Bayou Recompense

I found this in my collection and realized it had been inadvertently deleted from the site and it was not my intention to take it down. I had fun writing it and it allowed me to revisit some old stompiong grounds which still tug hard at the sleeves.

A jambalaya pot of bayou experiences...

I could still taste the sweetness of the early satsumas as I tossed the peels onto the surface of the perfectly polished coffee table; a wine stem half empty of its French Bordeaux on the table before me. For whatever reason her words rattled around in my brain for a few moments looking for some safe space on the recesses of the cerebral cortex to bring some measure of clarity to whatever she was intending to tell me. I didn't really care; I'd heard it all before. I just had not been paying attention until recently.

"Maynard, I'm going to go on up to the Lake house for a few days, you know, to get away for a while and get my head on straight." My wife of 14 years said to me as I sat there on her woven horror of a couch.

She had three pieces of luggage near the door with the keys to her new car in her hand and a floppy straw hat on her head.

"Would you be a dear and help me get these to the car, Maynard?"

I looked up at her like she had a giant fucking snot crust right across her brow. Rising from the couch, I picked up the glass and walked silently out into the immense kitchen, poured the Bordeaux down the sink drain and walked out the backdoor before taking a seat at poolside with a fresh Landshark Lager in hand. By the time I finished the first bottle, she was gone.

I've come to hate Bordeaux wine and it's a shame. It's one of the finest French wines and ages very well and for some reason my wife Cynthia began ordering it regularly when we dined out and bottles of it began appearing in the household. I think my festering hatred of it took strong root when I found two stems with remnants of the vintage remaining on the dresser in one of the guest rooms along with a pair of gold cufflinks with my initials MB engraved on them. I didn't own or wear gold cufflinks, ever.

The phone buzzed in my pocket.

"Maynard, please remember to feed Thomas and make sure he gets out for a while before you go to bed. You know what happens when he doesn't."

I just disconnected. Thomas is her fucking dog and the damn thing craps on the kitchen floor if he isn't let out every evening to do his thing. He is usually out in the garden during the day so it's not a problem. It's not my problem anymore anyways. Thomas is at the Humane Society Center looking for a new human being to make miserable. Cynthia just didn't know it yet.

After the next two lagers I started thinking more clearly. Along with the Bordeaux and that fucking dog, another thing had really been getting on my nerves lately; this great big monstrosity of a house. Cynthia inherited it from her grandmother and it had been in the family for over 175 years with each generation building additions to it except this one. It had 8 bedrooms and 7 bathrooms not to mention TWO front living rooms, a parlor, dining room, library, enormous kitchen and more nooks and crannies than I could ever care to count.

The house had a deep granite lined basement with a wine cellar and still had leaded glass windows dating back to the mid nineteenth century with a roof that was slate and copper rather than shingles. If there was anything Cynthia valued as much as life itself it was this house. I fucking hated it.

So, at the age of 39 years and standing in the foyer of the house I loathed, I polished off the 4th Landshark and took a good look around. She would have arrived at the lake house right about now and if practice was any indication ...

The phone in my pocket buzzed.

"Maynard, the house, the lake house ... Maynard, there was a fire." She said in near hysterics.

"And ... and there is a body, a dead body in the ruins. Maynard, did you hear me, a dead body!?!"

"Probably a bum, Cynthia, probably a bum."

------------

I was never born for this. Hell, I shouldn't have been born in the first place but for a drunken serviceman taking liberties with a young semi-virgin who had never gone further than a stray finger in her quim on a jalopy's backseat. The first time was primetime and Marie Blanchard found herself with a baby in her belly and one of the country's finest unwilling to step up to the plate. If he had he probably would have been locked up for statutory rape in any event.

Instead he found himself in the clutches of a very angry and determined Charles P. Maynard who captured the boastful son of a bitch outside a dusty longneck bottle joint in Port Allen, Louisiana and offered him a picture of death at the hands of a fifty eight year old grandfather with steely blue eyes and an iron grip. The story I've heard over the years is the fellow, my dear old dad, lost his natural ability to ever bring pleasure to any young lady that met his fancy. I don't know if it is true or not but nobody ever saw hide nor tail of him again.

Charles P. Maynard was an ornery cuss of a man who eventually died at the age of eighty seven. He was also my great grandfather and the only real father I ever knew. My mother's folks had been killed in a car accident when she was little and Charles took over as guardian. I don't know the whole story but it was decided to give me the name of Maynard in his honor, Maynard Blanchard, two last names.

It was a scrappy, moderately successful growing up in the Maynard household. Charles was a wheeler dealer in timberland; 'land rich' he used to say 'with an empty wallet'. He exaggerated of course, we never lacked for anything. Every year he took us on a vacation to the gulf coast and Christmas was always plentiful. Mother ended up marrying a druggist when I was 13 and I opted to stay with Charles in Baton Rouge rather than move to Mobile with her when given the choice.

That was a good thing in hindsight. She ended up running off with a trucker to Mexico before settling down in Sacramento, CA. I still get picture postcards from her once in a while to let me know how she is doing although I haven't seen her but a couple of times since Charles passed.

It was coming out of LSU years ago that set me on the path I'm on now. I graduated with a degree in structural engineering and was hired on with a firm out of New Orleans that wanted a road warrior, somebody who could live out of a suitcase and work anywhere on moments' notice. The pay was good, the work was interesting and I literally didn't have a house or home; I lived entirely out of a hotel room unless I was back on weekends in which case I stayed at Charles...

*********

I caught a glimpse of her from across the hotel bar in downtown Jackson, MS. I had been working the road for a couple years at that point and was doing a job on a large construction site a couple blocks away. She stood out with short cropped blond hair and a tight top that accentuated her full bosom and she wore a bold red gloss on lips that cried out for an embrace or so the liquor told me.

I tugged another swig of courage and made my way slowly down to her end, pausing here and there; I didn't want to be obvious. She was holding court with two other women, girls I should say. We were all early mid- twenties.

"Don't you work down on the new Lenders State site?" She asked me right out of the blue before I could even set my heels to introduce myself.

"Yes, Ma'am, I'm doing engineering work for them. I'm Maynard Blanchard, pleased to meet you." I shook her hand politely.

"My pleasure, Maynard, I'm Cynthia Dawes and these are my friends, Priscilla and Candice. Are you going to be working on that site until it's done?"

The two friends were eyeballing me up and down and Cynthia was smiling pleasantly.

"As long as they'll have me."

I bought the next round of drinks and had a long conversation with the three of them and that night I would have fucked any one of them or all of them if given the chance. They knew it too and were just plain awful about it; hardcore cockteasers each one of them.

I did find out that Cynthia worked in the office building across from the construction site but she didn't share any more information than that. She must have seen me on site from her office is what I surmised.

After an hour of talking with them three well -heeled men made their way to the group and it looked like I was about to become the odd spoke in the wheel. One of the fellows, a guy named Michael Bishop who looked to be in his early-middle thirties was apparently Cynthia's current interest and I could sense the testosterone stoking up the flames of his ego. It didn't matter to me. He was a soft white collar kind of guy who didn't look like he did much work of any kind. If his cockiness fooled him into any sense of false bravado I would have kicked his ass into the pavement however there was no need for any of that. I simply struck out with the wrong ladies so after finishing the night with a shot of red on the rocks I headed for my room.

The next evening I was nursing a beer in the same hotel bar while trying to catch a bit of the game on the TV overhead when she slipped onto the seat next to me. This time she was wearing just a pair of jeans and an Ole' Miss tee shirt with sandals. The bright red lip gloss was gone too, replaced with a subtle pink hue.

"Miss me?" She asked.

"I've been pining away in my beer all night." I chuckled. "The bigger question is Mr. Bishop missing you?"

"Oh don't worry about him. He's busy."

I didn't worry a bit about him and forty five minutes later we were upstairs with all four pieces of her clothing on the floor of my room and her heels kicking at the ceiling. She was certainly talented enough to pull me three times before she hopped in the shower and dressed to return home.

A couple nights later it was a repeat and it continued like that for the next month or so until Cynthia ended up spending the night. At breakfast the next morning she shared a couple interesting pieces of information; first, she worked for her daddy who also was the developer who owned the project I was working on across the street from her workplace. Second, she was announcing her engagement to Michael Bishop at a dinner party Friday evening.

"So why are you here with me?" was my immediate question.

"Because I like you and you are really good in bed."

Those are two very good reasons under different circumstances but as soon as a ring slips onto the finger they become sore excuses. I liked her too and she was damn good in the sack. She continued.

"Maynard, there's more to it than that really. I was fascinated with you as soon as I saw you trying to sneak your way over to our side of the bar that night; I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were special, different."

"But Mr. Bishop has a bit more special sauce, eh?"

I wasn't being flippant or at least I wasn't trying to feel hurt or dismayed at the turn of events. I was actually curious.

"It's complicated."

"I'm sure it is."

"Really, it is, seriously. Oh hell," She replied in a half pout. "Bishop and Dawes, well, it's Daddy's company now since he bought out most of Michael's father's shares years ago; Michael is a Sr. VP with the company and we've known each other forever. We've been a couple as long as I've had tits."

I couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Well, he was my first at a tender age and over the years it's always been assumed that someday we would become man and wife. Daddy has always taken Michael under his wing ever since Mr. Bishop died a few years ago.

"Maynard, you probably wouldn't understand. It's how things are in our families. I've been engaged to him forever. This will just formalize it."

"So, I was kind of like the sowing of oats experience for the soon to be bride? Don't take me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute of it. I just sensed there was something more there, that's all."

"There is! I just didn't expect it to get complicated like this."

I knew what she was trying to say. Money people are different from the rest of us or them or whatever. She was obliged to get married to a guy she liked a whole lot and she got a taste of something different that she liked more but it didn't matter in the end. I'd be off this job in another month and Cynthia Dawes would soon be Mrs. Michael Bishop of Bishop & Dawes, Co. I'd be in another town with a different woman and with eyes looking to the next destination, at least that's what I told myself.

"Here's to the future bride." I said as I lifted my juice glass.

The Thursday night before her engagement party we fucked each other stupid until 3AM and her two friends, Priscilla and Candice, walked her out of the hotel room, both of them looking back over their shoulders at a naked and very satisfied bachelorette party favor. I just blew a kiss and smiled...

************

The job finished up two weeks early and after resting up over a long weekend at Charles I took on the project engineer job for a hotel being constructed in Memphis. It was a somewhat melancholy experience for a while after the whirlwind of the previous several weeks with Cynthia. I pretty much kept to myself with dinner and the occasional beer at the bar.

Eventually a few of the young Turks working the project corralled me one evening and dragged me down onto Beale Street where they got me liquored up and I made a fool of myself; the end result being bedded down with a rather attractive middle-aged woman who didn't have a clue what my name was the next morning but that didn't stop her from continuing the festivities before breakfast.

She was a recent divorcee named Bella who had just discovered there was a world of men out there that didn't regard her as a tired possession; somebody to tap when the husband's side pussy was busy. Her ex-husband dumped her a year ago for the younger model trade-up, left her a good settlement and now she was discovering herself and using me as the current yardstick.

I liked her, beyond just the good sex. I liked her fortitude or whatever you call that spunkiness some women have when they discover after years of propping up the elbow of their insignificant other that they bring a desirableness of their own despite the disparagement of the ex-spouse.

Bella had two teenaged daughters who were currently visiting with their father and his new wife so her weekend was free and over breakfast we decided to spend it together exploring the city, the river and surrounding area.

"Maynard, what are you going to be when you grow up?" She asked over the brim of her morning latte with a mischievous grin.

"I thought I might be a gentleman farmer but I can't grow weeds with any regularity."

There was a lot of truth to that. Charles had tried to get me interested in working a large piece of land he had on the plains of Port Hudson just up river from Baton Rouge before you hit the Bluffs. He had 300 acres of good farmland he bought at auction that was leased out to a cattle rancher. At the time I just couldn't get interested in taking it on. I was going to LSU instead and football and chicks were more exciting.

"My first boyfriend was a farmer from Greenville, MS where I grew up. His Daddy grew soybeans and whatever else would bring a buck. We were real serious until I went off to school after graduating and a shark bit me."

"A shark?"

"Yeah, my ex-husband; he was finishing up law school and I had just arrived on campus as a wholesome clean small town girl who had never experienced a real man before. Hell, that's not fair. My first is now a great guy, happy, successful, married, four kids, owns his own business. But, he was just a 15 year old kid when we first got together and was still a 17 year old kid like me when I left."

"So the shark ruined you for the boys?"

"Well, I guess so. He pulled me out of the market before I had even turned eighteen, married me two years later and couple years afterwards the twins came along."

For some reason I thought of Marie Blanchard and how much better off her life would have been if she had found similar circumstances even if a prick husband ran off with some young piece of strange.

Bella and I made a great day of it along the river and took an evening boat excursion for dinner before retiring to my room for the night. By morning I had a fully recharged perspective and admiration for middle aged women and mothers. She was truly insatiable and by any account her ex-husband was a fucking idiot.

Sunday was a repeat and by Monday morning she had retreated back into her world as mother and struggling career woman, the several years difference in our ages probably an obstacle to anything more than erotic arousal. She left me her business card nonetheless.

Over the next four months I finished up my work in Memphis and returned to Baton Rouge for a vacation before taking on a planning job back in the New Orleans office. That kept me off the road for the next six months and by that time my feet were itching for other pastures. I didn't have to wait long.

"Maynard, you're heading back to Jackson for that Lenders State client again." Sam my boss told me over lunch one day at Ryan's Pub down on Bienville St.

"Why, what happened on-site?" I curiously asked.

"The bank, I don't know if there was anything particular about that or not. I know the client wants to work over some plans and wanted the same fellow that worked the first job. Consider it a good reference." He laughed.

Two weeks later I found myself in Jackson staying at the downtown Marriot nursing a beer in the same hotel bar I parked in on the first job. I was meeting with the client in the morning, none other than Bishop & Dawes.

Ever since I had arrived in town I couldn't keep the memory of Cynthia Dawes out of my mind and as I walked through the brass doors of the B&D office building I half expected to find her standing there welcoming me back. That was not to happen. Instead there was a Poindexter looking fellow coming out of the elevator to take me up to the 6th floor, Projects.

He led me through a collection of cubicles and windowed offices before opening up into a large conference room half filled with an assortment of people.

"Mr. Blanchard, I'm glad we were able to get you onboard. Welcome to Bishop & Dawes. I'm Cecil Dawes and in a moment we'll get around to the introductions."

I judged him to be around late fifties, maybe early sixties or so and without a lot of pretentions I might expect among the well to do. Everybody was getting coffee and Danish for the meeting and as we seated, Mr. Dawes began the introductions. If he didn't recognize me from our first meeting, Michael Bishop kept it well hidden.

The project itself was well worth the trip. B&D wanted to build a large atrium on the other side of the Lenders State building and connect via a sky bridge or a broad underground fairway with retail and food shops along the way. Their architects had drawn up renditions of both proposals and we discussed features of the project through the day.

When the day's business was concluded Mr. Dawes excused himself for a prior engagement and several of us made dinner plans for the evening. Michael Bishop excused himself on a personal note. As we shook hands all I could think about was how delightful his wife was to make love to.

s having on me.

"Impressive. I like his plans for the atrium." I managed to get out.

Nancy must have been in on whatever Cynthia was doing because she had that subtle, sly Mona Lisa thing going on.

Now the thing is I have made a point of never fucking a married woman. It was something Charles instilled in me from the time my dick first became useful for something other than taking a piss...

"What happens when you fuck a married woman, Maynard, is this. First you've messed with something that isn't yours. You might as well break into a man's house and piss on his carpet. Second, you've disrespected yourself for fucking a woman who would ever do that to her man. Lastly, you better leave town quick because that's gotten more men killed than the Po Po.