1
The last call Sylvia ever received took place on February seventeenth.
Sylvia tapped the screen of her cell and answered. “Hello?”
“Sylly?” The voice on the other end of the line asked.
Sylvia could’ve picked that voice out of a crowded train station even if it hadn’t used her old nickname.
“Mamere?” Sylvia asked back. She sat down at her desk and looked up at the map of Louisiana above her desk, tracing the roads that led from New Orleans to Dyson Ditch.
“You know it’s me,” Mamere said. “Voice ain’t changed at all. Yours has dropped a fair bit, eh?”
Sylvia rolled her eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Mamere said from the other end of the phone.
It was always disconcerting how easily her step-grandmother could pinpoint exactly what she was doing without having eyes on Sylvia.
Sylvia sighed. “Sorry.”
“Your Papere is gone.”
And there it was.
Plain and simple.
Sylvia had no living relatives now. She was the only Crawstow remaining. Some might say that Mamere counted as she’d been the only mother Sylvia ever had, but Mamere wasn’t blood, and no matter what anyone bullshitted, that mattered.
Of course it did.
Family history was built on the bodies of ancestors.
Blood ancestors.
“In his sleep?” Sylvia asked, shaking her head even as the question spilled out.
Of course it hadn’t been in his sleep.
“No,” Mamere said. “Don’t be a couyon, girl. He disappeared like I told you he would when you was little.”
Family history.
Sylvia still remembered the tears that poured down her face when her step-grandmother sat her down to tell her that her grandfather would disappear when she was a grown woman. She hadn’t really thought much about it though. It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to come true.
“How long has he been missing?” Sylvia asked even though she already knew the answer.
“Year,” Mamere said.
“A whole year and you’re just now calling me?”
Mamere snorted from the other end of the phone.
“So...” Sylvia’s voice fell off. She was about to ask when the funeral was, but what did you do when someone disappeared. Did you even have a funeral?
“There was no will, but you can come get anything of his that you want.”
“When?” Sylvia asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sylvia asked. “I have work tomorrow. What about this weekend?”
“I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. Back to Baton Rouge for me.”
“What’s happening to the house?”
“Already sold. Come by tomorrow or not at all. I’ll be gone and all of his stuff will be there. Key’s in the same place. Good luck, girl.”
There was a click from Mamere’s end of the phone.
2
Sylvia rolled into Greyson the next morning around 7 AM, but something felt wrong about the town. It felt empty.
There were cars parked on either side of the road, but none of the lights in any of the businesses were on. None of the restaurants were open for breakfast. No one walked on the sidewalks.
Sylvia didn’t like it. Thankfully, her grandparents lived on the outskirts of the town.
She looked at the GPS on her cell to make sure that she was actually in Greyson.
She was.
Sylvia kept driving, trying not to think about the way her hands gripped the steering wheel to keep from shaking.
The place where Sylvia had grown up was smaller than she remembered, or maybe she’d just grown to fill more of it.
“How did I ever live here?”
Her apartment had more square footage than this house by a long shot.
The steps leading up to the front porch sagged, and when she stepped on the first one, it groaned. Thoughts of her leg plunging through a cracked board with rusty nails sticking out came to mind, but Sylvia pushed that thought from her head and kept going. Each step groaned louder than the last and when she finally stepped onto the front porch, the destination of supposed safety, the boards bowed under her weight.
Sylvia continued to the front door and fished the
The last call Sylvia ever received took place on February seventeenth.
Sylvia tapped the screen of her cell and answered. “Hello?”
“Sylly?” The voice on the other end of the line asked.
Sylvia could’ve picked that voice out of a crowded train station even if it hadn’t used her old nickname.
“Mamere?” Sylvia asked back. She sat down at her desk and looked up at the map of Louisiana above her desk, tracing the roads that led from New Orleans to Dyson Ditch.
“You know it’s me,” Mamere said. “Voice ain’t changed at all. Yours has dropped a fair bit, eh?”
Sylvia rolled her eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Mamere said from the other end of the phone.
It was always disconcerting how easily her step-grandmother could pinpoint exactly what she was doing without having eyes on Sylvia.
Sylvia sighed. “Sorry.”
“Your Papere is gone.”
And there it was.
Plain and simple.
Sylvia had no living relatives now. She was the only Crawstow remaining. Some might say that Mamere counted as she’d been the only mother Sylvia ever had, but Mamere wasn’t blood, and no matter what anyone bullshitted, that mattered.
Of course it did.
Family history was built on the bodies of ancestors.
Blood ancestors.
“In his sleep?” Sylvia asked, shaking her head even as the question spilled out.
Of course it hadn’t been in his sleep.
“No,” Mamere said. “Don’t be a couyon, girl. He disappeared like I told you he would when you was little.”
Family history.
Sylvia still remembered the tears that poured down her face when her step-grandmother sat her down to tell her that her grandfather would disappear when she was a grown woman. She hadn’t really thought much about it though. It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to come true.
“How long has he been missing?” Sylvia asked even though she already knew the answer.
“Year,” Mamere said.
“A whole year and you’re just now calling me?”
Mamere snorted from the other end of the phone.
“So...” Sylvia’s voice fell off. She was about to ask when the funeral was, but what did you do when someone disappeared. Did you even have a funeral?
“There was no will, but you can come get anything of his that you want.”
“When?” Sylvia asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sylvia asked. “I have work tomorrow. What about this weekend?”
“I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. Back to Baton Rouge for me.”
“What’s happening to the house?”
“Already sold. Come by tomorrow or not at all. I’ll be gone and all of his stuff will be there. Key’s in the same place. Good luck, girl.”
There was a click from Mamere’s end of the phone.
2
Sylvia rolled into Greyson the next morning around 7 AM, but something felt wrong about the town. It felt empty.
There were cars parked on either side of the road, but none of the lights in any of the businesses were on. None of the restaurants were open for breakfast. No one walked on the sidewalks.
Sylvia didn’t like it. Thankfully, her grandparents lived on the outskirts of the town.
She looked at the GPS on her cell to make sure that she was actually in Greyson.
She was.
Sylvia kept driving, trying not to think about the way her hands gripped the steering wheel to keep from shaking.
The place where Sylvia had grown up was smaller than she remembered, or maybe she’d just grown to fill more of it.
“How did I ever live here?”
Her apartment had more square footage than this house by a long shot.
The steps leading up to the front porch sagged, and when she stepped on the first one, it groaned. Thoughts of her leg plunging through a cracked board with rusty nails sticking out came to mind, but Sylvia pushed that thought from her head and kept going. Each step groaned louder than the last and when she finally stepped onto the front porch, the destination of supposed safety, the boards bowed under her weight.
Sylvia continued to the front door and fished the
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