Secrets in the Moss

By Katherine B. Rouse

On the Mobile River Delta in Alabama, the lives of a widowed psychiatrist and her neighbor intersect with that of a mysterious and reclusive woman.

Tilley McMillan lives in Mobile with her young son, Jake. Although she has a thriving psychiatry practice and a circle of close friends, she’s reluctant to start dating again. Her beauty and compassion do not go unnoticed by her neighbor, James Riverton, a successful mortgage broker. He’s attracted to her, but a painful breakup with his fiancée makes him wary of risking rejection. Far from Tilley and James, Cleo Thibodeaux calls the swampy Mobile River Delta home. Raised there by her father after the death of her mother, she spends her days collecting ingredients for poultices that heal wounds or ward off insects. She is mourning a child lost; Cleo’s father took her baby, the product of rape, away. Eventually, Tilley and James start dating, but their relationship is complicated by his fling with a mentally unstable divorcee named Charlotte Weldridge. When Tilley becomes Charlotte’s therapist, she learns unsettling details about James and her patient that she must keep confidential. As Tilley and James discover the extent of Charlotte’s instability, a twist of fate brings Cleo into their lives. Rouse (Highway 90, South) weaves together several storylines in her second novel while introducing a compelling cast of characters. Tilley, the likeable and compassionate heroine, has a solid romantic counterpart in James. Their relationship is sexy and poignant. Cleo manages to overcome a difficult upbringing to become a resourceful woman. Her story helps drive the action in the second half of the book.

This is an ambitious narrative that takes many twists and turns (Kirkus).

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546230588

Katherine B. Rouse

Katherine B. Rouse is a native to the Alabama Gulf Coast. Katherine has a Master’s degree in Behavioral Studies and Clinical Counseling, and has been employed for over eleven years with Alabama’s largest community mental health center. She worked in social services for over twenty years and served as an adjunct sociology instructor at a local university in her hometown, Mobile, AL. Katherine enjoys using her knowledge of southern culture along the Gulf Coast, as well as her understanding of human behaviors to increase readability in her books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The picturesque southern city of Mobile, Alabama, bustled with the ending of the work day as attorneys marched from court, bankers climbed into their sporty automobiles and the lunch-crew service workers removed their aprons. Business women in high heels gave directives to their families via cell, while avoiding the low hanging limbs of the resplendent oaks in Bienville Square, scurrying to make it home.

Several miles away on the river delta, unencumbered by the stressors of city life, the old woman pushed her boat forward with the worn, wooden paddle. Her sinewy hair snagged on a small limb as she passed. Cursing, she grabbed the branch and pulled her hair free. As dusk fell, a blue heron thrust past her very close to the boat. Although startled by the flapping of its wings, she felt comforted knowing the heron was there. They were known for pecking out the eyes of alligators, although she’d never witnessed the act. She stepped out of the small boat into the murky water and made her way toward the fire, dragging the filled burlap sack across the sand. There in the night she guarded the large, iron pot as steam poured from its mouth. Looking around cautiously her mind reeled with notions of the Rougareaux– the swamp monster her father spoke of when she was a child. Evening in the swamp often brought creepy notions of stealthy creatures, including men. Childhood memories of voodoo dolls and the faded mask of the Zulu king flashed before her as she peered into the foggy steam. Nonetheless, she pulled herself together to perform her routine tasks.

Squatting, the woman lifted her tattered cotton skirt and removed the thin, suede shoes from her feet. The shoes were wet with mud and bay water. The heat from the fire warmed her in the autumn air and she smiled. She was glad the air was finally cool enough to deter mosquitoes.

Gazing through the hazy gases exuded by the flame she considered the slight wooden structure in which she lived. The wooden ladder leading to the open door was cracked and unsafe. Needs patchin’, she thought. The thick, cypress posts on which her home rested, leaned to the right. The roof, also made of wood, was mended with asphalt shingles she found at the shipyard where the fleet of old Navy ships once loomed. Prior to his death, her father did his best to refurbish the one room cabin. He had always called it their river shack.

Just before the water boiled she removed the Spanish moss from the sack, pulling the tangled mass apart and laying it in strands across the damp, soaked timber above the cauldron, carefully making sure not to splash herself with the steamy liquid.

Kill da bugs. She muttered. For added help she tossed in a branch of hemlock and for luck, two petals from the scarlet orchid, a rare find. She waved her leathery hand over the steam as if the gesture added magic to the process. The combined aroma from the coals and steamed moss bestowed an exhilaration she rarely felt. After a few minutes, looking up into the night sky, she picked-up a forked stick and waved it above the pot. Ahhh, rouma, palataugon… She twirled as she chanted the inaudible self-made incantation, watching the cinders as they conveyed an unctuous appearance against the evening sky.

Dry she told the moss, as though the goal was achievable through her commands. …get tat water out…kill dem bugs. Again, she waved her hand across the bushy, tree hanging, lichen.

Left alone the little red bugs, commonly known as chiggers, would burrow under the skin secreting a toxin that eats at the tissue, causing a severe itch. In the morrow, when the sun in its pithiness continued to heat the moss, when it dried, she would sew together three large burlap sacks and pack them full for her bedding. She slept with her head firmly planted on a pillow of moss to ward away the croup. This, like other essentials, she learned through her ancestors – passed down by her father.

Her father once told her that Native Americans steamed away the chiggers before placing their blankets over the moss for comfort and warmth. When the automobile was in its infancy, this same moss was used to pack the seats of over a million Model "T’ Fords. Fortunately, the bugs suffocated before doing harm to the drivers. She recalled her father telling her of the legend of the Spanish moss. He held her hand and looked at her as they sat near the fire, speaking the poem in French.

As a child, she seized his every word. He told of the Indian maiden who was courted by a villain named Gorez. When Gorez dove into the bayou after his maiden, his beard caught in a tree and though he drowned his beard lives on until this day. This is what she was told. She often wondered what Gorez really looked like and whether there actually was an Indian maiden.

Need to go inland, soon, she said to herself. She muttered her unintelligible words, …banchi, reginla… over the embers, her made-up spell, this time shaking a branch from the caster bean bush toward the sky. A lost art, one rarely known in modern times, the woman knew how to make complex potions from the toxins, venoms and herbs extracted along the delta. Her multifarious knowledge of the native vegetation increased her ability to survive. By understanding edible from inedible items, to knowing the abilities of some plants in maintaining the balance of the eco system, she thrived. For example, Cleo kept a close eye on the white-band pitcher plants growing near the shack and assisted in maintaining their vigor to protect her home against termites.

The woman sat on the large fallen log near the fire, lingering in the warmth and thinking of her father who’d long since died. And as usual in these quiet times, she remembered the tiny infant that was stripped from her arms before she had a moment to consider its worth.

The squawk of the heron quickly brought her to her senses. She made sure the embers were low before heading to the shack for rest.

Chapter 2

He wanted it gone, this feeling of worthlessness. He just wasn’t sure how to make that happen. For now, he sipped a Martini. James Riverton, the handsome and charismatic twenty something mortgage broker nodded toward the older, beefy gentleman with whom he had finally closed the deal. James held his after-hours Martini into the air in a gesture of friendship. From the Bienville Club, atop the thirty- three-story skyscraper, James could see the Mobile River and the shipyard below. To the north, the elevated structure of the bay bridge stood monumentally in the distance. Spanning his view across the port, he thought of hurricane Katrina and the oil platform that washed from its position in the Gulf of Mexico, traveling all the way up the river and slamming into the bridge, making it impassable for weeks. To the south he witnessed the busy interstate bay way, the USS Battleship Alabama and farther on, the horizon of Mobile bay glistening against the evening sky.

So, I plan to be there tomorrow. The man’s ample lips bounced as he talked to James. I’ll be ready to sign the papers. He offered a steady hand to James. Standing tall, James, the quintessential southern gentleman, reached with a hardy grasp.

As the man walked out James placed his six-foot, two-inch frame back into the comfortable, leather chair. Bring another he held his glass up to the waiter. Looking out at the skyline and the lights below he wondered about his neighbor, Tilley McMillan. Sipping the last of his first Martini he purposefully allowed her name to roll softly off his tongue. Tilley. A smile accompanied his thoughts.

He imagined her face, her beautiful and sensuous hazel eyes. He wanted to phone her…to get to know her. His fears kept him from it. She still grieved for her deceased husband and everyone knew it. All the neighbors spoke of it. In his own defense, he’d made a pact with himself that he would, in no way, let her know his interests. After the devastating break-up with his fiancée he promised himself never to become entangled with another woman. He pledged only to go out with women for a temporary cause and would not get serious. He would allow himself a few flings for the sake of his manhood and no more. No, he thought. I won’t take a chance on Tilley McMillan.

James took the Martini from the waiter, handed him the credit card and used his long fingers to comb his thick hair to one side, pushing Tilley out of his mind. He considered that he should concentrate his desires on the woman at the bank that did everything to let him know of her interests except say take me.

After the waiter returned with his card he stood, sighed heavily and with one final swig finished his last drink. He pressed the button and awaited the opening of the gold-plated elevator door.

Tilley stepped from inside the house onto the wooden porch carefully checking for the bundle of keys in her pocket before she allowed the door to close behind her. She considered the night sky, the bright stars above and noticed how quiet the neighborhood seemed. She contemplated sitting on the porch but momentarily thought better of it, reminding herself that she needed to complete her to-do list for tomorrow before going to bed. Feeing drained from the day it took only seconds for her to change her mind again and without getting straight to her tasks, she took a seat on the swing.

Oh, what does it matter, she spoke aloud and made herself comfortable, pushing the swing back and forth with her anchored foot. It was hard to believe it had been three years since she last saw her loving husband. Soldier in Afghanistan, she often envisioned the day his corpse came off the plane, casket covered in Old Glory. Patriot or no, even now she found herself somewhat grief-stricken when the colors of red, white and blue were presented together in any form.

Deep in thought, feeling a slight bit of melancholy coming on, Tilley watched the evening stars to the west and noticed the gentle breeze on her cheek as she contemplatively mulled over past and present.

Even though the world would lead us to believe that we deserve pleasure in all that we do, life will always have its tragedies. I keep my eyes open for Zen moments and strive to maintain mindfulness, living in the moment, yet I also keep my mind clear to the fact that among the beauty there are threats. Beautiful, blue sky days give way to hurricanes. Honest, loving people reside among treacherous thieves. Gorgeous, perfumed flowers grow on stems with thorns. Magnificently flowing moss hangs from the trees begging to be touched, held, draped across a mantle and yet that same moss is infested with tiny, biting insects. Duality, this is life as I have come to know it.

Tilley found herself singing, I’ve looked at clouds from both sides, now. She stretched, yawned and giggled, announcing insightfully to herself, maybe work is getting to me.

Lost in her own thoughts, the noise of the tires on the gravel startled her. Her elderly next-door neighbor, arms full of groceries, climbed from her equally elderly mini-van and nodded in Tilley’s direction.

Hello Ms. Mathers Tilley smiled and stood, brushing a lock of dark hair from her face. Do you need help, Ms. Mathers? she asked, kindly.

No. Thank you, dear. I don’t have much… She smiled. "Lovely night, eh?

Ms. Mather’s spoke in her best Canadian accent. She had moved to the south for the hospitality as well as the climate change after the death of her husband. On some level, Tilley felt connected with her neighbor. Both were widowed, both had no men in their lives currently, both were responsible for taking care of themselves.

As if reading Tilley’s mind, Ms. Mathers noticed the stars and continued. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a romantic partner to enjoy nights like this with? She closed the car door with her knee.

Would you really like that? Tilley wondered if her neighbor’s question was rhetorical. Tilley crossed her arms over her bosom to ward off the chill of the night as well as Ms. Mather’s assumptions. I’m certainly not ready for that, Ms. Mathers.

Ms. Mathers laughed aloud. My goodness, Tilley, she giggled. When I think seriously about it I realize I had the best years with the man of my dreams…I am older now…I don’t need to bother with another one, her face beaming with enthusiasm as she spoke.

And I feel the same. Tilley smiled.

The subject conveniently changed. And, how’s Jake, dear? Ms. Mather’s referred to Tilley’s son. By now the neighbor was unlocking the side door of her house.

He is fine. Doing homework, I hope. Tilley looked up toward the window on the second level of her house. In fact, I need to check on him. She sighed, bringing their interaction to an end. Good night, Ms. Mathers. She waved to her neighbor. Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.

The old two-story house on Monterey Street had been the first home of Tilley’s adoptive, paternal grandparents. Wooden walls and floors squeaked with antiquity and the high ceilings made it difficult to warm in the winter. But for it being part of her inheritance she might have sold it long ago. As fortune would have it, her grandparents also left funds for her to keep the old house adequately refurbished when she found honest, skilled workers for the needed projects.

Tilley’s adoptive parents moved from the house when Tilley reached age nineteen. Grandfather Collins was the first in his family to receive a college education. He worked until retirement as the manager of the family owned business of boat building. He died of pneumonia at age 82, after a long bout with chemotherapy due to cancer. During the last three years of his life, Tilley’s mother cared for him and managed the household while Tilley’s father traveled, handling his import/export business. Nine months almost to the day after his death, Grandmother Collins, seemingly still in good health, died one night in her sleep. Not long after that Tilley’s parents moved to Bali, traveling the Pacific Islands and South America exporting hand crafted furniture and other specialty items around the world. Tilley missed her parents when they were away although she was pleased with their new-found freedom.

Tilley peered into her eleven- year- old son, Jake’s, room noticing that he was at his desk with his book open. He seemed to be doing exactly what she’d expected. She moved quietly to her own bedroom and gazed out the window noticing her neighbors’ homes. A mild feeling of security fell over her as she saw the lights across the street and the cars in the driveways. Peaceful and serene on this warm, hazy night Tilley McMillan thanked God for the roof over her head, for her son, her job and her parents as she recognized her life as one of abundance. She fell off to sleep with a smile on her face.

The next morning, as the sun’s heavy light plummeted through the window, Tilley realized she forgot to pull the shades. She tried to remain in bed, eyes closed but the alarm on her phone sang out to her. She pressed snooze and jerked the pillow over her head, striving to remind herself of the day and the needs at hand. Finally, she sat-up on the side of the bed, her soft cotton sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder.

After quickly brushing her teeth and hair she tottered into Jake’s room and rubbed his head. Time to get up, buddy… she told him, kissing his cheek.

Jake groaned. She kissed him again and sat on the bed beside him.

Mom, do I have to go to school? I don’t feel so good…

Come on, Jake…none of that now… She said. You need to get up.

As she walked toward the door she continued, I will be back in five.

The usual routine. She wakes Jake, gives him five minutes, comes back and reminds him. He gets up, reluctantly readies himself for school and shows up at the kitchen table prepared for cereal and toast. The school bus arrives in front of their house at 7:22 each morning.

Tilley, with her blue terry cloth robe snuggly around her and Jake with his books in hand, walked onto the porch as the bus rounded the corner.

Across the street James Riverton walked out his front door, dressed neatly in suit and tie. He nodded and waved. The brown leather brief case was tight in one hand while he opened the car door with the other. He seemed rushed.

Morning’ James! Jake shouted, waving enthusiastically.

Tilley nodded in his direction and slightly grinned. Both Tilley and Jake watched as James Riverton backed from his driveway just before the bus arrived.

I like Mr. James… Jake told his mom.

Yeah. I know… Tilley smiled and tussled his hair. I just hope you don’t get too attached, she thought.

Jake quickly kissed his mom’s cheek and ran to the bus.

I wonder how long it will be before he refuses to kiss his mother, Tilley wondered with regret. His father would be so proud of him. Oh, Jake, I know you miss your dad.

Tilley met Jake’s dad, Larry, while attending college at the University of South Alabama. Her intrigue with the sciences, most specifically psychology, lead to the decision she made to attend medical school. She studied through the undergrad courses with relative ease and only struggled once pre-med became her reality. Larry came to Mobile from Huntsville. His father was literally a rocket scientist, which left little doubt that Larry had the intelligence to become a doctor. The university’s medical school, along with its proximity to the beautiful beaches, encouraged his decision to attend in Mobile. Larry decided to go into the military as he continued with college. He joined the Marine Corp, aware that with his education he would easily move along as a high-ranking officer. He did not join as a full-time soldier. Rather, he spent weekdays in class and once per month as a weekend warrior.

It was during her undergrad class in abnormal psychology that Tilley first noticed the attentive, attractive, muscular man with a high and tight haircut and camouflage t-shirt sitting in front of her. When he spoke, his voice meandered through her whole being, betraying her ability to stay focused. It wasn’t long before he noticed the beautiful, hazel-eyed brunette sitting near him. Their first official date was dinner at the Blue Gill Restaurant followed by a walk on the Fairhope pier. Two years later, just before her dissertation, they were married in a small ceremony at Government Street Presbyterian Church. A year after that Jake was born. That same year Larry completed college, Tilley began practicing psychiatry as part of a team in the local psychiatric hospital, and in an awful act of terrorism two planes flew into the Twin Tours in New York City.

Chapter 3

The steam from the night fire continued into the morning. Each day, once she awoke and moved around, the old woman stoked the fire to keep it going. That morning she gathered her spare pieces of clothing and washed them in the bay as she often did once they began to smell. She scrubbed them using a lathering bar of soap she had bartered from the last runner that passed through. As she worked she spouted off some inexplicable expressions. The woman grabbed a handful of moss and tucked it into the small, round basket which was woven from dried vines. It made a nice nest. She picked-up a young osprey and placed the bird in the new nest. The young osprey cawed with an intense, shrill scream. Myths developed through gossip stated that mother birds won’t respond if a human being touches her young. The woman knew this to be false.

She heaved a breath of weariness as she paddled the small boat out, crossing to the wetlands on the opposite side, wondering how she could get the home-made nest up high enough for the parent birds to notice their little one. Osprey usually built their nests on the tops of tall, tattered pines or towering posts. She was tired.

Striking the paddle to the ground to beat off a large, mean-looking insect reminded her that it was nearly time to check the webs. After completing her mission and successfully leaving the young bird just below the parent’s nest, she paddled back toward her shack on the small island. Sometimes, when the water was slick and shallow, she chanced standing and used a long pole made from a limb to push the old pirogue along.

In the bushes near her camp, under the roof of what was once a boat shed built by hunters, the webs were continually fascinating to watch. The spiders, some rather large, worked steadily to create a mesmerizing labyrinth of stringy silk that brought various insects into their snare. She was often amazed at the strength of the webs, considering the size of the creatures that made them. Many abandoned webs were filled with dried insect carcasses. The woman liked to watch as the female black widows mated and then ate their chums. Red bellies against the black bodies were indicative of the widow. The large, yellow and brown golden orbs, sometimes referred to as banana spiders, bounced up and down, weaving zig zags into their webs, when threatened. She used the insect carcasses for a potion to increase healing of scrapes and wounds.

The woman struggled to pull the vines away as she stepped toward the caster bean bush. She gathered the berries, placing them by hands full in the old metal can used as the container. Although the plant could be toxic to humans, the oil extract from the berries-in small amounts-would increase digestion and decrease the bloating she occasionally felt in her stomach. Behind the strong and large caster bean bushes, among the other weeds and vines, were the similar looking cannabis bushes the runners told her to watch. They once showed her how to dry the leaves and roll them into some thin paper for smoking. She still did it sometimes, but smoking the weed seemed to make the mind monsters appear more often. She didn’t like the mind monsters. They talked to her and gave her scary thoughts.

As the runners told her to do, she checked their bushes and made special potions to keep the bugs and other animals away from them. The runners liked that. They promised that if she helped they would bring her goods from the mainland. The runners also expected her to tell them anytime strangers came around -- especially if the strangers had words written on their clothes. Some of the runners she trusted. Others were mean and brought back memories of the one called Slash. She thought of him, tall and large, tattoos of eagles and knives on his white skinned arms. She remembered the red hair across his bare chest, the black bandana covering his hairless scalp… and his deep-set eyes of scornful blue.

She was a young woman then, still a teen. Her father left that morning. He was out hunting for wild boar in the wooded area north of the delta. Slash and the others arrived mid-day in their cabined outboard. Slash came ashore, first.

Where ya old man? Slash called out, as Cleo looked up from the pot of boiling crab.

Tain’t here, she told him. Won’t be back fer awhile

Where he at? Slash spit tobacco to the ground.

He gone up the big woods. Huntin’ pig… she did not move from her squatted position, her long skirt dragging the ground.

She was a pretty, young woman, then. Shapely and statuesque, her olive complexion was deepened by sun exposure. Her high cheek bones accentuated her large, gold-flecked eyes which were encircled by long, dark lashes. Sleek ebony hair flowed down her back.

Slash motioned for the other two men to stay back. They returned to the boat.

He walked over to her. Stand up! He commanded.

Cleo looked at him, her hand still on the stick that stirred the crabs as they gradually ceased movement and changed from blue to red.

Slowly, she stood, having no reason to do otherwise.

He stepped forward and grabbed her long hair, pulling her head back.

Yo daddy been telling the police we come through here?

She gazed into the depth of his blue eyes for seconds. Impulsively, feeling angry and scared, she spit. The spit landed on his shoulder as she stepped hard on his toes, trying to push him away. The following several minutes became a blur in her mind. What she recalled next was lying on the sand, her skirt around her neck and his smelly, sweating body on top of her. There seemed to be a piercing knife between her legs, running straight up through her insides, as his torso slammed against her, over and over. She tried to scream! He covered her mouth with one hand as he pulled her from the bottom so that the knife inside her felt even stronger. Suddenly, he raised his head and moaned, showing teeth that were yellow and rotten. She no longer felt the knife inside. She lay there, limp, staring into the gray sky as though dead. He stood, buckling his belt and turned from the scene. She faintly heard the men murmuring and laughing as they started the boat engines and pulled away from the shore. Is she dead? No, I don’t think so…. Ole, Slash, got’ ’em soma that skank!?

When her father returned, she was motionless, in the same position. Her skirt still up around her neck, her glassy eyes still glaring, blood and semen oozing from between her legs. Her father knelt beside her and cried.

Shaking her head to remove the mournful memories, the old woman grabbed a handful of the berries and winced as the vine scraped across her arm. She carefully added them to the pouch. She had most of the necessary ingredients, now.

James completed the workday early enough to go to the gym for a work out. He liked to go to the gym when possible but lately he only made it a couple of times per week. When he couldn’t work out, he rode his bike or managed a swim in the pool. This day, he ran into his pal Gregory and they joined in a game of racket ball before showering.

Hey, you going to the ball this year?

Maybe James answered, as the two of them sipped water to replenish themselves. Haven’t decided.

Yeah, I thought that since you and Amy broke up you might stay away to avoid seeing her.

I’m not scared of running into her, James offered, knowing that he’d rather not see her again in his life, had he a choice. Besides, its months until Mardi Gras.

"Yeah, awhile away.