys, and hop in the car with a gallon of determination and a bucket of resolve.

When I make it to the end of the drive and pull onto the highway, I dig around the console and pull out tape after tape until I find what I’m looking for. Popping Pearl Jam’s Ten into the deck, I push play and let Eddie’s voice carry me away.

When “Alive” comes on as I hit the turnoff for Old Route 12, I crank it up and roll down the windows, singing my heart out with nothing but the night as my audience. I pretend that I’m on a road trip, headed north to see my friends. I think about snowball fights and hot chocolate and curling up next to Jake in his big, warm bed.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that in no time I’ve reached the old gas station with the faded red pumps. At night it looks more scary than sad, so I’m glad when the directions one of Richardson’s henchmen gave me yesterday before leaving, have me zooming past the abandoned structure, and continuing up the road.

When a driveway flanked by gas lanterns comes into view half a mile up the road, I slow down and turn off. Making my waydown the narrow paved road, I navigate carefully. Now I know why Richardson chose to have a club out here. It’s the perfect place.

Among the darkness of the swamp, where creatures stir in its shadowy depths, gnarled cypress and ghostly corners are the only witnesses to what happens when the lines of morality and sin are crossed. It is a world within a world, where the rules are created by those who call it home, and it’s fitting Richardson chose to run his empire among the snakes and the sludge.

Finally, after weaving through long waterways and tight turns, I reach a guard’s station and prepare to stop. But as if expecting my arrival, a man at the booth waves me through, pointing to a parking lot up ahead. After pulling into a spot, and cutting the engine, I contemplate for a moment making a run for it. But then I remember who I am and why I’m doing this and get out of the car.

Yesterday when I was here I did not see this part of the club. It’s pristine, with a kind of polish that implies exclusivity, with a large deck that hangs off the back, and wooden walkways that connect to a handful of bungalows. It looks like a resort and judging by the garbled voices coming over what sounds like walkie talkies, one where security is high.

Since I left the club in a haze and don’t remember where I am supposed to go, I look around for an entrance, and when I see a door marked STAFF with a guard standing on either side, I make my way over.

“Stop right there,” one barks out as I approach. “What is your business?”

“I’m here to see Richardson,” I spit out, as if the answer is obvious.

The second guard grins. “Oh yeah, I heard there was a new piece of ass starting tonight. Why don’t you turn around and show us what Boss Hog paid for.”

While I respect the reference at Richardson’s expense, I don’t dignify the comment with a response. “Can I go in?”

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