A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET
A KING IN YELLOW
The tall man, decked out in a crisp white cowboy hat and wraparound sunglasses, flagged us down with his shed blazer of vibrant gold. Captured sunlight danced off the fabric as we slowed to a halt. He ambled up with a wincing smile and lowered the jacket.
This fashionable tower leaned into the driver’s window, stooping to address us mortals of flesh and blood:
“Y’all comin’ outta Lake Chuck, I see. Phew, sorry to stop you on this godforsaken washboard. Say, this some kinda news outfit? Seems the only thing newsworthy out this way’s the fortune teller’s shack. Well, and me a’course. If you’re headed that way I sure could use a lift through the swamp. Couldn’t find n’body drive me down this ’ere washout.”
“And you are?” I asked.
“Lost my manners in the heat, beg your pardon!”
The man doffed his hat and bowed, revealing a gnarly indented scar on top of his sallow bald head.
“I’m Drew ‘King of Craps’ Clay! Longest golden arm in the history of the game here, folks. Talkin’ world record breaking. Mind if I smoke a swisher? I’ll roll the window down, promise.” He draped the golden jacket around his shoulders and raised his hands in a pious gesture.
I looked back at The Madame. Connerie narrowed her eyes, then nodded.
The landscape regressed into something primordial as Drew Clay fully introduced himself and blew grape-scented clouds into the balmy soup outside.
Clay was a self-described plain ol’ country boy, an innocent connoisseur of “luck-based pastimes,” despite their illegal status in his native Amarillo.
That first lucky streak played against a cardboard box at the construction site morphed into an obsession, a calling, an art form, and finally a full-frothing addiction.
A KING IN YELLOW
He claimed to have elevated craps, a game of pure chance, into a skilled sport like darts or bowling. The man with the golden arm turned casinos across America upside down and shook them, earning a reputation so infamous he was banned from every one of them.
Clay spat on his palm and stubbed out the cherry of his cigarillo with a hiss, concluding, “I may seem like a lucky bastard, and I am, but I’ve got no luck away from the table. No, sir. Four divorces, buried two sons, lost three homes to floods and twisters, and been robbed more times n’ I can count.”
“One SOB damn near caved my skull in. See, that’s why I’m off to see the wizard, way out here. Maybe he or she can explain why I’m so cursed…‘fore I git brained for good.”
He smirked at his captive, though dubious, audience. “This world’s boxin’ me in y’all. Lake Chuck Louisiana’s the only place I’m sure hasn’t caught wind of me yet. I’m here for one more roll of the bones ‘fore I finally hit the back wall. If I’m settin’ up shop I gotta know my luck’s gonna turn around.”
Dr. Gandha pointed through the windshield at a fork in the road, and an imposing structure down by the water’s edge. “Seems you’ll get your answer soon Mr. Clay. We’re here.”
A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET – THE NOSE THAT KNOWS
The old stilt house stood like a startled recluse by the water’s edge, surrounded by cypress stalagmites, drooping black willows, and ancient oaks laden with spanish moss. The lawn had no car or other means of transport; just a dozen holes dug in the damp earth by hogs or armadillos, and a pile of flattened delivery boxes in the shade beneath the house. A steaming cast iron pot hung over the orange glow of a shallow fire pit.
We stepped out into an outdoor sauna. The air felt uncomfortably close and alive. Embraced by a fever of screaming cicadas and frogs, we looked at one another, faces already prickled with sweat.
“Ladies first,” Clay offered, before slipping on his golden coat despite the oven-like conditions. We followed Madame Connerie’s lead up the creaking steps toward the front door.
A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET – THE NOSE THAT KNOWS
A frantic snuffling and tapping issued from the other side. Beside the door hung a sign that read The Nose That Knows over a tarot-style illustrated nose with eyeballs bulging from the nostrils. As the Madame raised a stiff fist toward the door it flew open, and the source of the sound was revealed: a tiny pomeranian with milky eyes and a wire bumper contraption attached to its harness, encircling its head like a halo. It continued snuffling and bumped repeatedly against Madame Connerie’s shins.
The dog’s owner, a petite middle aged woman, tugged it back by the harness and greeted us. “Bienvenue chez moi! There’s more of you than I expected, but please come in. Don’t mind Sugar, she’s just an old rat finding her way. Go on, lay down girl!” Sugar retreated blindly into the shadows, and we followed into the marginally cooler air inside.
The interior was odorless, not a whiff of the expected incense or patchouli. The place was clean and tidy, outside the profusion of eerie wall decor and occult paraphernalia typical of Lafitte’s profession.
Buttery sunlight melted across an array of gawping wooden masks, gold framed sepia photographs of unknown people, shelves of bleached animal bones, embalmed bats, voodoo charms, and a large golden crucifix.
A probable crystal ball sat obscured beneath blue velvet cloth on a dusty table in the corner, near Sugar’s dog bed. Opposite that was a computer desk and open laptop displaying mid-game Solitaire.
We each took a seat on the assortment of cozy sofas and chairs at Doris’ behest.
After brief introductions it was clear Doris Lafitte had only expected Madame Connerie, who she’d spoken to on the phone days prior, though she was no less pleased to have abundant company. She wore a dark blouse beneath a red knitted shawl, and a striking yellow tignon-style headwrap. Her nose, unremarkable save the silver crescent-moon stud in her left nostril, scrunched a bit when she smiled.
A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET PHANTOSMIA
Sensing some disquiet brought on by the surroundings, she said, “That’s all Mama’s old gris gris up there. My Daddy made most of it himself; he was the artist, the collector. He died when I was little. I didn’t have the heart or design sense to redecorate after she was gone too. Maux Lafitte didn’t practice voodoo, she was a devout Christian woman. Not that you can’t have both.
“It’s all for show, of course, an aesthetic. But she was the real deal. Had the second sight since she was a young woman.
“Y’all must be hungry. We can get to business after lunch. Just make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go down and fetch some gumbo, be back tout de suite.” A moment passed staring into Sugar’s vacant eyes as she rasped dull molars against the edge of a dried pig’s ear, then our hostess returned with a balanced tray of four steaming bowls.
Each of us enjoyed a generous portion of spiced gumbo with chunks of andouille sausage and boiled mudbug, delicious though further sweat-inducing. Ludicrously we washed it down with piping hot cinnamon ginger tea from the kettle.
A wilting Madame Connerie inquired, “Doris dear, your family has lived on this precise spot for several generations at least. Contraband Bayou is so named, I understand, for containing the smuggled contraband and pilfered gold of legendary French pirate Jean Lafitte. You’re far from the only Lafitte in Louisiana, but your family’s proximity to his haunt begs the question…”
“You’re not the first to ask, Madame. If you had my nose, you could smell the truth as soon as you walked through my door. This house is very old. It’s been here about as long as Jean Lafitte’s buried secrets. His many indiscretions form the taproot of my cursed bloodline.”
“Cursed? Are your powers, your mother’s, not an extraordinary gift?”
“It may seem that way, but our heightened perception comes at a grave cost. Mama was indeed a gifted psychic, in her estimation divinely so, but her great mind grew a cancerous tumor that took her life several years ago. My grandmother had gifts too, but she was blind as Sugar over there since she was born.”
A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET PHANTOSMIA
Doris’ face softened as she gazed through the wall. “As for me, I don’t exactly live out here away from everyone by choice. In fact, years ago I tried to leave, to live a normal life in Lake Charles. I could tell Mama was frustrated when my powers didn’t manifest around the age she’d been. Her tarot was a pretty deck of playing cards to me. Tea leaves, some silt on the bottom of a cup. Didn’t matter if I stared til my eyes were red, her crystal ball remained opaque.”
“What changed?” Drew Clay asked as he slurped down the last of his tea.
“I tried to help out with the business but I was just getting in the way. Mama didn’t exactly approve of my choice, but I had to leave. I decided to go for a fresh start in town under a false name, and went by Dee Baker.
“I got a job at Bed Bath & Beyond, worked my way up to management, had a decent apartment. And was thinking about college, maybe a degree in hospitality or business management. I’d visit Mama as often as I could, but I was starting to develop my own life. I had friends that had nothing to do with the occult. I even started dating a nice fella, this nerdy guy who held down the counter at the Exxon with his big history books.”
“Who was he? Did he ever get to meet your mum?” asked Dr. Gandha with mounting interest. Doris opened her mouth to answer, then shot a glance at me and my yellow legal pad of scribbled notes.
“Madame, you said this interview was for your book on psychics, right? I’m not sure if I should divulge too many specifics, especially since I don’t know how my ex would feel about it. None of my friends in town knew about my connection to Maux. That man was a strange one in particular, though he charmed me like no one ever had. He’d always sing this dumb song to me, called Tweedle Dee. It was silly, but kind of sweet. Said I reminded him of the gal who sang it. His dad used to play her records all the time, Lavern Baker I think?”
A SWAMPLAND TALE OF SCENT AND SECRET PHANTOSMIA
“LOU!” Madame Connerie shouted, her eyes bulging. Everyone sat in silent confusion for a moment as Doris shifted uneasily, her brow furrowed.
“Quite sorry, I need the loo; where’s your washroom? That tea went right through me.” Doris looked visibly relieved, though dubious.
“There’s a privy around back, just follow the path and look for the moon on the door.”
“Moon on the…on second thought, I think I can hold it, my apologies. Do go on, dear, you were telling us about your life in Lake Charles and the emergence of your abilities.”
“Right… so after a few years, I started to notice some problems. At first I thought it was allergies or something. It happened mostly at work; headaches, runny nose, eyes watering, sneezing. All those scented candles and pine cones and body sprays and lotions and rainbow bath bombs started to make me seriously light headed. I had to leave early sometimes when I couldn’t handle it.
“I tried all the usual allergy meds, saw a doctor who tested me for everything but cat dander which I knew about, all negative. It wasn’t my job; even with the meds it kept on getting worse whenever I’d leave the apartment. I could barely stand being near my boyfriend anymore, since he started to reek like fish. It didn’t make any sense, he always smelled so pleasant before that, and he actually hated fish. He was a vegetarian. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I made excuses and isolated myself more and more.
“The tipping point was Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday rolls around, I preload with as much Claritin and saline spray as I can non-lethally handle, and try to enjoy the parades and food with my friends.
“My boyfriend was dressed really nice in this purple suit. He seemed nervous, was laughing a bit too hard at everything I said…I could tell a question was percolating inside him, to the point where I could almost smell it.
“After about an hour my OTC levee was breached, and I got smacked by a tidal wave of smells. I’m talkin’ a kaleidoscope of swirling odors that blinded me and made me immediately start vomiting. My head pounded with the worst migraine of my life. I hadn’t had a sip to drink either, just to stack the odds in my favor. My friends rushed me to the hospital, where I ended up in a coma for two days.
“In my comatose state I could hear Mama’s voice by my side, which surprised me; she wouldn’t leave the house for anything. Doctors and nurses discussed my condition in hushed, perplexed tones. One doctor mentioned a neurology term I’ll never forget: phantosmia. Phantom smells. Sensing things that weren’t really there. But they were.
“After some time I developed a sort of vision of the hospital around me. Like when I concentrated, I could look through not only my closed eyelids but the walls too. I didn’t know it, but in that stable environment, my other senses dulled, I was constructing my first scent map. Almost like echolocation, but with my nose. I could sense the relative distance and orientation of smells, their varying intensities and likely compositions, and arrange it all into a sort of fuzzy mental picture.”
We all traded expressions ranging from intrigue, to disbelief, to the beginnings of heat exhaustion and dehydration.
“After I recovered I quit my job and didn’t say a word to anyone…how could I even begin to explain? Defeated, I disappeared back into the swamp. Mama honed in on the strange nature of my gift, having first been introduced to its accursed aspect. It dawned on us that though I’m blind as anyone else to the future, my view into the layers of past and present are sharp as an eagle peering into the water for fish.
“My nose became more sensitive over time, to the point where even a disguised trip to the edge of town on a quiet Monday would quickly overwhelm me, like a psychic hearing every thought in the city at once. So I stayed home mostly, focused on caring for Mama, and took the reins of the business toward the end. She passed on like I said. Left me her dog, and her spooky decor, and this ancient house.”
Dr. Gandha clasped her hands together and said, “I for one am ready to see it. Let’s witness your gift, Doris!”
Witness Doris Lafitte’s Extraordinary Gift in The Fortune Smeller Part 4
NAVIGATE THE FORTUNE SMELLER: PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3 // PART 4
Great start to a mysterious encounter! The description of the man is vivid, especially the “shed blazer of vibrant gold.” The dialogue feels authentic. Perhaps add foreshadowing about the scar’s origin? It hints at a deeper story.