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When Will first met him, he was working on his motorcycle. Which, in retrospect, should have been his first sign. But, like all things, Will had to learn slowly what these moments meant. Their importance couldn’t be fleshed out as easily as others. That was another sign that something was different.
Will was already half beaten down with the tacky stickiness of sweat that came with summer and it had barely even started. Will wasn’t much for the heat, never could stand it since he already ran warm. It didn’t help that the damned A/C in Edie’s Diner hadn’t worked for about three years now. Will tried not to complain too much amongst the smell of fried gator, french fries, and green tomatoes, but it still got to him.
It all really started when Beverly came into work more chipper in her step than Will liked to witness. He loved her, really, she was like the annoying sister he never had—but she was a damned cheerful thing in the summer. The heat didn’t bother her, she enjoyed the promise of a golden tan, her Louisiana roots were less harsh than Will’s own. She hadn’t grown up with the backhand of a grieving father and the Creole superstition hanging over her head. He had, monumentally, and he still dreaded Sundays even if he and his daddy barely made it out to church anymore.
“Got new neighbors movin’ in the old Beaumont place.” Bev began, dark hair stuck under the stained cap of their uniform. Her cheeks already adopted the dusty tan of summer, which brought out her freckles even more. She even looked better in the uniform than he did; the pinstriped nightmare more form-fitting on her as she tied her apron around her waist.
“The ol’ Beaumont place is damn near about to cave in on itself, who's stupid enough to buy that?” Will raised a brow, and Bev shrugged.
“Johanna Beth said her daddy sold it to some real rich folk, deep deep pockets Willie.” Bev motioned as if to emphasize the extent of the wealth, puffing her cheeks out wildly.
“Johanna Beth’s a compulsive liar, she said she saw you kissin’ Colter Banks last summer when I know for a fact you ain’t kissed a boy since fifth grade.” Will pointed out.
“Aw, you reminiscing Willie boy?” Bev leaned against him, exaggeratingly batting her lashes and puckering her lips. Will shoved her softly.
“Shut up, ain’t nobody wanna kiss you, Beverly Katz.” Will stuck his tongue out with a chuckle. Bev broke away laughing, her usual light attitude a welcome reprieve in the heat.
“Either way, don’t matter cause it wasn’t only Johanna Beth, Hudson said it too, and he ain’t lied a lick since he was in the second grade.”
Will rolled his eyes and continued his work preparing the tables. The tacky red leather was too far gone to save, but he still tried. The peeling linoleum at the corners of the tables was peeled back enough to expose the cork underneath. It wouldn’t get replaced anytime soon, Will knew that--they all did. It’s just well loved, Old Terry would say, before he flipped another burger and rang that damned bell. It wasn’t as if the sopping wet rag was helping either, the poor thing was practically fibers at this point, but ain’t nothing gonna change, Will knew that too. Not even a new set of damned rags. Every morning was the same, setting up the tables like a Rubik's cube until it all matched. Napkin holder in the back, menus in the middle, and salt and pepper on the left side. Bev usually filled up the mustard and ketchup bottles when she came in, and Will distributed them out onto the right before they opened at 8 am. And if they were lucky, they’d both catch a small smoke break before going nonstop until the breakfast rush was over.
“I don’t care who said it, Bev, ain’t nobody buyin’ that old shithole.” Will shoved the bin of empty bottles towards Bev and tilted his head to the counter with the commercial-size jugs of condiments. Bev groaned and headed over.
“You just don’t want new neighbors, wanna be all alone on your porch drinkin’ sweet tea like my grandma.” Bev teased.
“Hey, don’t tease Gramma Katz, me and her gotta bingo date on Friday.” Will winked, and Bev let out one of the laughs that Will adored. The kind that had her throwing her head back and cheesing like a kid on Christmas.
“You’d be so lucky, Graham.” Bev tossed a ketchup bottle to Will, and he nearly dropped it with a scowl.
The duo fell into comfortable silence after that. Bev turned on the radio, the sounds of western music swimming through the air enough to soothe the dull ache Will was already feeling. By 7:30, they were finished and headed out back for their usual smoke break. Mama Edie would be here soon for opening and to make sure everything was in order. She was a kind, older woman with a no-nonsense way about her that Will appreciated. He and Bev had worked for her since they were fourteen, washing dishes for extra cash. And she always kept an extra plate of food warm for Will before he went home, never saying a word about it.
Bev took out the crumbled pack of Marlboros from her bag and dug out a lighter. The sun was fully over the horizon by now and shining brightly over the small town. The willows brushed in the breeze, sending little light fractures within Will’s vision. It smelled like breakfast; meal prep practically done by now. Despite Will’s longing to leave this place as a whole—in this moment it was oddly soothing.
“You really think someone bought the Beaumont place?” Will asked as the first puffs of nicotine hit his twitching fingers.
“That’s what everyone’s sayin’.”
“Last thing we need is some hotshot rich folk comin’ in here and shakin’ things up.” Will grumbled as he handed Bev the cigarette.
“God, Graham, you really are an old man. Look, it could be fun! What if they got kids our age, huh? Could get your nice ass cruisin’ in a nice car and not your shitty truck.” Bev slapped his butt and let out a giggle as Will turned to her with a scowl.
“I’m just teasin’ ya, now chill out. Come on, time to open.” Bev nodded, as she snubbed the cigarette on the ground. And sure enough, it was 8 am on the dot when they walked back in. Will sighed, unlocking the doors as the morning rush poured in at the promise of a good breakfast and halfway decent service.
______________
Hannibal wasn’t at all sure why his uncle chose this particular part of Louisiana, but he wasn’t one to complain. Their move to America was an abrupt one. Primarily born of the need for a change of scenery, Lady Murasaki’s demands to move from their home. There had been too many truths spoken to the quiet dark, too many bad things echoing in those halls. Hannibal understood, he had been a part of it after all. He didn’t particularly regret what he did, he never would. It was justice in the highest form, it was revenge for the innocence, and he would gladly reap his wrath again. But he also understood Murasaki could no longer be around him in the same way. Not even distantly. She avoided him altogether. This, too, he understood.
Robertus had begun renovations on a property he purchased a few weeks prior, more restorations than anything. The place was old, an 18th-century farmhouse that hadn’t been inhabited for over three decades. The pictures Robertus had shown him and Chiyoh displayed the slightly peeling paint and overgrown gardens, but it had an unspeakable charm to it. There was that touch of southern patriotism to its strong foundations that had Hannibal, at the very least, excited to draw it. Its seclusion was an additional perk as well, settled at the center of ten acres of good, flourishing land right on the edge of the bayou. Hannibal had done research on the area, the climate, and the culture. It seemed a quiet, small, and insignificant town, the classical picture of Americana. It would certainly be an adjustment from their previous status at the French Villa they called home, but not necessarily a bad one. He and Chiyoh had gone shopping for appropriate clothing to accommodate their new home, more simplistic pieces in light linens.
Hannibal had recently forgone his more posh, upscale attire in favor of form-fitting shirts and riding leathers. He’d particularly enjoyed the eye twitch his uncle wore the week following Hannibal getting his ears pierced. He’d refused to take out the twin gold hoops ever since, even letting his hair grow longer, curling at the ends. If Chiyoh disapproved, she never said anything, only the occasional comment about his worn leather coat and the heat.
He was thankful, at the very least, to still have her favor.
When they’d finally moved to the “Beaumont Estate”, as Hannibal was told it was called, he was pleasantly surprised to find the town wasn’t a complete wasteland. He and Chiyoh were in their own vehicle, a car that Robertus and Murasaki had purchased and held for them at the airport, while the moving trucks were far ahead and already unpacking at the estate.
Willowmarch, Louisiana, was a town populated with barely a thousand people situated at the edge of a collection of wildlands and bayou. Comprising of mostly farmland and fishing docks, the town had a quaint– if not exceedingly lovely–array of shops and restaurants on its portside. There were several trailer parks and small scattered neighborhoods of ranches and dilapidated homes, scrap yards, and boat docks that made the whole place feel gothically preserved. Hannibal spotted a few folk medicine shops beside a grand and shining Baptist Church. The animal bone, dreamcatchers, and wooden crosses–new and old superstitions shaking hands. Hannibal found the whole ordeal fascinating.
“This town seems to be at war with itself, can’t seem to decide which god to worship.” Hannibal commented, digging into his leather bag for his pack of cigarettes. Another habit he’d picked up in France, although it was hardly in line with his rebellious streak–if anything, it was a dull commonality.
“Or if it's a god they’re worshipping at all.” Chiyoh replied and pointed to a tired porch covered in shotguns and hunting rifles. Adjacent was an older man field dressing a deer, upheld by a hookline. Hannibal smirked.
“This will be an interesting chapter, if only for a while.”
“Still planning on going back?” Chiyoh frowned, Hannibal raising a thoughtful brow before taking a drag from his cigarette.
“I doubt the schooling here will keep me entertained, do you disagree?” Hannibal looked at his cousin. Her jet black hair was in a singular braid to keep from her face, a slight rosiness to her cheeks that spoke of the first signs of warmth. She was frightfully beautiful and probably, entirely, his only friend.
“I think it takes a lot to keep you entertained, cousin.” Chiyoh spoke plainly, as she always did, and Hannibal hummed. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and took another drag. Their silence was a thoughtful one, both taking in what would be their new home. Both surveying where they could possibly find work.
Robertus had decided before their arrival that the two would be living off an allowance, Hannibal especially, and would need to find work if they wished for any supplementary income. Hannibal saw the fairness in it, fostering work ethic and socialization, but that didn’t mean he was fond of it. He wasn’t exactly overly spending the money he had in France, but he was a bit bereft to know he’d have to budget more closely now. Especially if he wanted to upkeep his most prized possession when it arrived next week.
“I’m going to go out tomorrow, see who is hiring.” It was an invitation, Chiyoh rarely spoke without purpose.
“I’ll join you.” Hannibal agreed, happy to explore the town simultaneously. Perhaps put out a few feelers for the culture in the area, see where, if anywhere, the arts thrived.
Rolling up to the estate was an anticlimactic affair, although it did look different than the initial photo they saw. It was cleaner, freshly painted, and patched. New windows filled each pane, a stained glass door now replaced the old one. The rounded porch was decorated with lights and furniture, including small tea tables for the mornings. The garden was freshly mulched, a wide array of flowers making up its plot. The home was large, Hannibal could tell from the outside. Perhaps even on par with their villa. It had a classical beauty about it, surrounded by weeping willows and open expanse until the tree line in the distance.
The long driveway leading up came abruptly and with little warning, the only sign anyone lived there was the newly built mailbox. It shone with a violent shade of purple that Hannibal knew his uncle had no part in picking out.
“I like it.” Hannibal decided as Chiyoh parked the car.
“I do too.” Chiyoh smiled softly, a twitch of her perpetually serious expression, and the pair got out of the car.
It was clear their guardians had already gone inside, likely to escape the heat, so they made their way up the dirt driveway. Hannibal’s leather boots dug into the soil with a newfound fondness for the difference in terrain, natural in the way France’s streets were man made. Small tufts of dust were flying beneath his gait. He carried his jacket in his hand, his black t-shirt already sticking to the tanned skin of his chest. The heat was different, humid, and unrelenting. But, it wasn’t necessarily bad, it was better than the cold. And by his research, winters here were a passing thought rather than a warning bell.
That was perhaps why he liked Louisiana the most.
Hannibal spun around and surveyed the land surrounding them, eyes catching a small ranch in the distance. Not too far from them, across the main road and down an equally dirt-covered driveway. Even from where he was standing, he could tell the place was more lived in, more homely. Lawn ornaments, stray projects, and a “Beware of Dog” sign. Chipped paint, homemade porch furniture, open windows, and sheets as curtains. There was a tugboat parked by the side yard, alongside a sunken shed that still seemed to be in use. It was charming, the kind of place his Uncle would hate. The kind of place Hannibal would love. He made a mental note to find out who lived there before turning around and heading inside.
For all the outside promised, the inside was quite obviously well-loved. It bore its original crown molding and trim throughout the home. Dark oak hardwood flooring was freshly polished and waxed to prepare for their arrival. Lightly colored furniture, creams, and soft shades of neutral browns and greens made up the color scheme. The living room was large, holding two love seats and two larger couches for company. An adjoining tea room with floor tables and cushions, already decorated with a delicate tea set, Hannibal recognized. The kitchen was freshly remodeled and had several appliances Hannibal was interested in trying once he found the time. Linen curtains allowed for the natural sunlight to bask into each space like a warm embrace, insulation keeping the heat out. A dining area, an office for his uncle, and a music and arts room for him and Chiyoh. The baby grand piano and Chiyoh’s violin were already in place amongst the other instruments. A sunroom led to a lovely painting area where Hannibal was sure he’d spend a great deal of time.
Upstairs was much the same, if not slightly more customized to each person. The oak staircase led up to a split balcony hallway with several more doors than the house's current inhabitants. Robertus had already told them their bedroom locations, and Hannibal was glad to find he and Chiyoh were near enough to one another that they shared a balcony. It would be nice on the harder nights, perhaps an unspoken agreement between them to be found there. As it had in France.
Hannibal’s room was decently sized and fitted to his needs and interests. A full-sized bed with sleek bedding that matched the dark oak furniture in the room. An armoire was already full of his clothing, the writing desk stocked with his mediums of choice. There was an odd, if not mesmerizing, wallpaper on one wall that had different shades of crimson flowers printed upon it. It matched the overall burgundy scheme that either his uncle or Murasaki had chosen for him. He laid a delicate hand on the writing desk, seeing the stack of pencils and the new typewriter. The radio in the corner, his bin of cassettes already organized beside his vinyl collection. He tossed his leather jacket on the bed and bent down, quickly finding what he was looking for and laying it routinely on the large record player at the foot of his bed.
As the music picked up, Hannibal opened his windows and let the summer air in. Finding, with delight, that he had the perfect view of their neighbor's home. And with an even more delighted smile, he saw a red pickup truck pull into the driveway, the echoing sounds of the region's radio station in the air. Hannibal quickly turned his own music down and focused on the truck. He waited a moment, curious to see who would step out. A tired old man? A family? A single mother? Possibilities played in his mind until the truck shut off and the driver stepped out.
It was a boy. A boy wearing an ill-fitting uniform shirt over dark-wash jeans. He leaned against his truck, dug in his pocket, before lighting a cigarette. He was too far to see any features, he was more a figure in the distance than anything, but it was enough. It was enough to spark Hannibal’s curiosity. And once again, he found himself wanting to know who exactly lived in that home. As Hannibal went to turn away, something flickered through the air, zapping him directly as the boy looked up and seemingly directly at him. Pausing a moment, just looking, before throwing his cigarette to the ground and going inside.
Hannibal smiled.
__________________
Will didn’t hate where he lived, not in the way other people hated Willowmarch. He knew he had several generations of blood here, and most of it wasn’t washing away anytime soon. Most everyone had been weird since his Mama left, keeping their distance and claiming some sort of curse. Stupid superstition was all it was, Will knew, but it didn’t stop everyone from acting like they didn’t know which way the sun shone. He knew he’d been a hard kid to have, and didn't blame his Daddy for picking up a habit or two to cope. Will didn’t have a way to cope himself back then, he was prone to meltdowns and fits that had his Daddy hollering something awful until he shut up. Will cried a lot back then, over most everything. Had a weird thing about roadkill and hunting no one could shake from him. Had a collection of bones and skulls he’d kept because he was too sorry the poor things had died to begin with. Everyone said it wasn’t natural, and maybe it wasn’t, but Will didn’t quit.
Church had been the worst of it, curled up on himself as the hands of the congregation prayed over him. Everyone thought he had the devil in him in those days, now they knew he just was broken in a way no little red man with a pitchfork could have done. He might have died from the horror of it, the cycle of it all, if it wasn’t for Beverly. If it wasn’t for his fishing trips and the occasional swim down at the watering holes. Because for all the awfulness of the people of Willowmarch, there was a damn near paradisiacal aspect to the place. Idealistic, if not slightly dead, in the way rot sticks to the air like a perfume. Wet wood and screaming creatures in the night, symphonies of home in a way only he understood. Death is a cycle of beauty rather than finality.
He never said these things out loud, if he did, his Daddy would just look at him. Stare real hard like he was trying to find the fissure in Will's DNA. Sometimes he said nothing, would just go back to the TV and his beer and block it all out. Other times, Beau would squint. Squint and tilt his head and purse his lips, hissing his teeth in sharply and click his tongue before saying vehemently—like it really was a curse:
“You’re just like your damn Mama. Speaking of death and the devil like it was a damn apple fuckin’ pie.”
Will wasn’t sure which version he preferred. He knew he looked like his Mama, heard it enough from locals to know he’d gotten her face almost entirely. Will also knew that’s why his Daddy couldn’t really stand to look at him. That and the other thing. The thing that made Will still not worth keeping closer than a ten-foot pole. Made him see people and know people in a way that fostered discomfort. Well, besides Bev. She called it his ‘Magic Trick’ and was never too bothered when he read her like the Sunday paper. She seemed glad for it most days, being known was nice. Not having to say everything was nice .
Will only hoped one day he’d feel what it felt like too, at least a little.
Will sighed and kicked open the door to his house and beelined for his bedroom. He had a few hours before his Daddy stumbled home and a few more hours before he went down to help the church set up for Bingo tomorrow. He was supposed to be meeting Bev there sometime around seven. He’d have to eat at some point, maybe he could convince Edie to save him a plate after the dinner rush.
“Will? Willie, that you boy?”
Will was startled from his thoughts at the booming sound of his father's voice. He frowned, tensed before checking his watch.
“Daddy? Didn’t know you were gon’ be home this early.” Will rounded the corner of the hallway to the living room.
Beau Graham was a man that at one point in his life was probably pretty damn handsome. Dark hair and hazel eyes, a slender frame that spoke of muscle, and a height that towered over many. Will had seen old pictures of his parents, he knew Beau had to be a charmer. Used that charm to nab his Mama, who was a ‘spitfire’ according to Miss Katz. But when the fire left, Beau left with her. Leaving Will with…well, whatever Beau was now. Whatever Beau learned to be in between deciding to be a father and getting a handle on Will. Whatever part of him figured out if he was broken, Will would be too. Finding the precise way to crack him down to do so and get away with it.
Beau was sitting in one of the two wrinkled and peeling cotton loungers in the living room, a food tray in front of him and a beer already warming in his palm. The windows were open, probably to help with the heat, but no A/C was still no A/C. But Will didn’t say anything. The TV was flickering the image of some Tombstone rerun, and the whole portrait of the place gave Will an awful sense of melancholy that made his chest ache. Like his body knew something he didn’t yet, and he hated that. It never meant anything good.
“Finished up at the docks early, fish weren’t bitin’ and the damn nets were fuckin’ fallin’ apart. I fuckin’ told Frank we needed to get new ones, but ain’t nobody listen’ when I speak, so now we gotta wait even longer. Don’t help that Brooke’s out with her baby meanin’ half the shit don’t get ordered on time.” Beau rambled as he often did, brain half caught in a story in a way that he never could grasp. Like things were strangely a step away from him, oddly hazy like a child’s memory.
“If you need extra help at the docks, I can swing by.” Will offered, and Beau shook his head.
“Last thing I need is worrying about your dumbass getting caught in a fuckin’ boat engine or some shit. You stay at the diner.”
Will rolled his eyes but stayed quiet as his Dad once again reclined in his chair, where he would likely remain the rest of the night. Will eyed the already growing pile of bottles and stale boxes of food with hatred. He sulked over and threw them in a spare garbage bag that was already within reach but seemingly too far for Beau to bother.
“Place smells like shit.” Will mumbled, and Beau whipped towards him, eyes like venom.
“What did you say?”
“Nothin’. We got new neighbors. Moved in today,” Will decided, and Beau huffed spitefully.
“Rich folk. Loud ass cars come speeding through the streets like they fuckin’ own the place. Beaumont don’t even look like Beaumont no more.”
Will frowned and looked out the window at the restored estate.
“I think it looks nice. Bev said Johanna Beth’s dad sold it to some nice people from France.”
“I don’t give a shit what that Katz girl said, nice or not. Listen, Will, those people’ll spit on ya given the chance. So, don’t give ‘em the damn chance.” Beau pointed at him fiercely and gravely with an expression he wore very little. It was slightly sobering.
“Alright, Daddy, I won’t,” Will promised and rubbed his eyes, “Look, I gotta go to help at the church in an hour, imma head out early. Grab somethin’ from the diner.” Will wrapped up the garbage bag and didn’t wait for his father’s inevitable comments.
He didn’t hate it here, he really didn’t, it was the people he hated. Will couldn’t wait to get the hell out. He’d be 20 come next Fall, and by then, he’d have enough money to pay whatever was needed to hop in his truck and drive until he couldn’t anymore. Be something, somewhere that wasn’t here. Be someone that wasn’t Will fucking Graham from Willowmarch, Lousiana.