Landlocked (A water witch novel) by C.S. Moore Page B

side of the lobby a little black girl of about seven was grinning at me, her smile was missing a few teeth. Her hair was done in tight braids with little pink scrunchies tying the ends. I smiled at her. She pointed behind me and I glance over my shoulder, wondering what she wanted me to see. Then I realized that she was about the age I was when I had been captivated by the tanks.
    “They’re pretty cool, huh?” I said.
    She nodded. I looked at Sylvia to see if she had seen the cutie, but she was watching Dylan impatiently. She must have been hungry.
    “Look, Mama,” the little girl said.
    The girl‘s mother followed the direction her daughter’s finger was pointing and tilted her head to the side. “Well I’ll be.”
    Dylan was glancing at his cell phone. “It’s going to be about ten minutes,” he said before freezing in place.
    “The fishies really like her, huh, Mama?” the girl said.
    Sylvia turned around and gasped. I glanced at what was causing the fuss. Every fish in the tank was right behind me, staring out at me while floating in a strange melting pot of a school. I jumped back and they followed my movements as one, keeping their eyes on me. “What the heck?”
    Sylvia took me by the elbow to the hostess. “We are in a hurry and would like a table now please,” Sylvia said quickly and slid the girl a fifty.
    The young woman looked shocked momentarily, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she saw the fishes’ interest in me or if she had never been bribed that much for a table. Whatever the reason, she shook it off. “Of course, right this way.”
    “Dylan!” Sylvia called. He was still frozen in front of the bench we had occupied.
    “Oh, I’m coming,” he said and turned to follow.
    We wound our way through the place and the inhabitants of each fish tank we passed would follow alongside me, and I wondered if someone had inadvertently thrown fish pheromones on me. The hostess stopped at a booth against a wall that had a curtain wrapped around it. We slid into our seats, and I was glad to be out of sight.
    “Your waitress will be with you shortly,” she said.
    “Wait,” Dylan interjected. “If Cala’s in, we’d love for her stop by the table.” The waitress’s eyes grew wide and she nodded once and walked away, closing the curtain behind her.
    “Well, I'm starving!” Sylvia chimed, donning a winning smile.
    “What? Are you really going to pretend that nothing happened? Out there in the lobby, that was weird.”
    Dylan opened his mouth to speak but the curtain parted before he could say anything. A portly black woman in long flowing robes stepped into the booth. Her knuckles were knobby and swollen with arthritis and every finger bore a shiny ring that I was sure she hadn’t been able to remove in years. Her face was so wrinkled I thought it was a miracle she could see out of her drooping eyes. She looked warm and kind, but I was annoyed at her for interrupting. Between them freaking out about a simple dream, whispering about voodoo Sunday morning, and now trying to prevent me from noticing the strange fish phenomenon, one thing was for sure—my aunt and uncle had been keeping something from me and it was about time we talked.
    “Oh, Dylan and Sylvia, how great it is to see you!” she bellowed in a strong voice. “And look at the child! My, she is grown. The first time I laid eyes on you, you was knee high to a crawfish. That is, you would have been if crawfish had knees, which they don’t.”
    “Cala, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Sylvia smiled up at her.
    “You sure? Usually people say I’m a sight that makes eyes sore!” She barked a hearty laugh. “Oh, honey child, I love that one. So what bring you darling people to the bayou?” Her voice carried a thick Cajun accent.
    “We're just on our way to the lake. We haven’t been since after Maribel’s seventeenth birthday, that was last year around this time.” Dylan said in an odd voice.
    The woman stepped back and