“Oh, my God!” was Sylvie’s response to this ludicrous discussion. Sylvie was not yet used to the way Tante Lulu’s mind worked or to his aunt’s obsession with finding him a bride. Her next words were proof that she was searching for some way to steer the discussion away from herself and his aunt’s misconception about their marriage plans. “Why are there so many St. Jude statues and night-lights and candle holders here, and… was that a St. Jude toothbrush I saw in the bathroom?”
Luc would have been embarrassed if he weren’t three light years beyond embarrassment.
“You know who St. Jude is, donthcha?” Tante Lulu asked Sylvie.
“The patron saint of hopeless cases?” Sylvie offered tentatively.
“Yep,” Tante Lulu responded. Then she and Sylvie both turned to look at him.
“Enough said,” Sylvie stated with a soft laugh.
“This one,” Tante Lulu remarked, jerking her head toward him, “he is in bad need of a good woman. Has been for a looong time.”
Sylvie made a gurgling sound deep in her throat… speechless at the prospect that she might be called upon to be the “good woman.” He would have laughed if he didn’t feel like crying.
Okay, the foolishness ends now. Time to be a man and take control of this madness. He stood abruptly and walked into the living room, insisting, “We’ve wasted enough time. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Uh-oh!” Tante Lulu exclaimed. She was peeking around the drapes of his front window, staring down at the street. Clucking her tongue in a tsk-ing sound, she added, “Bad business, this!”
“What now?” he asked, stomping over.
Two thugs were ransacking his jeep, searching for God knows what. Pollution reports? Chemical formulas? Jelly beans? Happy Meal rats?
“We’d better take my car,” Tante Lulu suggested quickly, nudging Luc away from the window. “Hurry up, boy. Why you dawdling here when danger is standing right outside your window?”
Me dawdling? Me? Luc gaped at his aunt for a moment before springing into action.
Is this how The Fugitive felt when on the lam?
No, he immediately answered himself. This is how Thelma and Louise felt before going off the cliff.
A short time later, they were barreling down Highway 90 in a twenty-year-old purple Chevy Impala. Tante Lulu was driving, her head barely topping the level of the steering wheel, even as she sat on two cushions. Beside her sat the Happy Meal rats, who were rustling their wax paper in some activity. He and Sylvie were in the backseat, hanging on for their lives… pistol and briefcase in their respective hands.
Horns were honking and brakes squealing as his aunt switched lanes with abandon, never using a turn signal. Houma was called the Venice of America with good reason. It had numerous bayous and bridges fanning out like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. He could swear his aunt hit every one of them.
The getaway car—God, didn’t that conjure up some images!—left downtown Houma on 90 West, then cut a right onto LA 311, over Little Bayou Black, past the State Sugarcane Experimental Station and Southdown Plantation. The latter’s green and pink colors blended into a putrid blur as his aunt tried her best to break the speed of sound.
Eventually they crossed Big Bayou Black bridge and were on 90 West again, following the Old Spanish Trail, which hugged the bayous and cut through the swamps. This was probably the oldest route from Texas to New Orleans. In fact, cowboys used to drive cattle across these very streams, the men latching onto swimming horses’ tails. Right now, Luc would much prefer riding a horse’s ass—rather, tail—than his aunt’s insane driving.
Luc had been involved in some dumb things in his life. This was the worst.
If the hair-raising ride down the narrow bayou roads wasn’t bad enough, Tante Lulu was tossing out love counsel to him, like a regular Dr. Ruth with bullets of advice:
“Treat her nice, Luc. Women like men with couth. Best you pull out all your couth. No scratching or crude swear words or nothin’. And you, young lady, best you treat my Luc proper, too.”
Sylvie giggled nervously.