TCHOUTACABOUFFA (LIFE ON A RIVER) | Fiction by Amelia Franz

Ashley gazed through the sliding glass doors, over the deck and back yard sloping down to the river. The Tchoutacabouffa was flooding from all the rain. Soon, it would lap at the cedar fence pickets, creep up the walls of the Little Tykes playhouse, with its bright blue roof and shutters. Until she heard him leave for work and the deadbolt lock behind him, she didn’t move. She waited five minutes longer, in case he’d forgotten anything and came back. And then it was go time.

For herself, she took almost nothing—keys, wallet, jewelry, two changes of clothes. Into three kitchen garbage bags, she crammed a few outfits for each girl, along with shoes, coats, and two stuffies each. The iPad and charger, the shot records, the birth certificates, and the photos, she slipped in her shoulder bag. The front door camera could have been a problem, since video went straight to his phone, but she’d told him she was dropping off a few bags of clothes at the nearest donation bin.

Her phone, which he tracked, she tossed in the trash. She’d buy a prepaid at Walmart, once they got there. She’d already closed her Facebook and Insta. She carried the three bags out, one at a time, with her left hand because her right wrist still hurt. She tossed them into the back of the Odyssey, then stopped. Something caught in her throat at the sight of it—how very little space all their belongings took up in the yawning black cargo hold, all the contents of their life. She swallowed hard and closed the hatch. They needed to get on the road.

She went back in for one last look around, in case she’d left anything they couldn’t do without. From long habit, she tiptoed around the house, through the family room and living room, through the bathrooms and kitchen. And finally, she walked into the master bedroom, opened the nightstand drawer, and took out his pistol. She could see the safety was on. She knew that much about guns. She held the thing a long moment, considering, before she put it back. But at the front door, she stopped, hand on doorknob. She went back to the bedroom, and this time, slipped the gun into her shoulder bag. Inside the van, she slid it under her seat.

She reversed out of the drive. As she passed the big magnolia, the empty rope swing moved in the wind, an unnerving image on an unnerving morning. In the cul-de-sac, she accelerated and did not look back at the house on stilts backing up to the Tchoutacabouffa, a Biloxi Indian word meaning broken pot. Give me strength, Lord, she prayed. I can’t do this on my own. She turned on the wipers and headed for the elementary school. They made a squeak squeak against the windshield, like the cries of a small, wounded animal.

She stopped at Exxon to fill up the tank, which should get them as far as Atlanta. Squeezing the nozzle, watching the numbers tick up. She tried not to wonder how long the money would last, which she’d squirreled away ten and twenty bucks at a time. Or what she might get for her jewelry through Craigslist or, as a last resort, from a pawn shop. Her plan had been to save more and wait for final confirmation on the rental property in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where Sara, an old friend, had tentatively agreed to let them stay rent-free for a couple of months. Meanwhile, she cooked his favorite foods, kept the house extra nice, and the kids quiet. Made her interactions with him smooth and frictionless, nothing for him to snag on. Float away somewhere in her head when he climbed on top of her, the way she’d done during both c-sections.

But that was all before he accused her of flirting with Abby’s soccer coach, backed her up to the wall, and wrapped his long fingers with the white gold wedding band around her windpipe. Split lips, bruised cheekbone, bruised ribs, broken fingers, he’d done all that. Dragged her around by her hair, locked her in the closet, but the choking was new. His lips were pressed together, nose wrinkled in disgust. That was the moment she knew for sure, he would kill her if she stayed. That she, Ashley Rose Jackson, would lie on that very bedroom floor, truly and actually dead. Lips blue, feet splayed, stiff as roadkill. Her girls would see her like that. And what good was money or an apartment, then?  

The road to the school wound along, sometimes nestling right up to the river, now just a few feet down on both sides from the shoulder. The water was the color of coffee with cream, rushing impatiently by. A long, dark branch bobbed along, then a child-sized, red plastic deck chair. It dipped and rocked and swirled, then continued its journey. Just a few miles south, the Tchoutacabouffa would join the Biloxi, then spill into the bay. Then the Mississippi Sound—Deer Island, Horn Island, Ship Island, the Gulf of Mexico. She had lived on the coast all her life, never been farther north than Gatlinburg or farther east than Destin. She’d never been anywhere, really, just here. Just home.

Her mama, Regina, was buried in the cemetery in Ocean Springs off 90. She wondered if the flowers she’d left three days earlier were still on the grave, or if the cemetery people had already taken them away. Yellow roses, always, because her mama was from Texas. Because she had a yellow rose tattooed on her right shoulder. Because her middle name, like Ashley’s, was Rose. And because, even four years after ovarian cancer had taken her, Ashley still had that lopped-off feeling, like yearning for a lost limb. She knew florists delivered to cemeteries and lots of people weren’t able to visit their mother’s graves. And of all the things she knew she would miss, why a grave? What was a grave? Just a slab of rock, just earth, just a body. She was raised Baptist and taught the body was nothing, only a shell. But then again, it was everything.

Through the misting rain, she saw brake lights ahead and stopped. It was the drawbridge, raising to let a boat through, and there was nothing to do but wait for it to lower. On the opposite bank of the river, she spotted a motionless gator on a log. He was ten or twelve feet, easy. That was the reason she’d never let the girls have a dog. It would hurt too much to lose it, and in such a horrible way.

In the school parking lot, she scanned the vehicles, almost convinced she’d see his boulder gray Nissan Rogue, that he’d somehow read her thoughts. But that was crazy, and she knew it. She parked, took the keys from the ignition, and breathed. The thing now was just to stay calm, act super casual. She’d picked her kids up many times, and this would be no different. Still, she reached in her jacket pocket, where she carried a small, olive wood pocket cross from the holy land. She squeezed it tightly as she stepped out of the car.

Near the school’s entrance stood the flagpole, surrounded by recently mown grass. The flag was at half-mast today, popping and snapping in the wind under the low, heavy sky. Her girls had taken part in ceremonies with the flag each year—raising and lowering it with their Girl Scout troops. First in Daisy vests, then Brownie vests, and now Abby in her green Junior vest, all covered in achievement patches she’d sewn on carefully, knowing each was proof of some small ability or accomplishment that, over time, she prayed would give them the self-confidence she’d always lacked. So much of life depended on confidence.

She rushed to catch the door that was closing behind a man who’d just entered, but she wasn’t quick enough. She pressed the buzzer and waited, then pressed it again.

“May I help you?”

“I’m picking up my daughters for a dentist appointment. Abby and Emma Jackson.”

After nearly a full minute, the doors clicked, and she walked across the polished tile lobby to the front office. The two women in desks facing each other, she recognized—one older and short-haired, one younger and longer-haired, who reminded her of the pastor’s wife at the church they’d attended for a while. Once that pastor had preached on marriage, quoting a verse from First Corinthians about husbands’ and wives’ bodies belonging to each other. He told the congregation not to take what he was about to say the wrong way, not to twist his words, but scripture was clear. And scripture never said anything about husband, or wife, having to be “in the mood.” His fingers made air quotes around the phrase. The place went completely silent, until one elderly lady in the next row of folding chairs up made a small, strangled sound in her throat. She shook her head, no, no, then stood and walked out with her purse and Bible. The pastor had asked the congregation if he could get an amen, and he did. One male voice saying amen, then another, and another.

At the memory, Ashley’s wrist throbbed. She took out her license, the photo she’d always thought looked like a mug shot and laid it on the counter to be scanned. In the green early dismissal notebook, she scrawled Abby and Emma’s names illegibly with her left hand, leaving the return times blank.

“Abby’s in Mrs. Dedeaux’s class, and Emma’s in Mr. Nguyen’s,” she told the younger woman.

“Did you send in notes this morning?”
“No, sorry, I forgot.”

“Always send in a note. That way, we don’t have to call the teacher and interrupt class. They’d already be here waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” she repeated.

“It’s okay, just remember for next time.”

“I will.”

There wouldn’t be any next time, of course. They’d never walk these halls again. Never see their teachers or classmates again. She’d wanted to Google the new school they’d attend in Myrtle Beach, but she’d once walked in on him checking her browser history on the laptop, and she suspected he could do the same thing on her phone. She used a computer at the public library. The school described itself as highly rated and “devoted to nurturing the whole child.” From their home page, she clicked on the Facebook icon and scrolled through images of happy-seeming kids, including a Brownie troop bagging canned goods for a food pantry. They buoyed her, these images. She could picture Emma fitting in with this troop. She imagined driving them and their new friends to the beach, one with clean water you could swim in without worrying about bacteria counts and skin infections. All that afternoon, it had scrolled through her mind, the bright highlight reel of their possible future lives. One where Emma didn’t cry about things she heard at night through her bedroom wall, one where Abby didn’t watch lock picking videos on YouTube to get her mama out of the closet.

The woman was just about to call the teachers when a little curly-haired boy, who appeared to be developmentally delayed, entered the office with an aide holding his hand.

“Ian’s all ready for the pledge of allegiance!” the smiling aide announced.

 “Well, come on over, Ian!” the older woman said, and waved the boy over to her desk, where she handed the aide a microphone. And then the boy recited the pledge in a soft, lisping voice. Haltingly, prompted phrase by phrase by the aide.

 “I pledge allegiance.” Pause. “To the flag.” Long pause. “And to the republic.” Very long pause. “For which it stands.” She sighed and bit her lip, waiting impatiently. As soon as he’d said, “with liberty and justice for all,” she blurted out, “Can you call now, please?”

Both women looked over at her, eyebrows raised.

 “Sorry, I just don’t want to be late. If we’re late, we’ll have to reschedule. So can you just call now, please?”

Did she only imagine it? That the older woman looked suspicious, as if she sensed something was off? Ashley pictured her reaching under her desk to press a secret button, the kind she’d seen in movies about bank robberies. A pack of police rushing in to arrest her for attempted kidnapping, led by his buddy on the force, the one he sometimes shot AK’s with on the weekends, just for fun.

But the woman only nodded and picked up her phone, called each teacher and asked for the girls to be released for dentist appointments.

 “I signed them out already. I’ll just wait outside,” Ashley said.

 “That’s fine.”

She stepped out and paced the lobby, then stood next to the large glass display case mounted to the wall. There were trophies, certificates, and photos, all mementos of the school’s history, going back many years. In one corner hung a newspaper clipping of a young, still pimply-faced Marine, in a big white hat that seemed to balance on top of his bald head, under a caption that read Freedom Isn’t Free.

It wasn’t long before they came walking down the long, dim, central corridor of painted cinder block, lined with small gray lockers on each side. Abby was the first to appear, exiting from a door that opened onto the hallway. Then Emma entered from the adjoining wing and came along, knock-kneed in leggings and a backpack that seemed too large for her small body. The hall was lit only by two hanging fluorescent fixtures, so from a distance, the girls at first appeared colorless and featureless, only moving shapes. She noticed, for the first time she could remember, the way they walked. The way they held their bodies so tense and tight, shoulders pulled up nearly to their ears. Each time they passed a classroom door, they glanced over, as if expecting something to rush out and grab them, sink its teeth into an arm or leg. How had she never noticed the way they walked? She thought of rabbits, squirrels, and chipmunks, the way these animals had an eye on each side of their heads for this very reason. And this image of her beauties as small, furry animals of prey made her a little queasy. Dear Lord, she prayed. I have fucked these children up so bad. Only for a moment, she had an awful thought. Would it have been better to have driven up to the Pink House in Jackson, back when it was still legal in Mississippi, and taken care of things? And then her beauties, her everythings, would never have to walk through the world this way.

But no, she had to push that thought away, far away. She couldn’t let herself open that door. And she prayed the world’s oldest prayer then: Help.

“I didn’t know I had a dentist appointment,” they both said, when they walked up to her.

 “Just come on, hurry up, we need to get on the road.”

But she froze when the front office door opened and the older woman came out, rushing towards them across the lobby with a look of alarm on her face. Ashley grabbed their hands, despite the pain in her wrist, and pulled them towards the doors.

 “Ow! That hurts!” Emma cried.

 “Wait!” The woman said. “Stop!”

But she didn’t stop.

 “You forgot your license!”

She stopped then. She let out the breath she was holding. She released the girls, and the woman walked over to them. Her brown eyes were warm and kind as she held out the license between her pointer and ring fingers.

 “Thank you.”

 “No problem,” the woman smiled. “Y’all be safe out there driving. This wind’s really picking up.”

She was right. The wind was picking up, and so was the rain. It blew in sheets now, that slammed against the front doors. The pines were waving as they ran through the pouring rain to the van. When they got in and locked the doors, they were all dripping wet. She wished she’d thought to bring a couple of towels. How could she have forgotten towels? They didn’t even have towels. Emma glanced into the cargo hold before buckling into her booster seat.

 “Why are my clothes in garbage bags? And Abby’s, too?”

The question hung in the air a long moment. Ashley didn’t answer and cranked the van. She’d hoped to put some miles between them and him, before she stopped to explain. She’d hoped to pull off at a rest stop or a McDonald’s and tell them the truth, make certain promises, ones she’d have to keep, no matter what. Instead, to her surprise, it was Abby who spoke up, sounding both older and younger than her nine years.

“Cause we’re not going to the dentist.” And in a softer voice, hardly more than a whisper, “We’re running away from Dad. Aren’t we?”

“He’s gonna be mad,” Emma said, and began to cry.

Ashley turned to face them, letting the engine idle as rain pelted the roof and streamed down the windows. “We’re gonna be okay. I promise you, things will be different from now on.” And she added, with all the cheer and the faith and the confidence she could summon, “We’re going to a real ocean. They’ve got a boardwalk and everything.”

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