Residue by Laury Falter Read Free Book Online Page B

when suddenly, and with deep intrigue, he launched into a series of questions, all focusing on me. From that point forward, until we reached Mr. Thibodeaux’s door, I felt as if I were rattling off answers to questions so rapidly I couldn’t recall the one I’d answered directly before. What I did recall, or rather what struck me, about his list of questions was that he didn’t ask a single one about my family. Nothing about siblings or who I lived with in New Orleans; nothing about my mother or father. He did listen intently, though, seeming to memorize every answer and showing little emotion to any of them.
    I’d never been self-conscious before. It simply wasn’t in my nature. At an academy assembly, I’d demonstrated my self-defense skills in front of two hundred girls and the entire faculty without breaking a sweat. I’d delivered a thank you address during Parent’s Weekend to several hundred attendees and didn’t stutter or stumble once. When my skirt unraveled in front of the boys at their academy during a school-sanctioned dance, I simply slid it back over my hips, zipped up, and continued moving to the music.
    Yet, I felt self-conscious now. This passed quickly enough though when he came to a stop.
    “ We’re here,” he announced because again there was no way to tell there was a store within.
    “ Do any of these places have a sign?” I asked; searching for one in case I’d missed it.
    “ No, you’ll never see one,” he replied flatly. “We keep our world fairly well hidden.”
    Our world, I mused. I still had little understanding of the world he was referring to and wasn’t entirely certain I wanted to be a part of it. It still seemed like a dream-state, a childhood nursery story, something unreal and untouchable. Yet, by birthright alone, I was clearly invited in.
    He pulled at a set of wide, wooden doors, opening them to reveal the entrance to what was once a carriageway. The secluded cobblestone entrance was encircled on three sides with faded peach stucco walls, windows opened to the fresh afternoon air, and vines clinging to the clay roof.
    “ The Thibodeaux family runs one of the oldest shops in the city…at least for the items we’re looking for,” explained Jameson as we approached a small, inconspicuous door. “They are well respected and have an enormous amount of influence - in our world.”
    There were those words again. They hung in the air between us, mystical to me, common to him.
    Jameson knocked lightly on the door and then stepped back several steps, which seemed odd to me until a few moments later.
    The door slowly crept open, outward and directly over where Jameson had been standing. Now I understood why he’d given it clearance. What wasn’t obvious to me was how the door could open without anyone touching it.
    No one had answered Jameson’s knock, at least not in person.
    I approached the entrance as Jameson entered, a little suspicious of what I’d find inside.
    From the light of flickering candles, an elderly man sat at a weathered table, his legs extending out and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped across his round belly. While there were no visible signs of an air conditioning unit or even a fan, the air inside was cool and dry. The humidity seemed to halt at the doorway.
    Jameson was already speaking with the man in a hushed voice when I reached the table.
    “… and Mr. Thibodeaux, I would like to introduce Jocelyn Weatherford,” Jameson stated solidly while ushering me closer.
    In hearing my name, the man’s eyes lit up and then moved, questioningly, between Jameson and myself several times before he even uttered a sound.
    Finally, he stood and extended a hand to me. “Ms. Weatherford…” he said with an accent that could only come from living in the south for most of one’s life.
    “ Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thibodeaux,” I replied, shaking his hand, noting its softness despite the man’s age.
    “ As it is for me,” he replied with a